Before Anna, my wife Susan, a woman called Liz had a massively profound effect on my life. Even forty years later, I still think of her and search for her. It caused me to search for something that I would never get, that would never be there. It drove my addiction and me to do extreme sports, anything to get “the Liz effect.”
Liz was drop-dead gorgeous, an ex-model. Why ex? She didn't have the height. But a goddess, just the same.
I met her in a class I was taking at Carleton. Every week, when I would walk down to my seat, she’d look at me and give me this enormous smile. Frankly, I got tired of this goddess from heaven doing this—I did the only thing a blue-blooded young man could do. I asked her for a coffee, and she gave me those three magic words every guy wants to hear, “I’d like that.”
Sitting in Rooster's a bar in Carleton U, she looked at me with puppy dog eyes. “All I want to do is take you home, cook dinner and feed you.” What the fuck, I thought? Was I a wee dog taking me home for a bowl of kibble? The way she said it was cute, though.
I became enchanted, addicted to her. Why? She was 28 years old and divorced. She also studied cooking at the Cordon Bleu school in France, Europe. Exotic heady stuff for an eighteen-year-old. She was from money and was MIRC—Member of the Idle Rich Class. Her father was a famous heart surgeon. Her married name was Jensen, but she was going by her maiden name, Vickers. I was innocent; I had only slept with immature young women in a drunken state in someone's bedroom at someone's party or in the back of my 71 Chevy Chevelle.
It Was Friday afternoon; she had a cooking class that night and wanted to take me home for kibble instead of teaching rich, bored housewives to cook.
“I just want to cook you dinner,” she said with a stoned look in her eyes. “But I have a cooking class to teach.” I felt bummed out.
“Look, Woody, give me your number. I’ll try to rearrange it tonight and have you over.” Oh man, buyer's remorse; I ain’t getting any kibble!
Instead, she jumps out of her chair, says, “I’ll be back in a minute or two,” and slowly jogs it out of Rooster's. I think, damn, she got cold feet and is ditching me. C’est la vie and nurse my vodka and diet coke. In a few minutes, Liz comes back with a silly but cute grin on her face.
“That’s me. I've rescheduled tonight, but....” Panic strikes. I’m now concerned she’s changed her mind, as I heard women change their minds on a dime, and kibble is off. Woody, “I’m sorry,” brace yourself; here comes the knockback. "I never asked you. I’m so rude, but do you want to come over tonight? Do you have other plans?” She starts wringing her hands with worry. Now I figured she was over the top, drop-dead gorgeous. She was used to having her way with men, but I was not really a man, was I, only a teenager. “Please, Liz, use me, abuse me, have your wicked ways with me.”
She probably suffered from gorgeous chick syndrome—something I coined. Gorgeous chick syndrome states that the chick is so beautiful she’s lonely. Why? Unlike me, most guys lack the self-confidence to speak to an attractive woman. They also think the gorgeous chick has a lineup around the block of guys asking her out. They’re just too intimidated by their beauty, a bunch of pussies most guys are. Depending on how you look at it, Liz did permanent damaged to my “mind, body and soul.” Something else I coined, which I’ll explain after telling you about Liz. In short, even forty years later, I have never felt as good as I felt the time I spent with her.
On the way over to her place, I stopped at the LCBO and bought a ridiculously expensive bottle of French wine and a six-pack of Michelob beer. I thought the Michelob would show I was not a regular irresponsible beer-swizzling teen. Maybe she’d think I was classy.
She opens the door with that radiant smile, and her head tilted in a “Lady Diana” way. She holds out her hand as I stand there, stunned. She’s in bare feet, extremely tight Levis’s on, a sheer white, see-through shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a scarf tied around her slender neck. Her movement makes her breasts jiggle. I must have looked stupid standing there with my mouth open. Sensing I’m stunned, she opens and closes her right hand with her palm up, indicating I’m to give her mine. With her left, she gently closes my jaw. I quickly check for drool, and thank goodness, none. I hand her my right hand as she turns and leads me in. I watch every movement of her beautiful rear.
I think, How can she not know the sheer sexual power she yields? This woman knows she has it and knows how to use it. Guaranteed.
She was out of my league. Far from the gum chewing, too much makeup, always looking in the mirror, gossipy chicks I had hooked up with.
I am standing in her kitchen, and she holds her right hand, palm up with a tiny piece of hash. Liz, not knowing of my hash empire, and that I've brought a five-gram piece of black Lebanese with me.
She says, “Have you ever smoked hash, Woody?” I wanted Liz to think she was corrupting me to add to her sexual excitement, “Not really, once at a party.” I reply all John Boy Walton-like.
Well, Woody, hash makes me H. What the fuck, H? I reply, “it makes you happy?” quickly, I think, oh my God, you dumb ass, it makes her horny. Then, that naughty smile like she knows she’s leading a wee lamb to the slaughter. “No, you silly Billy, it makes me horny.” Why was it that when she said, “silly Billy,” I felt the blood rushing to my loins? Thank goodness for Levi's.
I praise the almighty for letting “happy” slip out of my mouth and for making me take the persona of an innocent teenager. Innocence adds to her erotic excitement that was to come after dinner.
Looking back, I see now that the innocence I played up in my looks and personality was the major attraction for Liz. She couldn’t wait to get her hooks into me and corrupt me with her sexual ways. Her sexual practices were indeed an eye-opener.
We ate our fillet steaks and Caesar salad. I took a few pink hearts (speed), brought my Xanax, just in case, and, best of all, I brought my Tylenol #3 for an awesome opiate buzz.
Looking at me with her sultry eyes she says, “I’ll be back in a second.” I think nothing of it. She then emerges from her bedroom barefoot, wearing the most sensual, erotic evening gown. Immediately, I wanted to be with Liz forever. I’d wait for her blonde hair to turn grey. I honestly didn’t know what to do and thought, “”Captain Kirk would know what to do. Damn, why had I not watched more Star Trek."
She’s standing there and slowly unties the belt on her rob. As she does this, it slips partly off her right shoulder, exposing some breast and nipple action as I catch glimpses of her heavenly blonde mound. Then goodness knows how she did it but reaches out for me with both hands as the top of her rob slips to her elbows, exposing her nudity. “Come to Liz Woody”
Those three words, “come to Liz,” defined our sexual relationship for the week. She was the boss, and you obeyed Liz. She yielded sexual power in an erotic, firm, but gentle way that she had.
It lasted only a week. Every night was demanding, intense sex perfected in the gentlest erotic way. We rewrote the Karma Sutra.
What happened to Liz? Find out in Woody’s next blog.
