Delicious Rejection: The Memoirs of a Hopeless Romantic

Delicious Rejection

The Memoirs of a Hopeless Romantic

By

James Robert Russell

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Copyright © 2010 by James Robert Russell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-4333-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-4335-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-4334-6 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 07/23/2010

Table of Contents

Chapter One

The Early Years

Chapter Two

First Kiss

Chapter Three

Call Waiting

Chapter Four

My Sister’s Friends

Chapter Five

Maiden Voyage I

Maiden Voyage II

Chapter Six

First Dates

Chapter Seven

High School Sweetheart

Just One Kiss from You

Chapter Nine

Encounters with Older Women

Oasis

Chapter Eleven

Coco

The Meaning of Sweetest Day

Cayenne

The Delicacy Called Woman

Chapter Fifteen

Nikki

Love’s Light

Chapter Seventeen

Travel Companions

Grace

Travel Companions

Cassie

Chapter Eighteen

First Dates

Silk

Sunset

Chapter Twenty

A Perfect End to a Very Long Day

A Day in Love’s Journey

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Clock Struck Twelve

Letters

Silk I

The Repo Man

Thinking of You

Compared

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Letters

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Marcel

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Metallic Mulberry

Chapter Thirty

Beautiful

Chapter Thirty-One

Pet Names

Chapter Thirty-Two

Marcel

The Day the Music Died

Autopsy of a Romantic

Chapter Thirty-Four

Letters

Silk

Chapter Thirty-Five

KRYPTON

Chapter Thirty-Six

Rhonda

I Miss You

A Lover’s Prayer

Marriage Proposal

Chapter Forty

Porcelain

Chapter Forty-One

Breakfast for Three

Circle of Love

Sleepless

Birthday Wishes for an Ex-Lover

Venom

Chapter Forty-Six

Eclipse

Chapter Forty-Seven

Questions

Deception

No Pain, No Pleasure

Tickets! Tickets! Who has tickets!

Valentine’s Day Massacre

I Saw What You Did Last Night

Shhhh!

Chapter Fifty

Answers

The Face of an Angel

Chapter Fifty-Two

The Sea

Chapter Fifty-Three

Epilogue

D E D I C A T I O N

This book is dedicated to all the women I’ve been blessed to know and love. It has been written as a tribute to the intelligence, beauty, and charm that all of you possess. Whether you are mentioned individually or not, please know that your influence has shaped the person that I have become. I cherish all the memories; still feel the pain. By sharing our lives, I hope that it will give others hope that they too can find or keep love. Maybe show them that it’s not too late to make some wonderful memories; to experience the kaleidoscope of emotions that is love.

A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T

To the many people that either helped or encouraged me during this project, I give my heartfelt thanks. I truly appreciate the time and emotion expended to help me fulfill my dream. Specifically, I would like to mention my mother Vivian, my daughter Deanna, and friends Carolyn, Marjorie, Susan, Pamela, and John. Thank you.

My heartfelt thanks to my sons for their creativity, Jonathan for the cover art and Jason for my website deliciousrejection.com

I N T R O D U C T I O N

For those of you expecting to read a scandalous tell all expose, written to embarrass and humiliate the subjects of these stories; you have picked the wrong book. However, if you enjoy romance; the joys and pain of human interaction, recounted by someone that loves and respects; then you’re in for the ride of your life. Some of these stories are well, racy to put it mildly. Some details are purposely left out to leave something to the imagination, feel free to let your imagination run free because frankly, it’s probably close to being correct. We’ve had some good times!! However, the real names in some of explicit personal stuff were left out to keep from embarrassing the ladies. Let’s be fair they’ve all moved on, and a gentleman never tells. I can only hope to do the ladies justice on paper. To adequately express the love, happiness, pain and depth of the relationships we‘ve shared. To paint the vivid personalities they possess. To express the contents of my soul, heart, and mind. Read it with your eyes; picture it in your mind’s eye. Let it touch your heart, tease, please and excite you. Feel the pain in your gut, the strain on your mind. Let it bring a smile to your face, maybe a tear to your eyes. For this is the story of my life. That is the point isn’t? To live, experience and relish life. Enjoy!

