That night Lulu, Julian, and I huddled intimately around an impossible to get table at Dallas's trendiest new bar. Julian arranged the gathering insisting, "Monday night's the new Thursday night which was the new Saturday night."

Lulu, looking perfectly posh in her black slip of a Calvin Klein dress, sat sipping her pomegranate martini and whispering into Julian's good ear.

Julian, in tight red bedazzled jeans, sat pretending to listen while busily scoping his prospects.

I'd chosen my favorite Chloe Jeans, so thin they resemble paper and as tight as papier-mâché, paired with a white tee and blazer, dressed up with Lulu's sky-high red Jimmy Choo's.

"So let me get this straight, darlin'." Julian trapped me in his sights. Calculatingly he sipped his scotch, giddy with gossip. "He has no car. He has no house. He has no job. And he didn't want to fuck you?"

"Shut up, Julian," I said, clearly without ground to stand.

"Hahahahaha Wahahahaha," he responded meanly, choking on his drink and winking at an attractive young man nearby.

"I told you he wasn't your type, Annie," Lulu chimed in smugly.

"Yeah, I guess so." I checked my phone for the millionth time that night. "He should've called by now."

"Rut Ro. I think I see a Scooby Snack," Julian broke in with his catch phrase and jumped from the table. He snatched his scotch and left instructions, "Do not wait up."

Neither of us was surprised by his disappearing act. Julian's an infamous bolter and we got used to it years ago.

"Where exactly is Harriett?" I scooted closer to Lulu, filling Julian's void.

"On her third date with Martini Man."

"You're kidding. She likes him?" I asked surprised and trying unsuccessfully to picture the man that caught fair Harriet's eye.

"I think so," Lulu started. "She honestly seems smitten. And Annie, you know what they say, don't cast stones from glass, er, no, houses." She snickered, amused by her obvious jab at Bryan.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and I answered, grateful to escape Lulu's opinions and fully expecting to hear Bryan's voice. "Hello?"

"Annie, this is Charles, Charles Reidenhower, from the country club. I'm calling about that ride."

I mouthed frantically to Lulu. "It's Dr. Tits!"

"Hi Charles, how are you?" I said sweetly into my phone, talking above the noisy bar and pushing a nosy Lulu away from the receiver.

"That depends. Will you join me tomorrow for that ride?"

One look at Lulu and I knew her advice. And it's not as if Bryan and I were committed.

"You can pick me up at two o'clock," I told him, embolden by my third cocktail of the night.

"I'll be there at six and wear something nice." He hung up.

And I liked it.

"So," I said turning to an interested Lulu.

"So."

"So, he's picking me up tomorrow night at six o'clock," I told her, unsure why I felt excited despite his impish appearance.

"He might give you a discount," Lulu said with envy.

"A discount on what exactly?" I asked, offended. "My breasts are fine, thank you. Or are you referring to my wrinkle?"

"Your boobs would be lucky to be in the hands of Dr. Reidenhower, and your wrinkle as well," she said. "Let's face it, Annie, we're pushing thirty."

Bitch.

"Plus, he's a step up from Bryan," she pushed, watching my face for agreement.

I felt compelled to stand up for Bryan. Tell her he might be the one and I wished she'd give him chance.  Instead, I smiled and shrugged, allowing her to draw her own conclusions.

Dr. Charles Reidenhower knocked on my door at approximately six-fifteen p.m. the following day. I dressed half-heartedly, my attention on a Desperate Housewives marathon, when the rumbling of an engine drowned out Lynette and Gabby, signifying the doctor's arrival.

I'd planned to spend my time before the date primping, shaving, and, preparing myself. But when faced with the choice of getting ready or watching the Desperate Housewives marathon, I chose the marathon. I kept thinking I would get inspired to get ready. But the first date excitement never came, and therefore, I remained un-showered.

Beginning to dread the date, and not in an excited way, I'd phoned Harriett to complain. "I don't want to go." I'd responded to her cheerful, "Hello."

"Then cancel," she'd said simply.

"Even his teeth are tiny, like rows of Chickletts."

