Anatomy and Blind Dating, story by A.L. Paradiso at

Anatomy and Blind Dating

Anatomy and Blind Dating

written by: A.L. Paradiso


While sitting at the upscale bar in a fine restaurant, I wondered how big a mistake this was. What’s the worst that can happen – an early night and web surfing back home? A beautiful black woman came in and looked around. I forgot to ask about race. I tried to catch her eye and flaunted my emerald green “It’s ME” scarf. She looked past me, and I looked through her classy outfit. Just as I imagined my tongue lapping hers, she lit up and greeted her actual date. Merde!

Minutes later, a tall, slim, barely tanned woman hung up her coat but retained her emerald green scarf that sharply contrasted with her deep blue dress. When she saw me, she gave me a half smile, hung her scarf, and meandered toward me. She didn’t seem happy to be here either. We were in for a great night! Whoopee! As she approached, I saw a familiar shoulder gait with sexy swiveling hips above a very long slit from high calf to just inches below her groin. Her sexy, toned leg fascinated as it peeked in and out from her dress.

“Hi. I hope you’re Al!” She said brightly. I stood and nodded as I waved my scarf ends at her. She pointed back to hers and smiled a surprisingly warm smile. “They told me you were ‘OK’ looking and I’m glad they lied.” She winked.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, you know. They told me you were ugly and needed a mercy date then they bribed me to meet you.” She smacked my arm and faux blustered. “You KNOW that’s not true, but they lied about you too. Regardless, you know you’re hot and I agree. Let’s sit at the bar until our table’s ready.” I held the armless, leather quilted stool for her to mount and watched her legs as she did.

“Well thanks. Are you staring up my dress? See anything you like?”

“Yes, I am and yes, I do. I love how toned and svelte your legs look . . . ” and cheekily added “. . . and I can’t wait to get better acquainted with them. They also said you were a tomboy and hated pc speech. Is that right or should I slow my roll?” Here was her chance to end the date before we got too deep into it and save me $100+ bucks for a wasted night.

“What else did they warn you about, I wonder? Your directness is refreshing, but you’re not fooling me.” She smiled her wry smile. “I’m pressing you too for an excuse for an early night. So far, you’re out of luck and stuck with me. Anytime you feel the need, feel free to tell me you want to end it early. I’m enjoying you so far, even letting you look up my dress isn’t bothering me!”

“Hmm . . . you are an interesting bird. OK. I’ll stick it out a few minutes longer. Have you ever had such an honest first date, blind or not? As a tomboy, you probably had a few adventures and got a few scars. Anything interesting you can share?”

“Hmm, a funny bone. That’s nice.” She smiled and winked seductively at me. She pushed her slit skirt off her leg exposing a very attractive thigh. “See this scar above my knee? Umm, LOWER, you perv!” She winked again.

“That ragged scar is just below where my leg broke when I tried surfing a stairway. A loose nail ripped open the skin and left me with that nice souvenir.” Pushing my advantage, I stroked gently across the scar, pretending to evaluate it while blatantly fondling her thigh.

“Interesting. I have a big scar on my right leg also. Here, just below my knee.” I pulled up my pants as I offered her my leg. “Comb the hair aside until you can see the two by half inch scar. I didn’t get stitches and you can feel how smooth and bald the scar is. I’ll FILL you in later. . . . IF, you’re very lucky.” She ‘harrumphed’ my comment and looked, stone faced, as she fondled my scar at my obvious invitation that countered her subtle one.

“Well, don’t plan on getting too lucky tonight. I’m not especially shy, or afraid of, uhh, being filled in, but other things excite me more.” I wondered what that meant. We traded scar stories, I: a small, deep burn; cuts around a vein; a toe broken in a motorcycle accident; a knife stab in my hand; my broken arm and one I left for last. She: broken ribs, fingers, hand, and arm cuts. “There’s one more large one, but I can’t show you . . . not here anyway — exhibitionist or not.” She pointed at her groin. I didn’t miss the subtext or self-description.

“Ohh, I too have a large one; one that you’ve been staring at, yet not seeing since it IS hidden. I’ll show you mine if you promise to show me yours.” I dared her to prove herself. Surprisingly, she merely arched an eyebrow at that. Maybe I could press her un-shyness?

“I know what you saw. But the scar I mean is at the top of my inner leg. We ALL have legs, what’s the big deal if everyone sees mine even here?”

“I’ll second that. But you’re describing the top of your femoral artery. Rupturing that is near certain death. Let’s take a look; open up.” Before she could say no, I added, “I expect you are healed, but I want to see it. Unless you are too shy?” Challenge accepted; she lifted her chin defiantly and opened her legs. “Lift your butt a second so I can see it.”

Tina looked around then pushed up and off the stool and I slid her dress up nearly a foot until her scar was exposed in the dim yet focused lights. I put my hands on both knees and gently opened them wider. She accepted my dare. When I pushed her lovely, toned leg over the side of the stool, I saw a hint of an old, coarse scar.

