“You’re not going to believe this. Our friend who we haven’t seen in years just stopped by last night and he’s throwing his fiftieth birthday tonight. He’s a really successful gay guy. Don’t know if he’s your type, but there are sure to be other gay guys. You want to come?”
The words of the Psychic echoed in my mind.
Don’t say no to any birthday party invitations.
I went about my day with expressed enthusiasm. And when I got home before leaving, the Lesbians indicated they were exhausted from their day and not really feeling like a party.
“How about you ladies write out a card, extending birthday wishes. Then I’ll hand deliver the card on your behalf.”
I don’t know where this inspiration came from, but when the spirit knows, it moves into action.
The Lesbians signed a card, and I was off and running to a party for a man I did not know.
* * *
By the time the cab pulled up at the address, the party had been going for two hours. It was a Turkish bakery and restaurant, and as I entered it became evident that I was more than fashionably late not for a party, but a sit-down dinner.
There was a long table filled with food. At least a dozen people lined each side. Undulating torsos spun out of control in the middle of the restaurant as two female and one male belly dancer delighted a group of guests who clapped along as they themselves gyrated their torsos to the beat of Arabic music. I burst into the scene, my smile bringing the room to a halt, completely upstaging the dancing bellies.
I looked around to all the guests who were staring at me, with a greeting card in my hand, wondering who I was and was I in the wrong place. The Birthday Boy quickly shook off the belly-dancing crowd leaving the belly dancers like dust in the wind.
“Happy Birthday!” I explained I was hand-delivering birthday greetings on behalf of the Lesbians and that I am the guy who is living in their basement. His face lit up as he welcomed me into his crowd, introducing me to each of his guests. There was a spot at the end of the table and he invited me to sit down and eat. Platters of Turkish food covered the table, and they were all being passed my direction. I had just eaten dinner, but filled my plate nonetheless.
“Oh my God! This is delicious!” The words just came from my mouth.
“What is your name?”
The gentleman sitting next to me tapped my shoulder, his voice a heavy Eastern European accent. He filled a glass of wine and handed it to me. I took the glass from his hand as we locked eyes. His smile radiated joy and his muscled beauty took my breath away.
I looked at the lengthy table of amazing food, and looked back to the foreign man sitting next to me, he had a playful presence, his wire-rimmed glasses giving him a serious look. I wondered if this was the man the Psychic spoke of.
“Your accent. Where from?”
“Poland. Eat! Eat!”
I continued to eat, and the other guests asked me how I was connected to the Birthday Boy. I explained how I knew long-time dear friends of his, and they could not attend at the last minute, so I was there to deliver personal greetings on their behalf.
The Polish Guy watched intently as I spoke. He was quick to refill my wine. The servers came out with more food, even though there was plenty of food left on the table.
“That was just the appetizer course,” the Birthday Boy explained. “Now it’s time for the entrées!”
The Birthday Boy’s guests all protested that there was too much food. They helped to clear the appetizers that had gone un-touched to an empty table next to the party.
I had purposely eaten dinner so that I wouldn’t be gorging on food at a party where I could possibly be meeting my next romantic interest. And here I was, gorging on food so I would at least look like I wasn’t being rude. I was so full.
The Polish Guy got up from the table, excusing himself to go smoke. I had learned how everyone sitting next to me was connected to the Birthday Boy, but I hadn’t learned Polish Guy’s connection to the Birthday Boy.
“Now how is he connected?” I asked they gentleman sitting to my right, who identified himself as one of the Birthday Boy’s long-time friends.
“They are actually dating,” he whispered a hushed tone as if it was a shocking reality.
“Really?” I thought it was a joke, or at least it felt like the Universe was playing a joke on me. There I was, in the setting the Psychic had so vividly described to me, and the foreign guy who just appears is dating the guest of honor.
“Yes, they’ve been on a few dates. He wasn’t even sure he was going to be here tonight, but then he showed up.”
“Interesting. I didn’t sense from either of them any sort of connection.”
“I know. That’s what I thought, too. He seems like a nice guy, just kind of quiet. Maybe he’s shy.”
When the Polish Guy returned, he grabbed the wine bottle on the table, refilling my glass, flashing me a smile. He sat down next to me, running his hand down my back. We engaged in a conversation, but his English was not strong, so we struggled through it.
