A Discourse on Dating From A to Z

By Lisa Pacheco

Stephanie Melendez, a thirty-year-old divorcee, is thrust onto the dating scene after her husband, Harold Stifniple, leaves her for his secretary, Suzie the Floozy. From that point on, it’s all unrestrained mayhem. Follow Stephanie on one zany dating adventure after another as she struggles to manage her life as a waitress, a student trying to get ahead, and a single woman dating in Los Angeles. With the help of her best friends, Shelby, Candy and Lance, Stephanie attempts to make sense of men while she weeds through a string of dating disasters looking for Mr. Right.

Chapter A is titled Adios. As her first post-divorce conquest, Stephanie immerses herself in a passionate sexual dalliance with Antonio, a twenty-year-old dishwasher at McKee’s, her place of employment. In addition to washing dishes, Antonio also cleans the restaurant after closing time. Stephanie engages in several middle of the night rendezvous with him, making love all over the restaurant, including their meeting place, the dishwasher bay. At first, Stephanie is basking in the opportunity to exercise her over active libido with her young lover, and things seem perfect, until Antonio proposes marriage after only a short while. Stephanie, enjoying her new single life and seeing through Antonio’s transparent quest to become a citizen, promptly tells him adios. After that, Stephanie encounters a string of dating debacles in her quest to find true love. When all seems hopeless, and Stephanie’s cynicism and lack of trust in men threatens to overshadow her dreams of ever finding Mr. Right, Josh unseemingly enters her life, and she comes to realize she has finally found Z-Right Guy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Pacheco
• Release date: Dec 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458002204

Lisa Pacheco

Lisa Pacheco is a third generation native of Southern California. She was born in Los Angeles and presently lives in Orange County with her husband, Jeff, and their three cats. A Discourse on Dating From A to Z is her first novel. She is currently working on her second novel, Discordant Melody.

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A Discourse on Dating From A to Z

by

Lisa Pacheco

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Lisa Pacheco

Cover Design by Laura Shinn

Formatting by Laura Shinn

ISBN: 978-1-4580-0220-4

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

A Discourse on Dating From A to Z is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any names or characteristics similar to any person past, present or future are coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Dedication:

For my husband Jeff, who makes me laugh and is a constant

source of inspiration, and for Monica, my dearest SSF.

And to my Blythe*Star and the happy memories

I’ll always have of her.

Acknowledgements

I believe in angels, and I want to express my sincerest thanks to Laura Shinn who has spread her wings over this project. Finding her was a true blessing.

Thank you to my book club for being the first to read this book. Your encouragement and feed-back were my motivation to get this book published. Sondra, Paula, Gail, Betty, Gloria, Karen, Pat, Barbara and Lynn—You are all beautiful flowers in my garden of life.

Also, special thanks to my earliest readers: Monica Grift (aka SSF), Shannon Kelly, Young Kim, Connie Chen, Sue Klinger, Christy Moskovitz, Estelle Reinitz, and my mom—Mary Pacheco. Thank you all for believing in me.

Lastly, thank you to my husband, Jeff. I know you’re not a reader, but thanks for listening from beginning to end. Your input definitely shaped the pages in this book, and I am forever grateful to you, my one and only precious love.

Reader Reviews:

"This discourse is a key to unlocking the intricate labyrinth of dating in the 21st century." —Connie Chen

"A Discourse on Dating from A to Z is a clever, tongue-in-cheek commentary on the American woman's search for true love." —Anonymous

This book is a must read for every Cosmo girl. Whether you're new to dating or happily married for 31 years! A Discourse on Dating from A to Z is simply too much fun! —Shannon Kelly

"A Discourse on Dating from A to Z is an interesting and delightful study of the psyche of the single, modern American woman." —Julian Rodriguez

Chapter 1: Adios

A is for adios. Adios to my life as a married woman. Adios to security and the life of being Mrs. Harold Stifniple.