Chapter One

The Early Years

I was born a predominately black child and grew up in a predominately black neighborhood. This situation has certain unspoken responsibilities, inherent expectations. In retrospect, I probably failed in most of those requirements. Fortunately, I’ve never measured my success or worth by other’s standards. I was skinny, freakishly tall with abnormally large ears which took years to grow into. Possessing above average athleticism, I was able to compete with my peers despite deficiencies in coordination, aggression and toughness. On the positive side of the ledger I was intelligent, creative and passionate about everything. Accepted in both my own peer group and by older kids; I was given two nicknames in addition to the one given to me by my family. The first was Dumbo; a not so subtle reference to the size of my ears. The latter was Computer. A flattering tribute to my amazing math acuity; keep in mind this was the early sixties and computers though primitive by today’s standard were a marvel at the time.

The fairer sex has always been of interest to me; even before I was old enough to know why. In the early sixties there was still a great deal of formality. Trips to shop downtown were my favorite, especially at Christmas time. Men traditionally wore suits. Women always wore dresses; accessorized by hats and gloves. Heels and hose were an absolute necessity. This fact was not lost on me. I guess I’ve always been a leg man. The versatility of women has always fascinated me. Housewives transformed themselves into models for PTA meetings; the isles of the auditorium their runways.

My sensitivity was apparent very early in my formative years. There was a local children’s TV show hosted by Miss Barbara. The show ended with Miss Barbara singing a song which included her looking through a hoop and pretending to see her fans; calling out their names individually. I see Billy and Susan etc. Confident that she was speaking directly to me, I didn’t rest until I was a guest on the show. On the other side of the coin, there was a song on another of my favorite shows that even now on a bad day will recall pain. I suppose that there has always been a part of me that never felt like it belonged or fit in. At five years old the sadness was uncontrollable. The chorus of the song; I’m a lonely little petunia in an onion patch, an onion patch, an onion patch. I’m a lonely little petunia in an onion patch; and all I do is cry all day unleashed torrents of tears.

Of all of the holidays that we celebrated in elementary school; Valentine’s Day was by far my favorite. It was my opportunity to express my feelings to those few special girls in my class. More importantly, gauge their opinions of me. These were the times before political correctness became a part of curriculum. We were allowed to give cards to the kids we chose to without concern for the feelings of those who might get fewer cards than others. Therefore, it could be stressful on many levels. But I believe this is a necessary part of the maturation process.

My family wasn’t well off, but we were creative. Buying Valentine’s Day cards was not in the budget; so we made them from construction paper and lace doilies. It was tough even then for kids to be individuals in school. I think the fact that I was almost always, well different made me tougher. I learned to set the trend for others to follow. Actually, I thought the homemade touch made my cards special. At the advice of my mother, I gave cards to all of the girls in the class. Later when I had my own money; earned on my paper route, I added candy. However, there were two sizes of cards; the special girls, the ones I felt attracted to got larger ones. Unfortunately, they also attracted the lion’s share of the attention from the rest of the boys in the class. I never got the level of attention that I wanted from them though I remained friends with most of them through high school.

I was flattered when at my twentieth high school reunion one of the special girls that had moved away, but married one of my classmates came up to me and told me she had kept a Valentine that I had given her saying, it had meant a lot to her. The only other direct reaction I received was in the fifth grade. I was walking home from school in front of a group of older girls, sixth graders actually. When one of them who lived on my street invited me to walk with them I was excited, but as soon as I reached the group she slapped me as hard as I had ever been hit to date. She had been given a smaller card than her friend. My feelings were hurt even though she had never really paid any attention to me in the past. As I grew in age and experience, I realized that slap in girl speak meant that she liked me more than she ever let on, and she felt slighted by the smaller card. She never spoke to me again.

