Just a Shadow
I wanted to call Janine, the girl I modeled clothes for Saturday while in Century City, but then I realized I threw away her number. No matter. I'll get my chance. She'll likely be around on a future trip to the Century City Shopping Center. Maybe she will have broken up with her boyfriend by then and my motives won't seem so lecherous.
I was about to declare my dance card full for the week, but while online that evening the little ping noise from my Yahoo! messenger went off. It was Samantha Jordan, a Sig Alpha I knew in college. She was always little miss matchmaker, and still is even now. In college it was a challenge to see how many of her less-than-good-looking friends she could set you up with. I recognized what was going on immediately, and put her to the test, trying to match me as best as she could. That resulted in a three date fling with JoAnne, a sorority sister of Samantha's who was all legs, no boobs. She was cute though. Even though it only lasted three dates, the sex lasted another month past that. I really can't complain about JoAnne.
I brought up the Yahoo! messenger box, imagining what person Samantha would try to push on me today. The thing that bothered me about her was that she tried to continually fix you up with women you've previously said no to. It was like Sam was convinced that just because you didn't want a person now didn't mean you wouldn't want that same person a month from now. Either that or her memory really stunk.
sammyjo: Howya been, sweets?
TheR: Do I know you?
sammyjo: Funny Reed, am I gonna see you down on pier Tuesday night?
TheR: Mabye. I have a thing but if I get out early then I’ll be there with bells and whistles on.
sammyjo: Cool. Did you hear what happened at Mohat’s Halloween party?
TheR: No, did something go down?
sammyjo: You didn't hear?
TheR: No, I just said I didn't.
sammyjo: It was so weird! Kristen and Cole got into a fight, a big raging one, right in the middle of the party. Full on yelling and screaming.
TheR: That's big?
sammyjo: Well, what was big was when Cole slapped her. He slapped her!! Right in front of everybody!
TheR: A regular Clark Gable, that Cole.
sammyjo: I know!! You should have seen it. Speaking of which, why weren't you there?
TheR: I was at Cross's house. Over in RPV. Besides, I couldn't show up at Mo's.
sammyjo: Why not?
TheR: Because Virginia is still Mo’s roomie. I was persona non grata that night.
sammyjo: Is that a costume?
TheR: Are you fucking serious?
sammyjo: What?
TheR: I couldn’t go if Virginia was there.
sammyjo: So is that stuff true, that you two screwed and then you never talked to her after that?
TheR: That’s not entirely true. We screwed twice. Afterward she was saying that she didn’t wanna go anywhere with it, so vamoose. And I vamoosed. Then she got all pissy. Don’t know about what. I played by her rules.
sammyjo: Wow, so you and Virginia really did the deed!
TheR: Yep, I did a girl named after a state. And not even one of the good states. So did you have a good time at Mohat's?
sammyjo: Yeah, well you know me, I'm always making sure everybody else is taken care of and having a good time.
TheR: No date?
sammyjo: Nope, just Erin and me. (Erin is her roommate.)
TheR: Oh well, there will be other chances.
sammyjo: Speaking of which, if you come tomorrow night there's somebody I want to introduce to you.
Normally, I would have cut Samantha off and read her the riot act. I do not need her help to meet women. I've been doing fine in this regard for some time. But in keeping with my pledge to keep my calendar filled with potential bedmates, I reconsidered.
TheR: Sure, if I can make it. What's the broad's name?
sammyjo: Broad?
TheR: Broad, dame, chick, hottie, blah blah blah
sammyjo: Jerk. Her name is Katie.
TheR: Nice name. I've dated a Cathy - actually a few Cathys - but not a Katie. First time for everything.
sammyjo: Now listen, I don’t want her being corrupted.
TheR: Did she go to UCSB?
sammyjo: Sig Alph '03!
TheR: You mean she's younger than me? I dunno, you know I prefer them older...
sammyjo: Jeez, at least meet her first before you write her off. Just be nice.
TheR: Please. I'm a regular Cary fucking Grant. Besides, she went to UCSB, she’s already corrupted.
sammyjo: I'm serious. She's really a great girl.
TheR: Then I'll find that out for myself tomorrow night.
sammyjo: Aren’t you seeing somebody?
TheR: Was. Not any more. I’m currently committed to no one.
sammyjo: Perfect! You'll really like her. She's your type.
TheR: Really? Big boobs, long legs and a sex drive to put Catherine the Great to shame? I'm in!
sammyjo: No no, she's better than that. Well, not in that way. She's sweet.
TheR: Doubtful.
sammjo: Whatever. I gotta jet.
TheR: Fine, see ya at Pier.
