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Who am I kidding? It’s prostitution, plain and simple.
Do I care?
The old me wouldn’t have given a flying fuck.
But I have someone else to think about now. That settles that—no sex. Not until our official date is over, that is.
The night sky is inky blue and dotted with stars as I walk onto the sand at Lynn’s Cove beach. Candles flicker in the distance. I can barely make out the shape of someone lying on their side on a blanket right by Lifeguard Tower 3. As I get closer, I see a large picnic basket with a few candles in glasses sitting around.
Things are getting more interesting by the minute. Romantic picnic under the stars—maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
I call out, “Hello, Bachelor Number Two here.”
No reply. No anything.
I walk around the blanket. The candles flicker, but that’s all that moves. I lean down and tilt my head for a better look.
Well, damn.
A plastic blow-up sex doll is staring back at me with goofy painted on eyes.
I chuckle. Okay, this is definitely getting weirder by the minute.
Maybe she wants a threesome…
“Hello!” I call into the darkness.
Nothing but the whisper of ocean waves on the hard-packed sand.
I use a toe to open the picnic basket. Who knows what might spring out of there. A rabid racoon? A python?
Not likely, but I didn’t expect a blow-up doll either.
I scratch my head. Forty-five hundred dollars to set me up with a blow-up doll and a basket of food.
The basket holds an unopened bottle of champagne, some unopened brie, a jar of fig jam, and a box of gourmet crackers. If this is a practical joke, someone sure went out of the way to make it elaborate.
For a second, I wonder if I’ll be poisoned if I eat the food, then I shrug it off.
Might as well enjoy the night. It’s a lovely temperature, the stars are coming out, and my companion won’t ask me any weird first date questions.
I take a seat next to the basket and fish all the contents out. It’s a nice spread.
The cork makes a loud pop and the champagne fizzes as I fill one of the glasses. I stretch out on my side and sip. Not bad. It’s got a nice bite.
I break off a hunk of cheese and drop it onto a cracker. I offer it to the doll, “Want some? No, I didn’t think so. You don’t have any teeth.”
Suddenly, it hits me that if anyone comes along, they’ll think I am the one who brought the blow-up doll. I grab her and pull the plug. She whistles and withers to a flat plastic sheet. “Sorry, dolly. Date’s over.” I roll her up and stuff her in the picnic basket.
I’ve done some strange things in my life, but this might just take the cake.
I go back to eating the food, drinking champagne, and listening to the ocean.
Just when I cram a giant mound of cheese, cracker, and jam into my mouth, I hear a high-pitched voice, “I oughta!”
A flash of sequins surprises me. I’ve got good reflexes. The next thing I know, I’m standing, champagne glass in hand. I try to choke down the gob of cheese, cracker, and jam that’s lodged in my throat. I can’t say a word. But there probably isn’t any use speaking because the woman standing in front of me is unleashing a torrent of curse words that would make anybody blush.
And I know why.
