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has the right amount of individual ity that you won’t blend in all together.”   Wow.   That sums up Bret to a T.   His cocksure swagger is utterly beguiling and I stutter and giggle like an awkward schoolgirl when attempting to order my coffee selection.   Before I can get the words out, he has ordered for me, standing dangerously close behind me to the point that I can feel his manhood nestle blithely between the cheeks of my backside.   Suddenly I wish I was wearing black-seamed stockings and seductive lacy underpinnings in lieu of the chas te cotton culottes I chose.   I am feeling warm already , even before the barista hands me my Mocha . Wordlessly, I follow him to the only available table.   I quickly realize why it is available:   nearly everybody that passes bumps into it, apologizes, and a brief conversation with each embarrassed bumper ensues. But, no matter. I noti ce nothing but him and his enticing scent.  
    Through the course of conversation I learn he trains guide dogs, is Ivy League, an avid skier, raises orchids and loves mountain biking.   My good ness, eclectic tastes, I think.  I am fascinated.   And what’s more, I am captivated.
    “Is that a yes or a no?” he asks, his mischievous eyes crinkling.
    “Excuse me?” I weakly reply, realizing I have no idea what we’d just been talking about, as I’d been lost in some sort of yummy, dreamy trance.
    “I said, do you like hockey?” he repeats.
    “I love hockey!” I rejoin, and it’s actually true.   Without a word , he is on his feet and next thing I know he’s escorting me out the door, his hand on the small of my back, guiding me and making me tingle.
    He opens the car door, delivers an unexpected smack to my bum and shoos me into the apple red Cadillac Escalade.   Nothing shy and retiring about this fellow.   I tingle again.
    Wi thin a short period of time we are at the Cow Palace in the city, tak ing in a game of the local, semi-pro ice hockey team, the Bulls.   Our seats are middle of the pack , but it isn’t long before Bret exclaims, “Come on!”  
    We pirate a pair of empty seats on a piece of prime real estate and have a blast watching the Zamboni do doughnuts, eating the junkiest of foods , and getting vocally up-in-arms over bad plays and cheap shots.   Our team – during the course of the game I decided I liked the festivities so much that I would incorporate season tickets into my schedule, so yes, I refer to them as ‘our team’ – ends up losing in a shootout.   But I am far from daunted , as I still have several games left this season and a full season to look forward to come Fall.
    Walking back to the car , we are both giddy and animated, jumping about, laughing, punching and pushing each other like teenagers who ‘like’ each other.   After milling aimlessly about the parking lot for so long that half the cars have gone, Bret casually asks, “Hey, where did we park?”
    We both stop short and realize we have managed to misplace the car.   Despite the relative emptiness of the lot, we see no sign of Bret’s oversized , red-delicious status symbol and really can’t recall in which direction to look.   We start the long trek around the arena, traversing some turf I am positive is nowhere near any area where humans might park.   As we walk, we touch and grab and laugh, pausing for the occasional urgent tonsil-tickling kiss session.   As we round the loading dock, Bret stops and leans against a crew truck, pulling me into him and off-balance as he begins a new assault of my lips and neck. Greedily , he starts groping me, quietly grunting and growling his intentions.   I get the feeling that he wants me and that he wants me right here and now.  
    Elise Phillips, that sweet new- agey healer type who I had on the show awhile back , said sometimes our chakras are in conflict.   I wonder what she meant by that. Huh.
    What the heck?   Who thinks of old work contacts when they’ re being manhandled