When we met, you can imagine my shock at learning I was dating a Stifniple. The name just sounded lewd, crude and even somewhat lascivious to me, but Harold, or Harry as I liked to call him, espoused to me the virtues of being a Stifniple and implored me to believe it was something honorable and lofty, even distinguished to be part of the clan of Stifniples.

Our first date was spent discussing the long lineage of Stifniples he came from—there was Papa Stifniple: Harry Senior, a circuit judge; Uncle Charlie Stifniple, a doctor; Grandpa Abe Stifniple, a retired cop; and of course the proud women Stifniples: Mama Jean Stifniple, Grandma Gertrude Stifniple and Auntie Fran Stifniple, all homemakers, of course. Harry strongly believed women should be goddesses of domesticity and the Stifniple women certainly were that.

Two years later, in the summer of 1998, after much coaxing on Harry’s part, I too became a member of the Stifniple clan—Stephanie Marie Stifniple to be exact, and I too became a homemaker, of course—as the esteemed Stifniple women before me. However, Harry did encourage me to go to school so I could fill my time; plus, he said it would be good for me to expand my mental horizons, so I could pass along my knowledge to the children we would be having. We never did have kids, but thank God Harry urged me to pursue an education. I was a single woman on my own now. Fortunately, I had experience as a food server, but I really wanted to be an English teacher. One could not grow old gracefully in the food industry; plus, it was murder on the joints carrying those heavy trays.

Almost two years to the day after we got married, I went back to being a Melendez, Stephanie Marie Melendez, my given birth name. It was okay. I never felt like a Stifniple anyway, and all Harry harangued me about those two years was about becoming a Mama Stifniple like his mother, but like I said before, that never happened. I was not ready for a life of dirty diapers, snotty noses and screaming brats. It was a deal breaker for Harry.

He claimed his biological clock was ticking (I know mine should have been, but it wasn’t) and he needed to make fatherhood his main vocation, now—and if not with me, with someone who was ready and willing. He found someone that was ready, Suzie, his secretary whom I will refer to as Suzie the Floozy. One day he came home from work, and he explained to me that the life of an accountant was a boring one at times, and Suzie the Floozy had taken to entertaining him in his office during his lunch hour, and what do you know, now she was pregnant and now he was fulfilling his lifelong dream of becoming a father, without me.

I was curtly informed I was being dismissed of my wifely duties, which he claimed I was neglectful in fulfilling anyway, and that he and Suzie the Floozy were moving in together, pronto. He further made it known to me that as soon as our divorce was final, she—the floozy, would become Mrs. Suzie Stifniple. That was it, the end, adios to my Stifniple existence. According to Harry, I just couldn’t live up to the Stifniple name.

* * * * *

But that was not what Antonio said. I was now a thirty-year-old, single woman, and it was a new millennium. Antonio was the first guy I dated after my divorce. Antonio, as the name suggests, was a full-blooded Mexican from across the border. He was a dishwasher at McKee’s, a fine dining establishment in Glendale where I was a waitress. I should have known never to date him. My mother warned me to never date a Mexican; they were all cheating louses that would just leave you broken hearted and used up. She should know—she married one and her mother married one. When I was a teenager, my father left her with three children to raise—my older brother Brian, my younger sister Marilyn, and myself. As far as I know she never dated anyone after my father. At least she was lucky enough to get rid of her cheating louse, unlike my grandmother who just dealt with hers.

I did not heed the wise words of my mother. I know firsthand that a horny divorcee in her thirties with raging hormones is hard to contain, and a mother’s words of wisdom don’t sound nearly as appealing as sweet nothings whispered in your ear, especially when they are being uttered in broken English by a twenty-something, hot-blooded caballero that wants to take you for a ride on his horse.

Our dalliance started with flirtatious glances over the counter that he stood behind, washing those dirty dishes day in and day out. He had long, dark, wavy hair that he ponytailed to keep from getting suds on it. He always wore a red bandana round his forehead to keep those wild locks at bay, but I could envision them unleashed and falling in my face. His brown skin was the shade of molasses and I just wanted to lick him up. Soon enough, I was smitten by his big smile and Hola, Chiquita’s—and before you knew it, I was taking other servers dirty dishes to the back for cleaning.