I didn't want to mention anything about seeing Shannon Tuesday night. Who knows, it might go dreadfully wrong and that 7pm coffee date could be dead and buried by 8. Or, I could be showing up to Pier by 9 with a new woman on my arm, somebody the crowd hasn't met before. THAT would get those hens clucking for sure.
____________________________________________________________________
"Do you ever picture God operating a great, majestic assembly line where he turns out humans, and every so often he hits the abort button and that one ends up gay? Ooh, or maybe the gays have their own assembly line, except it's operated by one of the lesser angels, which is why the gays are in smaller numbers than the rest of mankind."
We're on a park bench just across the street from work. It's lunch, maybe a little before that, about 11:30. I'm sitting there with Doug, a colleague who's effortlessly downing a hot dog bought from the sidewalk cart vendor 100 feet away. The dog is piled high with mustard, onions, and kraut, all of which is being transferred to Doug's face, leaving him with the look of a condiment clown or an infant who isn't going quietly in his graduation from Gerber to solid food. Doug is discussing his favorite topic - gays, and their all-encompassing gayness - and why not, he's as queer as a three dollar bill. He's so flamboyant about his homosexuality you almost think it's an act. Actually his mother thinks he's just very energetic, and to this date he's never come out of the closet to her. With everybody else he doesn't need to. His impeccable wardrobe, limp wrists, and softly-lisped "esses" are a code for the rest of the world, telling anybody passing by what the rest of us already know.
"So do you think the man upstairs is like that?" Doug again asks.
"I dunno. I don't think he's got us labeled like that. You shouldn't be so interested in labels. People are how they are, that's all."
"Not interested in labels, says the guy with the designer's eye for wardrobe?" Doug exclaims. "What is that jacket? Savanne? DK?"
I grab the lapel and look at it. It's a tan-brownish, not the cheesy Century 21 blazer color, a little deeper. And it looks nothing of the cookie-cutter sort those real estate salespeople dawn before showing a house.
"This," I begin, "is Hugo Boss. This isn't some ruffian's coat. This is the mark of somebody who would give a rat's ass about how they look."
"Touchy, touchy," Doug says. "Are you certain you're not the one who's gay?"
"Funny, always with the gay jokes. You know, you've got all kinds of mustard and kraut around your mouth. You look like you've just finished giving Oscar Meyer a blowjob," I smirk.
"Genius! Such a good line. I'll remember that one!" exclaims Doug. He looks at his watch, a black-faced Omega Seamaster, one of the better watches you can decorate your wrist with, no matter how limp the wrist may be. His Seamaster is a little different from the ones you'd normally see, as it has a wide, black leather band and titanium clasp. Some people say he's just ruining a classy tradition by doing that to a watch, but I like it. I think it's a way of taking a classy tradition, tweaking it, and making it your own. The sun is bouncing off the face glass and shining like a sundial right in my eyes.
"Goddamn, quit it, would you," I say as I hold my hand up in front of my face to block the light.
"Sorry, didn't know I was giving you the Streisand eyelight," Doug says. Stereotypes about gay men and their fashion sense aside, Doug is dressed pretty well: A battleship gray suit, probably Brooks Brothers, with small, almost imperceptible black lines in a criss-cross pattern throughout the single-breasted coat; trousers of the same color with pleats and cuffs, and a nice, classic looking break across his black leather Ermenegildo Zegna pointed-toe shoes. The line from the shoulders across the top of the back and down the jacket arms look every bit like a professional's work, and likely is, as I once used Doug's tailor to alter a De La Renta suit I have and was quite pleased with the results.
"I've got 11:40," Doug says, eyes still locked on his watch like he's Dick Tracy waiting for silence to fire his communique to headquarters back into his two-way. "You wanna go back?"
"I've got some free time. I think I'm gonna head across the way and have a drink or two, maybe a bite once I've got an appetite. Wanna come?"
"A little early to drink, don't you think?" asks Doug.
"I said I'd get something to eat...possibly," I reply.
"Well, I do have a bunch of stuff to do," Doug begins, trailing off, "but it's nothing that can't wait another day. I'm in."
Doug cleans up his mess and we make our way across the street towards one of the local dives. The great thing about L.A is that there are an endless supply of restaurants and delis at which to eat. True, L.A doesn't stay open round-the-clock like New York or Vegas, but in the middle of the day the City of Angels can't be beat. The restaurant Doug and I are heading for is conveniently around the corner from the office and every so often it's a great retreat from the work week hustle and bustle . It's hidden from view and unless you're really looking for it you won't see it, which is great because it's generally quiet and very private. And lunchtime Monday is a great time to head over there; Mondays are usually power lunch days in my industry, so office co-workers and rivals alike are at all the high-profile places, leaving me alone in peace.
