Page 43 of Single-Minded
Dinner is weed-like and wholly unsatisfying, and I’m fantasizing about eating a big juicy steak throughout the entire meal. We agree to go back to Kai’s place, because I don’t want this weirdo in my house, and while I’m not sure I want to go through with this, Iamsure that if the Naughty Nine are all that stand between me and a real relationship, I want to get them over with as quickly as possible and get on with my life.
I follow behind him in my car; the drive is only five or six minutes. I was really hoping it would be longer.
Kai’s condo is exactly what you’d expect if the Dalai Lama decided to set up a sex den in Florida.
The whole place smells like incense and lemons, New Agey music is playing from speakers positioned near an odd cream-colored floor couch. He invites me to change into a robe to better relax, and directs me to a powder room decked out with a hook with several hangers, a basket filled with miniature toiletries, and two neat rows of bottled water. I crack myself up momentarily remembering what Sam said about staying hydrated.
A cotton waffle-weave robe is folded neatly along with a pair of spa slippers on top of a small, round table. It’s reminiscent of the day spa I go to sometimes—all Kai is missing are the little lockers and the key on the curly plastic thing that you put in the pocket of your robe when you go in for your seaweed facial.
I should probably be offended that he’s so presumptuous, but what’s the use? We both know why I’m here. When I emerge from the powder room, he’s also wearing a waffle-weave robe and spa slippers, and I can’t help but giggle at the sight of him. Because, come on, he looks ridiculous. There are bronze and ceramic statues of Buddha everywhere; dream catchers and crystals hang in front of windows darkened with bamboo shades. He’s lit half a dozen candles and dimmed the lights, and he motions for me to come and join him on the squishy floor couch.
“Relax, Alex,” says Kai, “free your mind from all the tethers of earth.” I squint my eyes closed, trying not to crack up about the whole “tethers of earth” thing. It sounds like he’s readying me for a trip to the mothership. “Take a deep, cleansing breath,” he says, “and open your eyes to the sensual beauty all around you.”
He’s going to have to quit talking if he wants me to keep a straight face.
We sit cross-legged facing each other, and he’s massaging my palms with some sort of weird smelly oil as he stares into my eyes for what seems like hours. It’s oddly intense, and hypnotic, but my brain is having none of this. It’s not for me, at least not with a complete stranger. Maybe I just need to see where this thing with Nate the tool-belt supermodel goes. Or maybe I need to wait until I’m in love.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I just think I need something deeper.” Kai nods at me, with understanding in his eyes, and just as I think he’s about to stop with the tantric hand massage, he swiftly maneuvers me backward, placing my feet on his chest, pulls my hips towards his groin as he squats like a savage.
“Whoa,” I say. Not exactly what I meant, but I’m morbidly fascinated. What the hell is he doing?
“This is one of the deepest positions in the Kama Sutra,” he says. He shifts himself to enter me, and my brain is still squeamishly hesitant to even go through with this. And just as I’m about to tell him I don’t want to,nothankyouverymuchbut I’d really like him to stop, he grasps the soles of my feet and starts vigorously massaging them.
Which is his first mistake. Well, that and the Gandhi pants.
I’m insanely ticklish, and before either of us knows what’s happened, my left foot shoots out reflexively, and I kick him smack in the nose.
I watch in horror as his nose begins gushing blood. I mean, it’s everywhere.
“Ohmygod, Kai, are you okay?” I’m completely mortified. He seems stunned. Scrambling to my feet, I rush to the kitchen to grab a towel. I run the cloth under cold water for a few seconds and quickly run it back to Kai.
“What the hell?” he says in a nasally voice. “What the hell?” The towel is soaked with blood in less than a minute. This is bad, really bad. I start rummaging around in the kitchen in a panic to find something to stop the bleeding, and rush back with a roll of unbleached paper towels and a bag of frozen organic peas.
“I’m so sorry,” I say effusively, “I didn’t mean—”
“You broke my nose,” he yells.
“I’m so sorry, it was an accident,” I say. “I’m really ticklish. I didn’t mean to… Do you want me to drive you to the emergency room?”
“Yes,” he hisses. I awkwardly shred strips of paper towels for him while he stuffs the little pieces up his nostrils to stop the bleeding—and then I retreat to the powder room to quickly wash the smelly oil off my palms and yank on my clothes.
I emerge seconds later and lead Kai out to my car. He’s still wearing the waffle-weave bathrobe and spa slippers, and he groans as he presses the bag of frozen peas to the bridge of his nose.
We drive to the emergency room in utter silence.
Dating is exhausting. And weird as hell. How do people ever meet and fall in love, anyway?
***
After the whole tantric-yogi emergency-room fiasco, I’m ready to take a break, or just give up altogether. But Darcy has arranged a date for me with one of her many clients, Robert Warren, a conservative wunderkind from the other side of the state. He’ssonot my type. But he checks that “Master of the Universe” box, so Darcy is insisting that I go—and frankly it will take me less time to just go on the date than it would to try to talk her out of it.
I google him and he looks like a Ken doll in a Brooks Brothers suit. Judging from the hundreds of photos online, he seems stiff, and humorless, and boring as hell. Oh well, I can survive anything for a few hours. I mean, how bad could it possibly be? At least it can’t be worse than Kai the tantric yogi and our ill-fated ER date.
The congressman’s assistant calls me to set up the details. She’s efficient and polite, and informs me that Robert Warren will be driving to Sarasota from West Palm Beach on Saturday. He’ll pick me up at my home around noon, and we’ll be going to some sort of outdoor festival, weather permitting. She asks me to please wear a dress, which I find incredibly arrogant and obnoxious—but who knows, maybe the congressman is worried we’ll be photographed together or something and wants to make sure I look appropriate.
On Saturday, my doorbell rings at noon on the dot, and I appreciate that his timing is so precise after a three-hour drive. It takes a special sort of skill to be that prompt.
As I open my front door, my mouth drops open from shock—because standing on my porch is a cross between a Norse god, the Grinch, and one of the odder characters fromLord of the Rings.