Now Antonio didn’t speak much English, but that didn’t stop us from communicating. Despite my Mexican background, my parents insisted that I not learn to speak Spanish; I was third generation American, and the fact that I did not speak Spanish attested to that. However, I had just finished a semester of Spanish at Glendale Community College, and I could say everything I needed to convey to the object of my lust, and body language, I soon found, speaks volumes.

I just loved looking into Antonio’s dark eyes across the dishwasher bay and saying, Tus ojos son muy bonito mi amor.

He would pay the compliment back while reaching his sudded hand across the stainless barrier that separated us, grabbing my pulsing, sweaty palm—and passionately express the words, Your eyes so pretty, in a voice just audible enough for me, but not the boss to hear. This went on for some time, and then the boss did start to notice.

Randall, the restaurant manager, had his suspicions about Antonio and me. He observed I was spending too much time in the back talking with the dishwasher. I think Jose, the line cook who had a crush on me, clued him in. Ah, jealousy can be such an evil and devastating thing.

Antonio and I could not be kept apart despite these newly infused challenges. We made a date to meet after the restaurant closed when no managers, or Jose’s, would be around to foil our fun and flirtations. Did I mention, another aspect of Antonio’s job was cleaning the restaurant in the middle of the night, which entailed polishing and scrubbing and vacuuming and now, making mad, hot passionate love to me.

The relationship was perfect in every regard. We rendezvoused the nights away on the worn industrial carpet, over wooden tables covered in cloths, across the bar, bent over chairs, and chased each other from room to room; we even had sex at our meeting place, the stainless countertop with the dishwashing machine nestled behind it. Life seemed so grand, until Antonio asked to go to the museum with me.

One of my assignments for an art history class I was taking was to visit a museum. I chose to visit LACMA, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, for my cultural adventure because they had an Andy Warhol exhibit I wanted to check out. When I told Antonio I was going, he said, Really, you going look at art? I want go to museum with you.

It was quite something arranging the date, what with our crazy schedules. It was one thing meeting in the middle of the night when all the world slumbered, but quite another during the waking hours. He worked a lot of double shifts, and I had classes during the day and worked nights, but we managed to find a time that was conducive to our busy lives.

Saturday afternoon, Antonio showed up in his cowboy hat and caballero boots, explaining, I thought I dress up for museum date. He did make for a dashing sight, I must admit, and all I could think of was seducing him. The phallic display of Warhol art only helped to inspire my sexual imaginings. The day went quickly and I soaked up the lurid display of strange objects and brightly colored paintings and appreciated the creative, if not warped genius, of Warhol—all the while enjoying the attentions of Antonio.

We capped the day off by going back to my apartment. This was Antonio’s first visit there, and I opened the door with a, Ta-da—here it is, my sweet little abode.

Your what? This nice place, Chiquita. I saw his eyes scan my living area— a one room apartment with a Murphy bed tucked into the wall, futon leaning against it, with a chest my grandmother passed down to me serving as a coffee table sitting before it. That was the majority of my furnishings. I didn’t get much from the divorce. We hadn’t accumulated a lot in the two years we were married. Harry had been too busy spending our money gallivanting around town with his mistress. Shortly after we made our entrance, my cat Phantom appeared. There weren’t many places for him to hide. I don’t know you have cat, said Antonio. Es muy grande.

Phantom. Yeah, he’s big. However, my mind definitely was not on my big cat. The phallic display of artwork we saw exhibited at LACMA was flashing through my mind, and I did have my twenty-something boy toy in my lair for the first time. My mind was definitely on other big things.

Let’s sit on the futon, I enjoined. I’ll get you a beer.

I returned with the beer, plopped myself on the futon, and that’s when Antonio looked in my eyes and proceeded to utter five words that ruined our perfect relationship. I want to marry you.

"What! Are you mad, Antonio? I was just married and now I am unmarried and I want to remain unmarried for the time being. Me no marry right now," I spattered out in desperation.