"Then cancel."

"I can't cancel at the last minute," I'd told her angrily, wishing for more balls. "I'll go for a little while and then fake sick. No big deal. But it feels like a huge waste of time when I know I'm not attracted to him."

"Good luck then. Call me when it's over."

"Barf. Will do, it shouldn't be too long," I predicted optimistically before hanging up and beginning the grueling process of getting ready.

At five o'clock I reluctantly began my shower. At six, I blow-dried my hair. When Dr. Charles arrived, late I might add, I still wasn't mentally or physically prepared to leave the safety of my abode.

"I'll be right there," I called down the hall, stifling an overwhelming compulsion to ignore the ringing doorbell.

I opened my door and there he stood, shorter than I recalled. Mentally I changed into my pale-pink ballerina flats.

What in the hell am I doing? He's a total troll.

"Hello, Charles, please come in." I smiled falsely, glad I hadn't gone through much trouble on account of my looks.

"Annie, you look stunning." He entered my apartment, hugging me tightly and looking around.

"Thanks," I said, followed by an awkward silence.

"Shall we?" he asked obnoxiously.

"Uh, ok," I gathered my purse and allowed him to lead me from my house. I'll be home soon Housewives! I mentally promised the ladies of Wisteria Lane before locking the door behind us.

To be clear, I wasn't what one would consider to be a "car person." Sure, I could appreciate the sex appeal of a convertible or the social value of a Bentley as much as the next girl. But never had a car elicited a reaction as deep, so raw and overpowering as to make me lose my mind. However, once inside Dr. Reidenhowers brand new, fire-red Lamborghini, I believe that's what I did.

The inside of the car dripped with rich, butter-soft, caramel-colored leather. The futuristic dashboard glowed with expensive looking buttons and electronic gadgets begging to be touched. The air was thick with new-car smell, but somehow this aroma was more sensual than your average new-car scent, as though scrubbed clean with wads of cash. Charles punched one of many buttons and our doors swooshed shut with a satisfying,  Swoooooshhhhcchhh.

"Aaaaaaaahhh," I screamed, unable to feign cool. "This car is ridiculous and omigod the smell!" I took a long, exaggerated breath and grinned from ear to ear.

"I'm glad you like it," he said, pressing the gas and thrusting us onto the street. People in passing cars each turned to stare, all of them wondering who was inside the freakishly hot car.

I rolled down my window so they could get a better look.

"I love this! I can't believe how good it feels," I squealed, genuinely excited.

He laughed, obviously pleased at my delight. "Sweetheart, you ain't seen nothing yet." He winked suggestively and stomped on the gas, surging faster in and out of traffic. And although I may not have been a car person, I was most definitely a thrill-seeking person and my eyes widened in excitement. I relished the exhilarating rush, fueled by recklessly high-speeds and extravagance.

Once we made it to the old highway he let loose and we flew. The golden speedometer climbed, one hundred ninety-five miles-per-hour, one ninety-eight. I felt so alive, as if I was born to fly this way. I was so happy in fact, that I forgot about Charles's trollish exterior and attributed my euphoric feelings, in part, to him.

Maybe he's not so bad after all. I examined his profile as we zipped past familiar landmarks, unrecognizable at our soaring speeds.

When Charles reached the two-hundred mile-per-hour mark, we high-fived one another in celebration and simultaneously realized we were getting pulled over.

"Oh no," I said, feeling partly responsible for egging him on with cheers of, "total domination" and, "faster make it go faster!"

Charles responded with laughter. Much to my relief he seemed genuinely tickled. He found the situation so funny, that when the police-officer approached the car (with reverence in his heart and envy in his eyes) Charles was wiping tears of laughter away from his cheeks and attempting, rather unsuccessfully, to look properly chagrin.

"License and registration, sir," the officer said, bending down to take a voyeuristic peek inside the car.

"No problem officer," Charles said smoothly releasing his glove compartment with an expert flick of his middle finger, to retrieve the requested documents. He snuck me a wink.

