In some ways I had a life that most men would kill to have. I had looks, money, respect from those that I worked with, and a gorgeous famous wife. Then came a major hiccup - but who hasn't had them so I won't bitch about it (at least not much anyway), I'll just tell it like it is.
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Giselle, my wife, was a professional tennis player when we met. We encountered each other for the first time at a charity fundraiser about twelve years ago when she was near her peak; I was twenty eight, she was twenty four. She was rated in the top ten in the world in tennis even though she had not won a singles tournament (the press called her Anna Kournikova II, which irritated the hell out of her). I thought that she was number one in the world in beauty, charm, wit, and athleticism. I bid $150,000 (including a jump bid from $100,000) for the main auction item at the charity event - lunch with her. That impressed her. So did my humble manner when we initially met, and my offer to let her off the hook and avoid a meal with me if it would interfere with her schedule. Fortunately she declined that offer and remarked that she was looking forward to our luncheon.
I didn't attend the charity auction by accident. I knew that lunch with her was one of the auction items, and since I give 20% of my gross income to charity each year (I believe that you get back in satisfaction and good karma more than you give) and I make lots of money as an entrepreneur (I sold my first company at the age of twenty six for the high eight figures), it was a foregone conclusion that I would be the highest bidder.
Giselle has almost a perfect body to be a world class tennis player. She is six feet tall, 145 pounds of muscle. She has ultimate fast twitch muscles, long arms, and her left arm (she's left-handed) is as powerful as 95% of men's. She also has muscular thighs and legs that are long even for a six foot woman. Her only drawback - her boobs are too big and can especially interfere with her backhand, but she somehow manages to overcome that obstacle.
Although not relevant to her tennis playing skills, Giselle also has a beautiful face with a "Celestial" nose, and long blond hair - in my opinion she's a better looking (and non-grunting) version of Maria Sharapova.
My luncheon with Giselle was in one of the best restaurants in Los Angeles, the very next day after the auction, since she would be leaving LA in a few days and not likely to return for quite some time. The luncheon was the most unique personal interaction experience of my life. In conversation I am typically to the point, and I am honest in the expressions of my opinions; I guess that's just a nice way of saying that I'm blunt. I quickly found out that she is too.
I arrived dressed in smart (and expensive) casual clothes while she had on a yellow sundress cut just above the knee, an amethyst necklace, a tennis bracelet, and three inch fashionable - although they looked comfortable - high heels the same color as her necklace. Since I'm six feet five inches tall she was only two inches shorter than I am.
The restaurant "required" a coat and tie, even for a lunch where they considered that you would be honored to pay $150 per person, and didn't want to admit us despite my reservation. I advised the maître d', who turned out to be a tennis buff, that he should be honored to have Giselle patronize his restaurant and certainly would not like the Style Section of the L A Times to report that she had been denied entry. I concluded my case with "Since I am accompanying this famous vision of loveliness in her beautiful yellow dress, and bright bold necklace and shoes, you can be sure that no one here will be looking at me."
He thought for a second, retorted "But of course you are right," smiled, and seated us at the prime table for two in a window alcove so that any passerby who cared to look could see that Giselle was dining in his establishment.
Giselle thought that the exchange with the maître d' was humorous. However, she was initially a little non-plussed when I told her "You can have your bodyguard and chauffer go back to your hotel; I am very capable of returning you to your hotel unharmed, I hate to see them waiting in the hot sun, and I certainly won't be paying for their lunches." Then she got a big smile on her face, pulled out her cellphone and sent a text to her bodyguard who was waiting outside. He nodded at her through the window, got into her limo, and left.
We touched on many subjects during our luncheon conversation, and actually got to eat too. Neither of us drank alcohol, but we both ordered the most expensive entree on the menu so the waiter was happy - as if he wasn't already just by getting good looks at her long sculptured legs. We found that we had much in common, but also vastly different views on some subjects.
I noticed that she seemed to almost perform a ritual when preparing to eat, that her water glass had to be positioned a certain way, and when I knocked over the salt shaker that she threw some salt over her shoulder.
"Why did you do that?" I asked.
"I'm very superstitious," she replied.
"You seem too intelligent to be superstitious," I responded with only a hint of a smile.
"You seem too closed-minded to appreciate other people's habits," she shot back, also only with a hint of a smile.
The repartee continued throughout our conversation. Perhaps my favorite part came right after I paid the check. "You look too young and baby-faced to have afforded this lunch or the donation you made to get it, let alone have credibility with high rollers in business," she snickered.
"Your boobs look too big for you to be a world class tennis player; I would think that they'd get in the way," I instantly responded.
"Well at least we know where your eyes were focusing during lunch," she tittered.
At that point I wasn't sure if she liked my personality or not - but I've never been shy so I plowed ahead.
"Have you ever been to Venice Beach?" I asked.
"No - never have," she replied.
"How would you like to go - it's less than ten miles from here, and I'll drop you off wherever you want after we take a stroll."
"Don't you have other things to do?" she inquired.
"Sure, but they're boring while being with you is supreme fun."
"I have other things to do too," she responded, now with a diabolical smile.
"I'll cancel if you will," I shot back.
She literally beamed, her smile even more brilliant that her outfit and the headlights on her chest. "Let's go!"
We both made cell phone calls before we got in my car.
"I thought that you'd drive a Ferrari," she giggled when she saw my car, a Prius, at the time probably the "greenest" car on the market.
"I take the environment over status whenever confronted with a choice. Maybe if you play your cards right I'll show you the solar cells on my house and my solar heater for my pool and hot tub," I grinned.
She laughed, entered my Prius when I opened the door for her, and then I gently closed her door behind her.
We left our shoes, and my socks, in the car before strolling on Venice Beach. It had the typical activity for a Thursday mid-afternoon, as bizarre as on the weekend but not nearly as crowded. She actually took my hand as we walked along. We had an exceedingly pleasant twenty minute stroll.
As we started back we were approached by a classic looking blond surfer dude and his blond surfer girlfriend who was almost as big as Giselle and in a string bikini. The dude was holding a volleyball, the girl a towel.
"Yo, dude and dudette," the girlfriend said, "Our friends left us and we need one more game of beach volleyball to conclude our bet; we're tied one game apiece. Do us a solid and join us, will you; surfers against gurfers."
Giselle had a puzzled look on her face. "Gurfers are female surfers," I chuckled as I tapped Giselle on the arm and looked her in the eyes. She smiled broadly. I then continued, staring intently into Giselle's doe eyes, "My key man insurance policy with my company probably forbids this, but I'm game. How about you?"
"My coach and sponsors definitely forbid this," she replied.