But, I love you, Chiquita.

Impossible, Antonio. Yo no te quiero me. Yo soy veija. I’m used goods, an old lady. You want to marry a nice girl from Mexico that hablas Espanol, un virgen that will give you Mexican bambinos.

But you so smart and beautiful, Chiquita. I want you.

No. No. No! Where’s the ring? You can’t ask me to marry you without a ring, I cried out—looking to buy myself some more time with my sexy Antonio.

No more talk now. We make love, he commanded the next instant.

That was so very, very fine with me.

Saved by our passion, we ripped the clothing from our backs and stretched across the hard futon making rough love on the rigid and unforgiving surface. This is when I came to learn Antonio thought I had stiff nipples, contrary to Harry’s claim that I didn’t live up to the name.

I also came to learn Antonio was a biter.

You have nipples stiff, Chiquita. You horny or cold? questioned Antonio.

A little of both if you want to know the truth, my caballero—ride me.

Legs in the air and while I was screaming, Ride ’em cowboy! Antonio was suddenly stricken with a ravishing hunger and started to bite my breasts. At first I thought it was kind of cute and a little on the painfully erotic side. He was just being playful and fun in a kinky kind of way; at least that’s what I thought until I was left with bite marks around my left nipple. I tried to push him from me, but those dishwasher biceps I had always admired held me firm, and he continued to gnaw away at my breasts ignoring my Owww’s and Get off me’s.

Finally, he was spent and rather than biting, he was tenderly kissing my breasts while mumbling, Muy buena. So good.

The biting episode was it for Antonio and me. The boss was happy about my new found aversion to the back of the restaurant. I was happy my first post divorce relationship was behind me, and Antonio was very unhappy I was not going to be Mrs. Antonio Martinez. His dreams of getting a green card and becoming an American citizen were demolished, but that was none of my concern.

Adios, Antonio. All that remained of him were the bruises on my breasts.

Chapter 2: Boylicious

B is for boylicious. And boy, were there some yummy boys at Glendale Community College.

I know you’re wondering what a thirty-year-old woman is doing going to a community college, right? Well, all I can tell you is that we’re late bloomers in my family. My Dad, Alex, didn’t open his bicycle shop until he was in his thirties. He was a beautician before that. He met my Mom, Gloria, in beauty school. Working as a hairdresser provided him with a steady stream of women with whom to philander. My brother, Brian, didn’t start his trucking business until he was in his thirties either. Now, he’s quite successful.

I had no entrepreneurial dreams for myself. I wanted to be an English teacher. I have always loved reading, and I figured teaching the classics would be a breeze, since I’d read so many of them on my own. I envisioned myself lecturing to an audience of rapt teens, captivated by my masterful interpretation of the symbolism in The Great Gatsby. They’d never think of a green light in the same way. The genius of Ms. Melendez would forever be imprinted on their young minds.

If I actually succeed in making it through college, I will be the first in the Melendez family to toss my mortarboard in the air. What a triumphant day that will be for my family and me. Our very existence would be elevated—no longer would we be of a class of uneducated folk doing menial labor to earn a buck, but we’d be catapulted into the realm of scholars, using our minds to make a living—and all thanks to me.

That is, once again, if I managed to graduate. Between working at McKee’s Restaurant, going to school during the day, and fending off all the ’licious boys at school, I didn’t find much time to study. Nonetheless, I was maintaining a 3.5 GPA, and I could live with that.

Being the social person I am, I had no trouble making friends at school. It didn’t seem to matter that I was twelve years older than the majority of the student body. I was always honest with those I fraternized with about my age, but it never fazed a one of them. If anything, it made it cool to hang out with me. After all, I could buy beer, and to an eighteen-year-old that is something to take notice of.

