His Former Mistress

I’m certain every woman has a story about an “interesting” date or experience with a man.  Here’s one of mine that I thought would be fun to share. I’d love to know your story.


His Former Mistress


Virginia A. Simpson


He approached me as I waited for the service department to bring me my car. I don’t remember his name. It happened long ago. I was 30, which also was a long time ago. He wasn’t classically handsome. He was sophisticated, blond, and I assumed in his late 40s. Having recently ended a relationship with a much older man, late 40s didn’t seem too old.

He spoke with an accent. He wore a light suit. He was impeccable, the ideal image of an upper class European gentleman.

He invited me to join him for lunch the next day at Jimmy’s. More interested in seeing Jimmy’s, the hottest new Century City restaurant, I agreed.

Jimmy’s was elegant. We sat at a table for two in the middle of the restaurant. I learned a valuable lesson. Never order cracked crab on a first date or when you’re wearing a silk blouse.  Impossible to eat with finesse and, as was typical for me and silk, impossible not to stain.

The gentleman was brilliant; the conversation stimulating. I had never been mentally challenged to this degree and found him both invigorating and intriguing. Our conversation was mental volleyball. I liked stretching to stay alert and keep those intellectual muscles flexible and strong.

We agreed to go out the following week on a Tuesday evening. I gave him my phone number.

About an hour before we were scheduled to meet, my phone rang. It wasn’t him but an officious sounding assistant. I was in the kitchen tethered to the black cord (this was long before cordless or cell phones), my movement restricted to pacing back and forth between the refrigerator and sink like a caged panther. I ignored the twist and turn warning of my stomach trying to tell me to cancel the date. I disregarded the off-putting nature of the call with the demands and attitude­—the arrogance behind the words—and agreed to be ready at the allotted time.

He took me to The Bistro Gardens, a charming restaurant in Beverly Hills, another place I’d always wanted to go. We sat next to each other at a small table for two, which allowed us an unobstructed view of the dimly lit dining room.

The first red flag arrived soon after we ordered our drinks. “How old do you think I am?”

I shifted in my seat. “Forty-seven?”

“I’m in my sixties.”

Oh, geez, not another man 30 plus years older than me. Ever polite, I responded, “No, you can’t be that old.”

He reached into his interior suit pocket, pulled out his driver’s license, and put it in my hand. Sixty-three!

“What’s your secret? How do you stay looking so young?” Who doesn’t want the answer to the Fountain of Youth?

He said something about being Swedish and getting shots of sheep urine or something equally disgusting when he went back to his country.

Before I could catch my breath, red flag number two. “When we were at Jimmy’s my friend saw you and said you looked just like Paula, my former mistress.”

My muscles tightened but I maintained control over my facial expression. He didn’t wait for my response.

“You know, Ver-geen-ya, you have a rough sophistication, which I’d like to help you smooth out. I can set you up in apartment and we’ll travel all over the world.”

I thanked him and declined the offer. Ever the good little girl and wanting more of the mental stimulation I’d experienced at lunch, I told him I wouldn’t mind if we were friends and saw each other on that basis.

I thought he agreed since we went ahead, ordered and ate dinner, had dessert, and then he drove me home.

Because of my naiveté and belief that it was the polite thing to do, I invited him in for coffee when we arrived at my front door.

While we were seated on my loveseat, the only piece of furniture in my living room, I reached over to my right to pick up Time magazine to share an interesting article I’d read. When I turned back, there he was. There he was! Penis pulled out, rubbing his shaft up and down.

In an unrecognizably high cartoon voice, I heard myself squeak, “Can you put that back?”

“Veer-geen-ya . . . look what you do to me,” he said each word timed to the movement of his hand.

“I didn’t . . . I don’t do anything!” I jumped off the couch. “You need to leave.”

He tucked everything back where it belonged and headed to the front door. Once he was the outside, he turned towards me. “Will you go out with me again?”

“I don’t know…I don’t know,” I stammered, focused only on getting him to leave.

“Well, make up your mind. It’s now or never.”

I found my voice. “It’s never,” and with those words, I slammed the door.

It wasn’t until I called my girlfriend and told her what had happened that I realized I had been in a dangerous situation and was lucky to have gotten out unscathed.

And that, my friends, is my most interesting date.

I don’t recall his name. His former mistress was Paula.

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