Larry Gooding was the quintessential nerd, complete with milk bottle bottoms spectacles and plastic pocket protectors at thirty years of age he still lived with his mother.
Gooding worked with me in the mailroom of J.P. Morgan's a large New York advertising agency. He had shown me the ropes when I landed the job some three months earlier.
I hand landed the job with the help of a friend. I had been on a drinking binge and having sex with numerous partners and was trying to get my life back in shape. I had successfully gone three months without a drink or a cock in me.
Gooding was the last person I expected to hit on me. We were going about our work one afternoon when he asked if I would go to dinner with him.
I was surprised and asked if he wanted to go on a "date" with me. He said he would like to get to know me socially and I accused him of wanting to get into my pants.
He said he did want to have a child but he did want to get to know me. I said it would take more than a dinner to screw me and he asked what I would require. I informed him that nothing less than marriage would I allow for a man to impregnate me.
We arranged to have dinner Friday night.
The Toreador was an upscale steakhouse with waiter dressed in black tuxedos and crisp white linen tablecloths. The Maitre d' directed us to a table in front of the huge open fireplace.
Gooding had spared no effort in lowering my resistance.
We were seated and my escort ordered a bottle of fine Chardonnay. The wine arrived and our waiter filled our glasses. We toasted the evening and then Gooding popped the question.
"Will you marry me?"
I was flabbergasted.
"Excuse me?" I asked to make sure I heard him right.
"Will you marry me?" he repeated.
"But I don't know you. You don't know me. We have only just met!" I laughed.
"So we can date for a year and maybe break up or we can just go for it and get married now," he argued.
He seemed so sincere. "Can I think about it?"
He was very gentlemanly like the rest of the night and said goodnight with a peck on the cheek.
I got very little sleep that night pondering the strange happenings of the evening.
I answered the phone Sunday afternoon; it was Gooding.
"Well did you think about it?' he asked,
My mind flashed back to Friday night, "Yes," I said.
