Long ago and far away I was single and in graduate school. The best thing about all this was I was in Philadelphia, which I loved, and that I had my father's credit cards, which I had a talent for using. The other best thing turned out to be when I met Paul. But this story is before I met Paul. And I'm sticking to that.
The sexiest man alive was in my grad school class. Half Lebanese, half French, maybe half Italian, too. I don't know. I think his family owned Fiat and Porsche. And maybe Italy. I have no idea. I think they owned everything. Whenever I saw him I was dazzled -- and addled. Everyone was. He exuded so much, um, whatever that I couldn't speak if he was walking down the hall with his entourage of other smitten, stricken students. Dark hair, tan skin, luminescent teeth. He walked like Elvis danced, only he made everyone think they were the only ones who could see it. He wore ridiculous looking clothes, only nothing looked ridiculous. And when he smiled (this was before teeth whiteners) students of both genders swooned.
He didn't know my name. He didn't need to know anyone's name. Even if he wasn't rumored to be from one of the world's richest families, he would have found all roads made smooth by his raw, unnerving sex appeal.
He was in one of my classes. The only class, in fact, where I got the syllabus wrong and turned in my term project one week too early. (I'm either early or late, never on time.) The professor handed it back to me and told me to bring the project back the following week. The sexiest man alive was in that class, and before I left the room I found him brushing up against me. Yes! And even though I was semi-conscious from his presence, I heard his richly accented voice saying, "Why don't you sign my name to your paper, too, and then I won't have to write one?" He smiled. I almost said yes. I wanted to say yes. If just one time he had spoken to me when he didn't need something I would have said yes. But he hadn't, so I put on my best Scarlet O'Hara and coyly smiled my way out of the room, as though he couldn't possibly have meant what he said.
Because it was absolutely audacious.
That night I went to dinner with my best friend at La Terrasse, one of my favorite restaurants. I don't know if it's still open but it was a great little French restaurant on what was essentially an enclosed deck, with tree trunks running up through the floors and through the roof. It was our great escape. The food, the atmosphere, everything was the opposite of graduate school.
The sexiest man alive was also there that night with a very sophisticated, very beautiful female international student. I told my best friend the story about his request for me to put his name on my paper. She laughed.
He kept flashing his smile at me whenever his date would look away to take a bite, and I flashed back, though mine was a much lower wattage (it was the best I could do). Then, when his date went to the bathroom, he swaggered over to our table and did what I assume is called "piercing me with his eyes" or "holding me with his gaze" or something. (I don't read those kinds of books so I don't know the terminology.) Anyway. He had my attention. He could always have my attention.
He said, "If you will sign my name to your paper I will take you to dinner." His smile almost forced a "yes" from my lips. "We will go anywhere you want," he added.
My mother would be proud of me. I told him no thank you.
He swaggered back to his table just as his date emerged from the bathroom. My friend burst out laughing and said, "He'd take you to dinner? You'd be the one to pay the check."