We walk in and locate seats at the corner of the bar in the lounge. Today the joint is very low-key, not many people, and the lights are turned down lower than usual. I look down the bar, and about 6 or so seats away is this 40s-aged woman with a black power suit stirring her drink. She casually looks over as we sit down. At first I don't give her the once-over, but I am now. Brown shoulder-length hair, conventional white blouse showing off a little cleavage, tan skin, sheer stockings, and nice legs. She notices the once-over and offers a smile in return. Good smile. As she reaches for her drink I notice she's not wearing a wedding ring. This woman is definitely MILFish in my opinion, and I'm down with that. I think it's a phase I've been drifting in and out of over the past six months. I wonder if I should mention that to her.
Doug gets the the bartender's attention and orders our drinks. The bartender disappears into the back for more liquor. I Guess there's no barback to help the guy out in the middle of the day. So I look over at MILFy again, who looking at me, and say, "It's really dead in here. I guess they all cleared out when they heard I was coming."
She forces a slight giggle. "I've never come to this place before and only did so on the recommendation of one of my friends. Maybe I came at the wrong time?" she asks.
"Don't hold it against your friend," I tell her, "it's normally a great little joint. And your timing is great as far as I'm concerned." She gives me a slight wink, the kind where she's trying to be cute but doesn't want you to put too much stock in it because after all it's just a cheesy wink.
Our drinks come and we keep talking for a few minutes, harmless little ice-breaking stuff. After long enough I decide being so many chairs away from this woman is ridiculous. I begin to get up in the hope of moving towards her when I hear Doug from behind me: "Oh, me? No, I don't exist. I'm not here or anything." When I pause in my movement Doug gives me the passive-agressive shit: "No, go, don't let me stop you, I'll just hold the bar up down here." I turn and flip him off before heading to the other end of the bar with my drink firmly in hand.
What I've figured out about older women - besides the tawdry morsels Cosmo drops in its rag like "older women are more assertive because they know what they want and they know time is short," or "people are conditioned for August-December relationships because men peak sexually at 18 while women don't peak until 34," - is that I'm attracted to their focus on the self. Younger women are always trying to figure you out, do only the things that please you, and so on. That might sound appealing, but after weeks and weeks of hearing "whatever it is that you want to do" as a response to your suggestions, it's a drag. Older women don't give a fuck about that stuff. They know what they want to do. If guys happen to want the same thing, great. If not, fuck off. They'll find another. That kind of thinking is hot.
A side result of trying to tackle the older members of the fairer sex in a different way is that I act differently around them. I try to be more urbane. A different walk. Not so quick to reply. Deliberation before action. Takes all spontineity out, true, but I end up being more the guy they're looking for. At least I think so. On more than one occasion I've looked like a complete idiot trying to pull it off.
I slowly move to the end of the bar where she's at, strolling with a gait that's somewhere between swagger and asshole. I sit down in the stool next to her. "No use in me sitting way down there if we're going to continue talking," I say, and she nods in agreement.
She tells me her name is Tanya. Ooh, Tanya. I once had a woman named Tanya. Good times. That Tanya was nowhere near the age this Tanya is. Tanya sounds like such a seductive name. You don't hear about soccer moms named Tanya. Tanya is a model's name. Tanya is a playmate's name, somebody you expect to encounter on the French Riviera clad in a tight bikini and opaque wrap. Tanyas take up residences on million dollar yachts. They don't iron clothes and mircowave meals. They're monsters in the sack. Screamers, not moaners.
We're talking about this and that, and throwing back the booze. She's maybe one or two drinks ahead of me, and I'm not even thinking about ordering food. She's getting more relaxed, more familiar, doing little things like running her hands through her hair, touching my arm, brushing my thigh. That kind of flirty, I'm interested stuff. Needless to say I like where this is going. She seems very easy going and unassuming, which is a rare combination in SoCal women. I look back in Doug's direction and notice he's talking up the bartender. I've always had the feeling the bartender was gay. Maybe there's a date in store them.
Time's flown. It's an hour later and she's slightly loaded, which is cool and all, but she mentioned earlier that she has a presentation at 4, and I don't know if she'll be in top form if we keep up like this.
"You know I'm at least 10 years older than you, don't you?" says Tanya.
"That kind of stuff never bothered me," I reply. I'm looking at her legs, which are tightly crossed and the one on top is slightly swinging from below the knee without any noticeable rhythm. She catches me looking and a sly smile forms. "Uh oh, I think somebody's thinking nasty thoughts," I say.
