A Dating Danger
©2006 Michael Mort
I had known Vikki only a few weeks, gone on maybe three dates with her. We’d hung out at pretty casual places, you know, for a beer or a burger and a movie. We laughed a lot and she definitely looked good in jeans and a sweater. Then suddenly it seemed that spring was in full bloom and I guess I lost my head or something, because I asked her to go dancing. Dancing! Men just don’t do that! I had simply brought up the idea in an offhand way, and she had pounced on it with such enthusiasm that I felt trapped into setting a date. I was kicking myself for days, wondering how I might wiggle out of it, thinking of a way to suggest an alternative activity even as I drove over to her place. I was still shaking my head at myself when she opened the door.
WOW!
Instead of those jeans and some bulky sweater, she had on a really short black leather skirt and a white halter top with plunging neckline. Her top came down to a spot just above her belly button, which showed off a sparkling little navel ring I didn’t even know she had. Her black hair flowed down over her bare shoulders in long curls, and dangling earrings sparkled through. Black stockings clung to the longest, slenderest legs I think I’d ever seen, and below that she wore these shiny, calf-length, high heeled boots. I was literally blown away. Now this was going to be a date! For a moment I wondered why I hadn’t asked her out dancing sooner.
She beamed at me. “So where are we going?”
My mouth dropped open. “Uh….” I realized that I had spent so much time thinking of ways to get out of this dancing thing that I hadn’t thought about exactly where we would go if it came to that. “Downtown!” I was stalling.
“Cool! Let me grab my jacket.” She disappeared for a few seconds and I winced slightly at the thought that she was going to cover up any of that amazing outfit. But she returned in a cropped little red leather jacket that totally enhanced her whole appearance, and we were off.
Actually I know a lot of clubs in DC, and I was gradually formulating a plan, one that would let me show off to as many people as possible the fact that somehow I was able to score a date with this gorgeous girl. “So, can you walk a little in that outfit?” I asked.
She smiled over at me from the passenger seat of my little sports car. “Anywhere you want.”
Her heavenly perfume was filling my head, but somehow I managed to let go of her innuendo and said, “Good. Then we’re going to do a little club hopping.”
A decade ago Dupont Circle was known as the place for gays. Now it’s home to a vast array of some of the hottest clubs in the city. The only problem is parking, particularly on a Friday night, when the late happy hour crowd grudgingly gives way to late night clubbers. For some reason, the parking garages still cater only to the business clientele, so they all close by midnight, or before. That means all of us revelers are forced to fight for the limited street parking. I hate looking for parking, and in another situation I would have just let my date off at our destination while I searched on my own. But there was no way I could let Vikki out of my sight for an instant this evening. Finally, after about fifteen minutes of driving every back street within ten blocks of Dupont Circle, I found a tight squeeze between a pickup truck and a BMW on a tiny side street off 23rd Street, not far from the densely forested Rock Creek Park. It took maybe five minutes to walk back to the glittering lights of Connecticut Avenue. It was a little after 10:30.
Vikki and I were the hit at three clubs that night. We started at MCCXXIII, located at 1223 Connecticut, a cavernous lounge with a hip Euro-crowd. But I didn’t like the music so much—too much hip hop—so we walked essentially across the street to FIVE, which has, among other things, a rooftop bar. But I had always known we’d end up at Cloud, a few blocks away, right on Dupont Circle. That place is a NY wanna-be, with lounging beds spread around the large semi-circular bar, and white linens draped everywhere. But my favorite attraction is the lights, which slowly change colors from red to green to yellow to cobalt, embedded in the bar and in the drapes. It’s totally chic, totally sensual. At each of these places I could tell the men were totally envious of me and the women were totally jealous of Vikki’s, shall we say, “attributes.” We had the best time.
By 2:00 a.m. we were pretty spent from dancing and drinking, and I have to say, pretty warm. I was sweating and Vikki was “glowing.” When we stepped out into the night air, it felt warmer and damper than I had expected, as if early summer had overtaken late spring. It was then that I realized I had left us quite a little hike back to the car. Vikki draped her jacket over her arm, and I put my arm around her slender little waist as we walked. Her boots clomped on the pavement and I could feel her little butt wiggling beneath my hand. We played with our walking, me putting my right foot out ahead of her left, then she swinging that foot around mine and ahead of me, then my turn again, my hip bumping hers, then her hip bumping mine. We laughed and she hugged me tighter. I was in heaven, every guy’s dream of the perfect date.
We turned off the well-lit Connecticut Avenue and within one block it was a black night. No streetlights, lots of overhanging trees that blocked out the stars and moon. The homes were all dark, the residents long ago giving up the day for sleep. The sidewalk buckled here and there from tree roots that had heaved up the concrete, so we had to watch our step to avoid stumbling.