What surprised me the most about my popularity was how interested the boys were in me. Maybe they had seen The Graduate with Dustin Hoffman in a film studies class—or it was a favorite of their parents, and they had acquired a Mrs. Robinson fixation. It never ceased to amaze me when one of them asked me on a date. I mean, like where would he even take me on his Mickey D’s salary? They must have sensed my low standards; after all, there was Antonio, and he certainly wasn’t rolling in the dough.

I was a master at turning them down. I didn’t want the reputation of being the reigning cougar on campus, preying on pimply-faced horn dogs barely old enough to vote. I wanted to exude an aura of class and sophistication. If anything, I wanted to attract the college professors. I was sure I could hold a conversation with the brightest and most intellectually savvy minds around. I knew my Heathcliff and Catherine back and forth and what that Scarlet Letter A Hester wore was all about.

While I waited for Professor Johnson, Franklin, and Watson to ask me out, the offers continued to pour in from the boys. My resolve was strong, until Ray crossed my path.

It all happened innocently enough. It was around noon, and I was between classes. I was hangin’ with some people I knew, and there he was. I had never seen him around before. He was okay looking, but not the type I generally go for. He had short, dark hair with Julius Caesar style bangs. His eyes were brown—no bedroom quality gleaming from them, not that I could see through his nerdy glasses anyway. He was a little on the chubby side, but not obese. Like I said, not really my type—there were definitely not enough muscles and he wasn’t tall enough for my liking. It wasn’t till he opened his mouth that I found him even remotely attractive.

Unlike these other guys, Ray liked to consider himself of a philosophical mindset. He could take a conversation way beyond the kegger party he went to last Saturday, or the latest flick he caught at the local theater. He liked to chat about those big rhetorical issues, which definitely appealed to the Transcendentalist in me. He’d ask me questions like, Who or what do you think God is? Or, Is the human soul immortal, Stephanie? Best of all, he’d actually listen to my response.

While I am a little superficial about appearances, I looked beyond Ray’s baby fat and fell in love with his beautiful eighteen-year-old mind. Clearly, he was wise beyond his years.

We’d spend afternoons after class sitting on benches under trees, digging into those meaty topics, picking each other’s brains, trying to make sense of the vast universe and our insignificant selves in the midst of it.

Ray had this ability to make me feel not only intelligent and worth listening to, but also like a goddess. In fact, on several occasions, he compared me to Aphrodite. He’d run his hands through my thick and luscious brown hair and hold my round face while looking into my hazel eyes, and say something like, Stephanie, even Helen of Troy would envy your curvaceous and perfect figure. Or, Your breasts are as tempting as the apple Eve plucked from the tree of good and evil.

Oh sure, I’d give my half-argued attempts at modesty trying to convince him I was no Cindy Crawford. He’d laugh and say, No, you’re way better than her.

Oh no. You’re so wrong about that, Ray, I’d half-heartedly disagree. What I wouldn’t do for her height. I’m no supermodel.

Then he’d declare adamantly that she was a cow, and my five-foot, four-inch frame was ideal. I ask you, who wouldn’t melt into all of that?

I couldn’t resist his charms, his intellect; the adorable fleshiness around his abs that encased the six-pack I just knew was under that baby fat. In two months time, I was utterly infatuated with an eighteen-year-old that had no job or job prospects and still lived at home with his mom. And yet, none of that seemed to matter at the time. He had become boylicious.

* * * * *

My Catholic guilt was starting to kick in.

Thoughts of Ray started to occupy my mind more than I felt comfortable with. When he popped into my daydreams, I felt myself starting to get wet between the thighs. My heart would beat a little faster. I think I even felt some butterflies start to flutter about inside me. I told myself this was oh, so wrong. I couldn’t have sex with a teenager; that was almost akin to being a pedophile in my mind. What would my Grandmother Rose, who religiously said her Hail Mary’s every night, think of me if I did such a thing?

Ray did his best to move my iron conscience, but I wasn’t budging. The problem was my loins were not so rigid, and the soft pink flesh beneath my self-imposed chastity belt was screaming out for mercy. I didn’t know how much more I could take, but it so disheartened me to think about giving up our friendship.

