Standing On A Chair

Telling it like I see it…

Detective Morales

What a way to top off a year-long “perverted stalker” issue: I started dating the detective.

I may have mentioned previously, in my “The Masturbator” series, that the detective was a hottie.  I talked about his beautiful black hair and his custom made suits.  Turns out, over time, we developed a bond.  I mean, he was my protector-turned-confidante, and ultimately, unexpectedly, he became my friend.  Having never had a cop as a friend in the past, this new liaison was interesting and positive.

So a few weeks after Jerome’s arrest, I was surprised to receive an invitation to dinner from Detective Morales.  (We’ll call him “Carlos.”)  Why surprised?  Because although he was way attractive, I’d always thought of him as just a friend.  Now he wanted a date? 

“I’d love to!” I heard myself say.

He picked me up the following Saturday night.  He wore a professionally pressed emerald green long-sleeved shirt with perfectly tailored black slacks and what looked like expensive, soft-leather black Italian loafers with tassels on them.  Wow.  Then we got into his older model Mercedes “crunch top” two-door, painted black and waxed to a mirror finish.  Wow again. 

We ate dinner at Dan Tana’s Italian Restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood, where the tablecloths are red-checkered and the lighting soft and low; where the head waiter hovers and calls you by name; where there are frequent star sightings; where the food is exquisite and the wine is divine. 

The more amazing cabernet I consumed, the better looking he got.  His light-green eyes dazzled against his tanned, Mexican-American skin.  He was charming, attentive and generous.  He told exciting stories about his experiences as a cop.  All-in-all, it was a bang-up first date!  He drove me home, gave me a chaste peck on the cheek, and we said goodnight. 

He called me the next day to thank me for a great time.  Hello? What man does that? Points, I tell you.  He was racking up points!

Our second date was planned for the following Saturday night.  He wanted to go dancing!  I thought I had died and gone to heaven.  He said he and some of his police buddies liked to hang at this place in Studio City.  Said it was a Top-40 kind of dance club, mostly Disco-era records, occasionally live bands impersonating the BeeGees.  Said he was a helluva dancer, that his buds called him “Travolta” when he got on the dance floor.  What fun!  I looked forward to it all week.

I was checking my appearance in the mirror when the doorbell rang.  One more onceover.  Black sleeveless belted mini-dress, black hose, black patent-leather pointed-toe, three-inch pumps.  Not much imagination, but it was passable.

I opened the door to find Carlos decked out in a white, bell-bottomed, three-piece suit, with his thick black hair glossed into a pompadour, a perfect shiny mound above his forehead.  I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open.  Suddenly he struck “The Pose.”  You know, the one John Travolta does on the dance floor in Saturday Night Fever?  With his left hip cocked and his right index finger pointing to the sky? 

I am not making this up.  I swear.

I kind of started laughing, which I saw quickly by the frown on the detective’s face that this did not make him happy.  So we got off to a bit of a rocky start.

The club, and I don’t remember the name, was on Ventura Boulevard, a hugely busy highway that runs through several San FernandoValley towns.  As soon as we walked through the entryway and into a large room with scattered tables, a bar and a booth where someone played records, we were greeted by shouts from everywhere:  “Travolta!  Hey!  The Dance Man is here!  Hey Travolta!!”

And I swear to God, Carlos Morales literally strutted by himself to the middle of the dance floor.  He stuck out his hip, stuck out his ass, pointed to the ceiling with his right index finger and proceeded to undulate his pelvic area amid shouts and whoops and whistles from his “audience.”

I headed straight for the bar.

Suddenly Boy George and The Culture Club blared through about a hundred speakers, doing “I Know You’ll Miss Me Blind” and the next thing I know I’m being propelled by the arm toward the dance floor by my Travolta Wannabe and I can’t get my balance as he’s literally throwing me in giant twirls and circles while my arms are flailing and my knees are buckling and I manage to land flat on my ass in a floor-side chair at somebody’s table, so help me God!

“I thought you said you could dance,” he said to me a few minutes later, after I’d caught my breath and had a glass of water.

“What?” I said, fanning myself.  “You call that dancing? You don’t need a dance partner, Carlos.  You need a fucking stunt woman!”

I wanted to ask him what was up with the Travolta Impersonation Disorder thing, but then thought it probably wouldn’t be a good idea since he obviously took it extremely seriously.

We actually had a pretty good time after that, once he toned down his technique and once I’d had enough wine and could overlook his hilarious alter-ego, which was hard to do because he also took on this “Tony Manero” Brooklyn accent more and more as the evening wore on.

After he drove me home I invited him to come in for a “nightcap.”  My daughter was spending the night with her friend Lonette, so I felt free to extend the date further.  I honestly wanted to have mad sex with this man, in spite of the cartoon character quality he had brought to the evening.

He was game.  Very game.  I went into the kitchen and as I reached to pull a couple of glasses out of the cabinet, he came up behind me, swung me around and we started making out like crazy right there in the kitchen.  Although it wasn’t quite like a scene out of “Fatal Attraction,” it could have been if he hadn’t pushed me away from him at arm’s length and said, “Finally, I get to find out what all the fuss is about.  I get to find out first-hand!”

I didn’t understand.  “What?”

“You know, Jill.  Whatever you’ve been doing in here to make that kid want to jerk off every waking minute of his life.”

That hit me like a fist-blow to the stomach.

“What do you mean, like me actually having the audacity to be naked in the privacy of my own bathroom and my own bedroom, Carlos?”

“Wait, uh…I didn’t mean…”

“You can go now Detective Morales.”

“Go?”

“Go.”

And with that, the detective turned away and left my apartment, never to be seen or heard from again.

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February 15, 2011 - Posted by | A Very Big Mistake | , ,

2 Comments »

  1. He was a detetective right? So I might just have to say, “What a dick!

    Comment by Barb | February 15, 2011 | Reply

  2. Jill, You are an amazing writer! Gordie sent me your Gov Scott rant and I loved it.

    As horrible as the Masturbater events must have been, I have to say you told it wonderfully. It gave me chills! Take care…Becky

    Comment by Becky Day Wilson | February 23, 2011 | Reply


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