Woman on the Verge of Paradise: A Cockatiel, Trapeze Swing and Hot Wax

 

Sign reads: May you find Paradise to be all that its name implies.

Thanks for joining me on the verge of Paradise, as a new chapter of my life unfolds. This series can be found in the Paradise button to the left. While I alter some details to protect the guilty, I strive for accuracy in terms of content. This post follows from the last. I hope you enjoy.
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Shit.  I’m giving myself the “What the hell did I do him - er, that - for?” speech before anything’s even happened. Sinful thoughts run amok, enticing my hormones to get all riled up and stupid. Yet I was doing so well with this seemingly eternal celibacy thing. A strong, independent woman, my brain ruled the way and I was achieving my goals. Damn that weirdo for taking me off course.

As I’ve mentioned, the chemistry between us is explosive until Mr. Salsa* talks. The man’s lingo continues to leave me in a primal state of bewildered arousal. Last week while salsa dancing, he paused to wrap his arm around my waist and proudly introduce me to a friend:

“This is Robyn. She’s going to be my new wife.”

“I think not, but where’s the ring?”

“We’ll go to McDonald’s, for onion rings.” He humored himself, and only himself, with his (lack of) wit.

Still, my hormones and hunger led the way as I joined him for a bite to eat after class at, um, his place. The eatery was closed, likely per his plan. After finishing some carne asada, Mr. Salsa walked me into his garage to display a few things.

First, he introduced me to his cockatiel, then an Amazon parrot, and, finally, an Asian love bird.

“How you doing? How you doing?” They kept repeating, as he kissed their beaks. I felt at once intrigued and nauseous.

Then Mr. Salsa pointed out his fitness swing-trapeze apparatus.  He plopped on it, whirled upside down,  then in a backbend pose.

Hm, okay. I see you’re flexible.

The grand finale included a hot wax treatment. “Do you like hot wax?”

“Say what?” The question’s unfamiliar to me.

“Hot wax. Watch.” He dipped his left hand into a huge vat of hot wax. “It’s good for cuts. See…” He pulled his then zombie-like hand up and proceeded to strip a layer of hot wax off his fingers, one by one.

The door opened behind us and his roommate, clearly half-asleep, stuck his head in. We both gave him a casual "hello" and I took the cue. “I’m sure it’s good stuff. I should get going now.”

To his credit, Mr. Salsa did not dip any part of me into hot wax nor did he pull me onto his trapeze.  To my credit, I didn’t touch his cockatiel. Well, actually, I did. But just a little on the head. That was it, and he took me back to my car shortly thereafter. With a hug and a kiss on the cheek, I trekked home with my celibacy intact, my brain frazzled.

Since then, though, Mr. Salsa invited me over for a “stake” dinner. “I have the house to myself,” he added. We know what this means, right? Yeah, he planned to burn me at the stake with hot wax and nobody would witness this but his exotic birds. What good are they except to ask “How you doing?” like a fowl Joey Tribiana? So, astute as I am, I declined in favor of dinner again after class tonight.

Crap. I’ve gotta move. It’s time to get dressed.

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*I can’t figure out how to insert the tilde over the “n” in Senor. Thus I’m stuck with “Mr.” Salsa.