The special girls had beautiful qualities even at that age. They were usually taller; always prettier, better dressed, smarter, musically or artistically gifted, more refined and mature than the rest of the girls in the class. They even had better handwriting. They shaped my definition of beautiful at an early age. They raised the level of the everyday activity to an art form. I was enchanted. It seemed as though the gods were always smiling on them. One of them had an unfortunate bicycle accident on my street while visiting her grandmother. It could have been very serious, as she hit the car broadside. The impact caused her to fly over the handlebars and across the hood of the car. Fortunately, the only injury she sustained was a small V shaped cut on the upper thigh of her otherwise flawless legs. The resulting scar was only slightly darker than her skin tone and was placed such that you would have to be intimate with her to see it. It couldn’t have been more delicate if it had been tattooed on. Her first name began with a V; Beautiful.

I didn’t know it at the time but my lifelong experiences with the opposite sex could be summed up by two encounters in my adolescence, the formative years. On one hand the flair for the dramatic. On the other: despair, disappointment, and rejection.

Chapter Two

First Kiss

It was a hot day, more than one hundred degrees in the shade, if there was any to be found. We climbed the winding red clay steps to an unknown destination. It was the second day of a journey that frankly was a miracle come true. As we reached the summit and gazed upon the incredible scenery for the first time our silence spoke volumes about the amazing view.

The summit was actually a garden on top of a mesa. It was a simple place with stones encircling smoothly raked red dirt. The stone benches arranged on the edges provided a ringside seat to the probably endless battle of the sea versus sky for the title of bluest in nature. The battle, officiated by the rocky shore was fueled and orchestrated by the wind. It provided each with a contrast to measure the incredibly vivid blues. To the sea, the wind gave white caps and foam rolling in on wave after wave from the Isle of Goree in the distance. The wind’s gifts to the sky were the constantly changing shape of wispy clouds that sped by.

It was hard to believe that as a boy of nearly thirteen I was seeing the Atlantic Ocean for the first time, from the other side no less. It was nineteen sixty-nine. The height of the Black Power movement and I was in Dakar, Senegal. I was tall for my age at five feet seven, but thin at 116 pounds. The scenery had so overwhelmed me that I had forgotten that I was still holding Sheila’s hand. We had gravitated towards each other on the long flight from New York. It was an unlikely alliance. She was my age, but light years ahead of me socially. She wore green shorts, tennis shoes and a white sleeveless blouse. She was built similarly to me, but in three-quarter scale. The wind had rearranged her long bangs to resemble rearing horses. The benefit was that I saw her mellow brown eyes for the first time in the light of the sun.

She walked to the edge to get a better view of the boulder strewn shore. I nervously followed her just in time to reach for her slender waist, as a strong gust of wind unsteadied her stance. She turned to face me smiling. I had both hands on her thin, but curvy hips now. This was the first time I had actually held a girl in that manner. I stood frozen, inexperienced and overwhelmed. We stood for what seemed like an hour and it felt like a dream. Her warm but confident voice awakened me with the single word, kiss as she stepped into my arms, stood on her tiptoes and kissed me.

To this day I don’t remember climbing back down the stairs or walking her back to the hotel. My first recollection was being let back into my hotel room by my roommates and lifelong friends. I couldn’t find the key that was secure in my pocket. Upon entering, I was asked, Where I had been? Why I had missed lunch? I blurted out I kissed Sheila to the surprise and amazement of my friends. I stood there motionless in a hailstorm of questions. I only answered one of them. How was it? My response? As smooth as silk.

Chapter Three

Call Waiting

This story is probably the basis of my entire social interaction with the fairer sex. It provided me with an operational principle that I still use today. More information on that subject will be provided later. Upon reflection, I am confronted with the source of my extreme level of patience, tolerance for emotional pain and then forgiveness.

The title Call Waiting may be slightly deceiving. The term is a contemporary one, but the setting of this story is the late ‘60s. The telephone at that time was almost a luxury appliance in my neighborhood. We had ourselves just recently upgraded to a private line. Previously, we could only afford a party line which you shared with up to three other families. Access was obviously limited, and privacy was certainly not a guarantee. But it served the purpose. The phone we chose was a single black rotary dial