The male belly dancer appeared again, dancing around the dining room.
“He’s amazingly beautiful,” I said to the Polish Guy. “It’s unnerving.”
“Yes.”
“I mean, his beauty is Christ-like.”
His long, curly, dark hair flowed as he glided across the floor. Shirtless, every muscle defined. I was mesmerized by his undulating abs.
Polish Guy pushed me.
“Go dance.”
“Me? No, I can’t dance.”
“You should dance.” He pushed me again. “He wants you to.”
Reluctantly, I got up from the table. I took a drink of wine, thinking if I’m going to humiliate myself, I might as well go all the way. I approached the Christ-like Belly Dancer, and began to mirror his moves. I looked into his deep dark eyes, swaying my hips as he swayed his. His thin lips broke into a smile. The Birthday Boy’s friends circled around, clapping along, hooting and hollering.
“Who is this guy?” one of his friends asked.
The restaurant had stopped, and the Belly Dancer was no longer performing, but the two of us were involved in an intimate dance originating from our bellies.
When the music was over, I smiled at the Christ-like Belly Dancer, nodding. He returned the smile. I went to sit next to the Polish Guy, but he was gone. At my seat, the wine glass had been refilled.
The birthday dessert arrived: a three-foot tall tower of fruit, with sparklers shooting off it. It looked like Carmen Miranda’s headdress was exploding. Everyone gathered around the spectacle, grabbing their phones to take pictures. I scanned the guests for the Polish Guy, but he was nowhere to be found. I escaped for a moment outside, suggesting that I needed air after the belly dancing routine, hoping to find him standing on the street corner smoking.
No Polish Guy. Just a drunk sorority girl hanging on to the bus stop sign for dear life. I snapped a photo of her and posted it to Flickr, and then went back inside.
I stood by the table of food, grazing, even though I didn’t need any more to eat. I was kicking myself. I should have suggested we grab a drink some time. I should have asked him for his number. I wondered how I could ask the Birthday Boy for his number, maybe suggest we had a fascinating conversation about the Russian Massacre we were not able to finish, and could I get his number to continue the conversation? Why was I holding back? What was I worried about? I saw him, I liked him, and why didn’t I go for it?
The fact he was on a date with someone else, why would that stop me?
Lashing myself with regret, I shoved food in my face.
“What’s your name?”
The Belly Dancer stood next to me, a plate in his hand. He locked his eyes on mine. I introduced myself and he said his name. He had a heavy foreign accent.
“Your eyelashes. They are beautiful.”
“I have a lot of makeup on.” He smiled, and laughed. “It’s supposed to add drama.”
“Well, it certainly does. You have to try all the food. It’s excellent.”
I stepped back from the table.
I watched as he placed food on his plate. I could see his abs moving as he leaned his sinewy torso hovering over the table. His beauty was overbearing and I found it difficult to speak. He was a tall, sinewy foreign man standing next to a large table of food at a birthday party.
“Do you have a card?” he asked.
I realized it wasn’t the Polish Guy the Psychic was talking about, rather it was the Belly Dancer. I handed him my card.
“Do you have one?”
He pulled a card from his waistline, handing it to me. I looked at it. A massage therapist from Indianapolis, specializing in energy healing. My heart skipped a beat.
“So you’re not a full-time belly dancer?”
He laughed.
“No, I’m not. I wish I were though. I never thought I would be doing this at forty-nine. Can you believe that?”
“No, I thought you were maybe thirty-five, tops.”
He laughed.
“No, I meant belly dancing.”
“Oh, well, why not? Somebody has to do the belly dancing.”
He smiled.
“I’ll let you eat. It was nice talking with you.”
“Yes, thank you very much for dancing with me. I get so nervous dancing, but dancing with you, it was nice to have someone to dance with. You’re a very good dancer.”
“Thank you.”
I left the restaurant with a group of new friends, the Belly Dancer watching through the window as we walked away toward a bar down the street to toast the birthday boy.
As we gathered around in a tight circle to toast the Birthday Boy, a small argument erupted as to who was going to buy the first round. I realized I was surrounded by love, and that as long as I’m open to the possibilities that can happen next, they will come my way. Maybe not in the form of a Polish Guy, but rather an undulating Belly Dancer.
Life was good.
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