When a married guy puts his hand on your thigh
So I went to get my taxes done. I was going to do them myself, but my boyfriend shamed me into doing them last year and in an act of delayed defiance, I decided to pay for the privilege of writing a check to Uncle Sam in 2010. Then my friend Gail offered up her husband, a banker and self proclaimed financial expert. She was convinced that with his help, I'd qualify for a refund. She insisted that he was all too happy to help me out and reminded me that I had assisted her with a project at work and she was simply returning a favor. Gail was working late, but instructed me to arrive around 5 pm and by the time she got home, the three of us could celebrate my new found wealth with a drink.
GuiIt assuaged and assorted w-forms in hand, I ring the doorbell at 505. The house is in an exclusive subdivision, so, okay at least my tax advisor knows how to earn money. George (all names have been changed to protect the guilty) greets me with a rum and coke which I decline and leads me to the computer. We pull up Turbo Tax and are well underway within 15 minutes. I'm not too sure when it starts to occur to me that George is distracted, but suffice it to say that his forays into how do I like to spend my money (do I shop at Victoria's Secret?) have little to do with the subject at hand. I mean, since when is lingerie a deduction? I began to get uncomfortable when he asks if I am younger than his wife. I respond that we're the same age and make a point of looking at my watch.
Let me set the stage for you. George is on his third rum and coke. The lights are dim if you can overlook the glare from the computer. Soft jazz is on the radio. George's feet are bare and he's wearing cut offs and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. We are upstairs in his office which overlooks their disappearing edge swimming pool and the adjoining lake. George reaches across my lap to adjust the printer paper. He tells me I have beautiful eyes and I drop the file of charitable contributions that I'm holding and we both bend down to retrieve the receipts. I'm feeling more than a little anxious so I ask when Gail, my friend and his wife is expected. His response "in a couple of hours" does little to alleviate my discomfort. I steer the conversation back to taxes and began to relax when he explains that I would have owed (wait a minute, OWED) considerably more had it not been for the overt generosity of the Obama administration. We have a spirited discussion about why, when and how I should adjust my withholding. This leads to a debate of when the economy will recover ( within the next five years, before I retire, when and if the Republicans return to office?). I am the audience as George takes both sides, wowing me with his financial acumen. Thus, I am yet again caught off guard when he puts his hand on my thigh and asks me if I'm sure I don't want a drink.
Not only am I sure I don't want a drink, I am also sure I don't want his hand ON MY THIGH. Gail is my friend and George is her husband and even though I make my discomfort obvious by pulling away, he simply repositions his hand moving it further up my leg. Lest you think I've done anything to encourage this behavior...suggestive dress, inappropriate glances, let me just say that I am wearing hospital scrubs and contrary to "Grey's Anatomy" they are baggy and decidedly unsexy. And in what universe is squinting at the computer screen because you've forgotten your glasses considered seductive. Still his hand creeps upward. When I grab it, he squeezes my fingers and smiles. Oh good God, why didn't I just pay H&R Block. How do I extricate myself from this situation with tax return firmly in hand and leg in tact. I fall back on my verbal skill and sputter "George, you need to move your hand". He actually says "I can't do that" and then...WAIT...it's time for a brief intermission.
Dear Reader, I think I might be forgiven at this juncture for embracing the "all men are dogs" school of thought. Come on, all I did was trust the husband of a friend to do my taxes. Are deductions without seduction too much too expect? Perhaps you need a little background. I am a 50 plus year old professional woman in reasonably good shape who has been single for the past 6 years. I have done the online dating scene and it is not pretty. I never cease to be amazed at what an otherwise reasonable, respectable and unfortunately all too appealing man will say or do to get a woman in bed. This aside, I am currently and thankfully in a relationship. George is a 47 year old who it must be said, looks more than a little like George Clooney. His wife, Gail resembles a dark haired Michelle Pipher. If you're a chick flick fan, you are already humming "One Fine Day". Point being...George is a babe, but so is his wife and as far as I know they are (or were) the perfect couple.
And so it begs the eternal question, can a man ever be truly faithful? Or is male infidelity every bit as certain as death and dare I say, taxes. To put it another way, is the same man who can go to battle for God and country, who can wrestle wild animals and forge the wilderness, helplessly enthralled when confronted with a feminine path less traveled? Having recently examined this very subject with my coworkers, I consider myself something of an expert. First, let's define cheating. Is it lust in the heart or a hand on the thigh? Is it "I did not have sex with Ms. Lewinski" even though we shared a cigar? Or is it as one of my male colleagues explained, only cheating if you get caught. The popular press says that men cheat twice as much as women because they are not as emotionally evolved. Whatever the reason, it is widely believed that there are three kinds of men: cheaters, former cheaters and soon-to-be cheaters.
But on with the show. Are you clamoring to know what happens next? Well I'll tell you (sort of, anyway) I remove his hand. Then he says 1) Julie, honey, I have always been attracted to you, let's go to bed or 2) My God, I don't know what got into me, please, please don't tell Gail or 3) You owe me $149.99 for your taxes, you self-righteous bitch. What do you think he said? What do you think he should of said? How did the evening end? Did I succumb to his charm (despite my ranting about cheating, he does, after all look like George Clooney). Am I morally obligated to tell Gail about his overtures? If so, would our friendship survive? Tune in again. Let me know your thoughts and I promise to finish the story.