I'm not sure if the young officer simply couldn't focus in such close proximity to the Lamborghini, or if this was standard reckless driving protocol, but either way the patrolman asked Dr. Reidenhower to escort him to his squad car. Allegedly to have a talk.

As they disappeared into the glow of flashing red and blue I smiled, for this date was turning out to be far more exciting than I'd dared to hope. Left alone in the splendor of his car, I pressed buttons and flipped switches until my heart was content. Imagine living this way, forever, like a fairytale.

By the time Charles bid farewell to the officer and joined me in his car I'd turned off every button, re-flipped every switch, and managed to wipe the greed inspired smile from my face.

"What happened?" I asked, full of false concern and genuine interest.

Charles smiled, his good mood apparently unhampered by whatever the officer had said. "Ha ha, well, no ticket!" he grinned. "I apologized to Patrolman Spears for my excessive speed. But, as I told him, I've good reason for my foolish behavior."

I waited silently for his given explanation, wondering if I might should be feigning an injury or faking a moving baby-bump.

"I told him I'm trying my damndest to impress this girl, for whom I'm crazy. I told him that if a speeding ticket is what it takes to win her heart, then it's a small price to pay," Charles told me.

I sat smiling, pleased as punch. "And that worked?"

"Like a charm."

And he was correct. His trick worked like a charm. For the policeman wasn't the only one to fall under the charming doctor's intoxicating spell. As our date progressed I found myself swept off my feet by his natural charisma and extravagant lifestyle.

He dropped me off at my doorstep after midnight and I was wide-awake, high on living the highlife. I almost invited him inside for drinks, but thought better of it. He was obviously quite a catch, despite my earlier appraisal. I needed to play my cards right if I wanted to keep him around.

"I had fun," I told him honestly, meeting his eyes which I realized were a pretty shade of green.

"Had fun, Annie?" he asked, leaning forward and trapping me against my closed front door, no longer seeming short.

"Well, yes. I think we should call it a night," I said valiantly showing restraint, while licking my bottom lip and leaning seductively into his body.

"Should call it a night or will call it a night?" he asked, matching my body pressure. His hands moved to my hips and began to explore.

I laughed nervously and struggled to resist my growing urge to let him come inside. "I'm not ready," I told him, inwardly throbbing at his touch, responding physically despite my words. "I don't trust you yet," I said, well aware of the rising bulge in his three-hundred dollar jeans.

"Ok, we'll wait." He abruptly pulled away.

I felt a twinge of regret, but said nothing.

"At least until tomorrow," he finished grabbing my ass and assuring me I'd made the right decision.

That night I lay alone in bed, repenting my gluttony at the 'French Room.' (an upscale Dallas restaurant, known only to people with oil for blood). I'd enjoyed a delectable dinner of cheddar baguettes, crab bisque, roasted Sea Bass with lobster sauce, chocolate raspberry crème brulee and fine wine. My body felt weak and difficult to maneuver.

My brain too felt drained, as if withdrawing from the heavy-dosage of adrenalin it became accustom to throughout my date with Charles. I lay comatose and thought about Dr. Reidenhower. And I also thought about Bryan.

The differences between the two men were apparent, but I found myself wanting both. It seemed I was wrong about Charles. Looks fade, right? But beachfront property is forever, I told myself, wondering how many houses Charles owned and where they were located.

And while yesterday morning when trapped underneath him on the couch I felt smothered by Bryan, now that he hadn't called in two days, I was beginning to think I may have been too quick to judge. I bet he's out there being productive, getting a house, signing his first record deal, writing an Annie song. I was, caught somewhere between reality and dreams.

I fell asleep happy with visions of expensive tropical vacations, luxury hotels, and sold-out Brine tours dancing in my delusional head. And although neither man individually was sufficient replacement for Jaime Knox, the combination of the two worked fine, at least for the night.

Please show me the love by voting!

Also, I am taking part in the Brigade Watty Awards, and I'll be in love with you forever for voting for Fag Hag in the contest. It is chapter 83 and here is the link:

http://my.w.tt/UiNb/io0KGX0lkv

Thank you so very much!!