When my fingers dug into the leg juncture, I rotated the flesh of her muscular thigh for a thorough view. “All I see now is beauty and perfection and this well healed mark that seems to be nearly an inch away from your femoral artery. You were very lucky. How did this happen? I’m also glad your delicate parts weren’t torn.”

“Jeez! Me too!” She breathed deeply but didn’t object. “How did we get HERE so soon? I don’t put out easily and don’t allow third base access so quickly.” She reached out and boldly clamped onto my leg. As she squeezed it and I scraped up and down her muscles, she added “Isn’t it odd how easily we ‘connected’ over scars? I’m so oddly comfortable with you and never do THIS on a first date – certainly not in public.”

“Yes. I feel like I’ve known you for ages.” We were suddenly aware of the hostess standing just two feet away, biting her lip and staring wide eyed at Tina squeezing and scraping my leg as I stroked hers. As she continued to silently watch our unabated mutual, public contact, she flushed. We watched her face redden for some time; neither of us wanted to back off our mutual, unspoken dare.

“Ahh, hhexcuse, ahh me. Your table is ready whenever you are.” She dropped her hand to her side and stepped back. She continued to watch us until we finally stopped rubbing each other and allowed her to guide us to a secluded, tall-backed booth. “Your server will be withhh you shhortly.” She gasped and left.

Tina raised and held her skirt as she slid past the dense, starched, white tablecloth and I slid next to her. The server, holding the table away from the bench, got an eyeful and a wink from naughty Tina. His eyes never left her leg as he reset the table and positioned the menus. After enunciating “My name is Mark and -I- will happily be your server tonight.” He left with a broad smile.

“Where were we?” Pushing her dress and legs open, I slowly ran my hand up her shapely thigh until it found her scar again. She latched onto my still firm leg and gently stroked it.

“You’ve seen mine; now I want to see yours. I mean your scar of course!” She grinned in her awkward, wry smile.

“Then you’re looking in the wrong place.” It was fun watching her disappointed pout. “You can remove your hand from my leg and look closely at my eyebrow. . . . No, the other one. Comb it down. The small scar you see is about 1/20th of the whole scar hidden behind my whole brow. It was split wide open, hung down and blocked my eye. I’ll share that long story with you another time.”

She closed her eyes, sighed, and leaned back. Johnny, umm Mark on the spot had a better view than I did. I called him over to move the table a foot away from us. “Mark is getting a better look at your -leg- than I am, so I guess we don’t need to tip him tonight! Honestly, your gorgeous legs and teasing took my eyes prisoners. I want a better look.”

“Mmm, you say the nicest things.” I saw our hostess peeping at us around Mark, her eyes locked on our contacts. She finally blushed again.

A busboy approached with a basket of warm bread sticks. His eyes flittered between her chest and legs. He backed away slowly with his mouth drooping.

“Ohhh, I-I feel dizzy; in a good way, in a way I don’t remember. . . . I-I’m not hungry — for food — any longer. Can we just head out to my place?”

We shared our first kiss in her driveway and ignored any neighbors who might see her rubbing my leg in the streetlamp-lit tarmac. I broke away from our passionate kiss, though maybe it was our lot that night to perform for others?

After a brief respite to open the front door, we twirled down her hall in a dizzying, passionate embrace and kiss. Lingually toying with my tonsils, she still managed to retain control. We tumbled ruttishly onto her dark leather sofa. Instead of crudely diving in, I explored her. When I nudged her hot spot, she twitched as if electrically shocked.

I couldn’t stop smiling in satisfaction, hers, and mine. I took that pause to gently examine the tattoo I noticed earlier. It looked familiar but was still mostly occluded. We lay there a few minutes gathering our breaths and kissed as we could. “That’s a hell of a first and blind date!” she whispered.

“My best ever blind date. For now, I need water! Who was it who said, ‘this is a thirsty business?’ A gracious and eloquent British king I think.” Smiling, I watched her muscular rear sway toward the still open front door and followed her. On the way to the fridge, I noticed a family photo. Shocked, I asked, “Is that Philomena Croce in front? How . . . how do you have her photo? Are YOU related to her?”

Tina was closing the door when I asked about the photo. “How do YOU know who she is? Are you . . . ?” We looked up and down each other in awe. After minutes of tracing family histories, we determined that we were both related, distantly, to old Philo.

On a hunch, I knelt before her and took a closer look at her tat. She confirmed it was not a tat, but a deep blue birthmark. I stood and said, “Check this out. I have the same ‘sea horse’ birthmark in the same place! Is this going to be a problem?”

She kissed my mark. I guess being fourth cousins didn’t matter. “I’m on the pill and don’t plan to have kids, so we’re OK.”

We drank a bottle of water each and toasted our matchmakers before resuming a less feverish, yet still intense and loving evening — past sunrise.

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