We were concentrating like that when suddenly I looked up from our feet and saw a group of three guys coming in our direction along the sidewalk. I looked over my shoulder—force of habit, I was making sure there was no traffic, a useless thought at 2 a.m., which made me feel stupid—then I tugged gently on Vikki’s waist to guide her to the other side of the street. We had to duck under the branches of a large oak and slide between two cars parked tightly at the curb. But when we emerged in the middle of the narrow street we were immediately confronted by the three guys who had obviously swerved off the sidewalk just to intercept us.
They were drunk.
You can imagine the zillions of things that flashed through my mind in a nanosecond. The worst one was rape, and it made me sick and enraged. I started thinking of options, but there seemed to be none.
I immediately judged them to be in their mid to late twenties, and they all three looked like ex-cons. One of the guys stepped out in front of the other two. His face was street-worn thin and ugly, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal rather menacing looking, sinewy forearms, one of which bore a tattoo. He smiled at me, not five feet from my face. “Dude. You got a few bucks we can…borrow?”
The two guys in the background snickered. Thin Guy glanced over his shoulder at them and chuckled. Then he slowly turned to face us again and settled a long stare on Vikki with that look of a guy enjoying the lick of an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. I felt Vikki shift her weight and she hugged me tighter.
My heart was racing and I felt my palm sweating on Vikki’s back. I was desperately trying to improvise. The good news was that I saw no weapons. I was taller than Skinny Dude, so I stood up straight, as big as I could, and said, “Look dude, I have maybe two hundred in my wallet. We’re going to back up a little here and I’m going to set it down in the street. Then you and your…” I glanced over his shoulder, “…business associates, can pick up the dough while we walk back to Connecticut Ave., and we’ll all be happy and no one will have to get hurt. Okay?”
Skinny Guy cocked his head, staggered slightly, then looked over his shoulder again. His buddies both shrugged. He turned back to me and shrugged himself, as if translating the message for me. It chilled me, but I took it as acquiescence to my suggestion.
I started to step backward, still holding tightly to Vikki’s bare waist, while I reached my other hand into my hip pocket for my wallet.
But something was wrong. Vikki didn’t step back with me. “Honey…” I said sternly.
She held her ground. I had to step forward to stay with her. The smile on Thin Dude’s face turned to a question mark.
“Don’t do it.” I heard her say the words. I even counted them. Three. But I had to play them back in my mind in order to capture the meaning. Time seemed to stop. I felt a slight breeze blow up the street from behind me, and though is was warm and humid, it chilled my sweaty body.
“Huh?” The syllable came simultaneously from my mouth and from Thin Dude’s. I think we two disparate men would have laughed at the coincidence if it were not prompted by such a mystifying expression on Vikki’s face.
“Don’t give this piece of shit a dime.” She looked possessed. What the hell was she—?
“Why you whore!” Thin Dude lifted his hands to neck height and moved at Vikki. I shot my arm in front of her, tried to move myself between my gorgeous, stupid date and this crazed urchin. But I was too late.
I felt Vikki lean hard against my shoulder and saw a black flash fly up from the ground. Her shiny boot crushed the guy’s groin. He sputtered and doubled over. Then, pushing me aside, Vikki hopped onto that foot, sprung off the ground, and brought her other knee up into the guy’s face. I couldn’t help noticing the silhouette of her gorgeous leg as her short leather skirt rode up her thigh. I heard the crunch of a broken nose or cheek. The dude’s head flipped up and his whole body literally flew backward, landing splat on his back on the pebbly pavement, blood gushing from his face.
I swear I saw fire shoot from Vikki’s eyes as she lunged at the second guy, on the right. She pointed at him with the closed fingers of her left hand, then threw a punch at his chest with a right hand that came blindingly fast all the way from her heels. The crack sounded like a dozen broken ribs, and Dude Number Two fell backward clutching his chest, writhing on the street, gasping for air.
She turned to Dude Number Three. He stepped back, wide-eyed, and in a second the only evidence of him was the sound of his feet pattering the pavement in the distance.
I gulped. I replayed the incident in my mind. I blinked and looked at Vikki. She was dabbing at a blood stain on her black stocking with the cloth lining of her leather jacket. The whole scene was surreal.
I stepped over to Thin Dude. He was motionless. I said in a loud voice, “And let that be a lesson to you.”
Vikki said, “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go.”
I turned to her, my breathing labored in stark contrast to her nonchalant demeanor. I managed a “Yes, ma’am,” and we walked to the car.
I’ve been too afraid to call her since.