This situation called for serious intervention—girlfriends! Who better to give me the so desperately needed advice I craved and knock me back into reality? They would set me straight and tell me I was insane for even letting my mind wander into such a taboo pasture.

I called Shelby first.

One ring, two rings, three rings...Hi, this is Shelby. I’m not in to take your call, but leave a message at the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

Hey, Shelby. It’s me, Steph. I just needed to talk to someone really bad. I kind of have a situation. Call me.

Dang it! I needed to talk now!

I was in grave danger of being seduced by an eighteen-year-old. That is, if I didn’t seduce him first. I didn’t know that I had the emotional wherewithal to ward off those silken words Ray was so good with, and God knows I wanted him, but it was just sooooo, so wrong. Maybe Candy was home.

One ring, two rings—Hi, Stephanie. What’s up?

How did you know it was me, Candy?

Caller ID.

Oh yeah.

What a relief, she’s home. I was hoping for Shelby, the more grounded and sensible of my two best girlfriends, but Candy would do.

Hi, Candy, thank God you’re there. I really need to talk.

I’m here for you, girlfriend. Tell me what’s on your mind, Steph.

Well, you know that guy I mentioned to you last week, my new friend, Ray?

Yeah—the eighteen-year-old? said Candy.

Yeah, that one. Well, things are going in a direction I don’t like. What started as a friendship is turning into more than I bargained for. He wants to have sex. I don’t know what to do. I like him so much, but that just goes against my moral code. He’s just a kid.

What do you mean, just a kid? He’s legal. It’s an ideal relationship. A woman peaks sexually in her thirties and a man in his late teens. Just imagine the possibilities. I bet his recovery time is a lot faster than an old guy our age. Sounds like fun to me, Steph.

You are not helping me deal with my mental torment over this, Candy! I’ve got another call coming in. Hold on a sec, let me see who it is. Hello.

Hey, Stephanie. It’s me, Shelby. You sounded distressed on that message you left. Is everything okay?

Kind of. I was talking to Candy on the other line. Let me put us on three-way.

Candy, I’m back and Shelby’s on the line. Let’s put our heads together on this.

What’s going on, Stephanie? questioned Shelby. Catch me up on things.

What’s going on, Shel, is that Steph’s got a young one hot on her tail. He’s barely legal, giggled Candy.

What? Are you serious? Stephanie Marie Melendez, what the heck is Candy talking about? Please, explain.

Well, you know how I told you all these boys are always asking me out at school? Well, I think I may actually like one. And, he wants to have sex with me.

Are you kidding me? I thought you were trying to hook a professor. A teenager? Are you serious? Have you had your head examined lately?

It’s not her head she’s thinking with, Shelby, if you know what I mean, interrupted Candy.

Stephanie, you are not a female cat in heat. You can’t stoop that low. What would your Grandma Rose say? It’s ridiculous to even consider it. He’s a kid. Break it off, now, implored Shelby. You’ll never forgive yourself if you do this.

What do you mean, Shel? This is a chance of a lifetime. This is something she’ll smile over when she’s an old lady. Stop being such a prude, retorted Candy. Let the girl have some fun.

Can I get a word in edgewise, please? I don’t think this is something we can resolve over the phone. Let’s meet at O’Malley’s Pub. Are you guys free? I really need a drink.

What time is it? asked Shelby.

7:30—The night is still young. Are you working tomorrow, Shel? It’s a Saturday.

I have to show a house in Brentwood at ten in the morning. I guess I can make it.

How about you, Candy?

Oh sure, Steph. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.

* * * * *

I haphazardly threw on something a little nicer than the jeans and t-shirt I was wearing. I decided on a stretchy, little top and a skirt. I slipped into my high heels, fluffed my hair, put some red lipstick on and was out the door.

I forgot it was Van Halen night at O’Malleys. They advertised it for weeks, but it had slipped my mind.

As I walked in the door, Jamie’s Cryin’ was blasting from the speakers. The lead singer from the cover band was screaming out the lyrics.

It looked like I was the first to arrive, and