That's when she gets bold. She's been looking down at my crotch every so often, and though I'm flattered that this older broad is showing that kind of interest, I don't want to catch her looking lest she stop. It's always pounded into the male psyche that we're such visual creatures, but given the chance, women will do more than their fare shair of gawking. Tanya was gawking a lot. Then in one quick movement, she slides out from the barstool and cups my crotch with her right hand, half-hidden by the bar overhang. In mid-grab she smiles and says "Is that a banana in your pants or do you really like being around me?" I'm beside myself. I mean, I always want a woman to do something bold like that but c'mon, that kind of thing never happens in real life. As she does this I realize what she's grabbing at is actually my keys and car alarm remote, which have doubled up on themselves and made the bulge in my pants look like a porn star's. The keys undo themselves and settle back into my pocket, which makes the bulge flatten. You should have seen the look of disappointment on Tanya's face when that happened. I mean, I know every woman is looking for a human jackhammer to satisfy her needs, but despite her mistaking my keys for action in the side pocket, I've got talent in the satisfaction department. I could give a her a go. Not to mention, she's very MILFy, so I'd be that much more into it.
No hope. Tanya's quickly losing interest, partially out of embarrassment and partly because she's just been shockingly pulled from her buzz as a result. Though I press her for the digits and a "maybe we can get together some time," she's giving me the blow-off. She excuses herself on the premise that she needs to get ready for her presentation. She pays her bill, gives me a peck on the cheek, and leaves. Wow, from ultra-hot to cold in like 3 minutes! Dammit! There goes the chances of entirely filling my card for this week. I really could have given her a good plowing. Doug and the bartender are chuckling at the other end of the bar. Doug shakes his head, then does this courtsy-bow thing and claps.
"Saw that, did you?" I ask.
Doug goes back to shaking his head. "Only you buddy, only you. Sometimes you amaze even me."
We pay our bill and head back for the office. I feel a little buzzed, even more so as we start the walk back. I should have ordered some food. I recap the events in my head, thinking about what got into Tanya. Some women want to be reminded they still have it, so they pull some unsuspecting guy aside as the dupe and work their charms, seeing if the man will fall victim to their tricks. I think today I was the dupe. She'll probably be out with her girlfriends later this week and tell the tale of the younger guy who she flirted shamelessly with, bought drinks for, made him feel hot and bothered, and then darted for the door after a quick check of his wedding tackle. I'm sure their laughs will rise high above the rest in whatever joint they find themselves in, as Tanya jokes about her afternoon with me, the MILF entertainer.
"I've figured it out," says Doug half-way back to the office. "Maybe she's gay. Maybe she wanted one last shot at convincing herself she could be straight and sought out the most verile, heterosexual guy she could find at the time."
"Jesus, give it a rest."
"What? I'm just saying. You know the phrase, 'one in four, maybe more.'"
I rub my temple with my index finger. "Shut up Doug, you...fag."
___________________________________________________________________
Monday night I want to chill so I call up Michelle because I know she won't have anything better to do. Just as I thought, she doesn't, so she'll be on her way over once she stops to pick up our traditional hanging outmeal - beer and microwave popcorn. I tidy the pad up a little and feed Sophia. The dog hasn't been eating much of her food in the last 24 hours, so each subsequent meal is really just a topping off of the previous one. Whenever she looks at me she seems sad, maybe a little bent out of shape over my dismissal of Monica. Those must have been some good fucking pancakes, Sophia.
"Ugly dog!" I yell out. Nothing. No rustling of paws, no clink clink of her tags, no sound. I walk down the hall and poke my head into the bedroom. Dog's not there. I go into the bathroom and look there, half expecting to see her head in the toilet bowl lapping at water, since I've been lax in refilling her water dish in the kitchen. Not here either. I double back and check the living room and out on the balcony. No dog. I scratch my head. This dog isn't Houdini. I don't know where she could of gone unless she's gotten out.
I jog to the door and see it's open. I make my way out and listen for the barks. The thing about a Sharpei is that once they've made their jailbreak, there's only one or two things they'll do: Run for hills, or head straight for the one thing they want to kill most. In my dog's case, option two is the one Sophia has chosen, as she wants nothing more than to mix it up with the neighbor's dog four doors down. Baker's the guy's name, and he and his labrador go walking up and down the street twice a day, every day, and my dog sees them pass by the window every time. For Sophia that won't do. She doesn't get walked that often, and for that somebody must pay. It won't be me, as logical as it sounds, because of the tight-knit nature of the Sharpei breed and who they love and protect. It has to be somebody outside of that circle, and that somebody is Baker and his labrador Sparky.
I begin to hear Sophia barking as I get closer and closer to Baker's yard. Sure enough, when I'm close enough to see Sophia, I find her at the base of Baker's fence, trying as hard as she can to squeeze herself through the 2 inch gap between the wooden fence and the ground. She's barking a bark of desperation, part howl, part yipe, part growl, as if her whole life has been leading up to this one moment, this one kill, and now that she has her chance somebody's gone and put an impenetrable fence between Sophia and her mark.
"Sophia! No!" I yell as I get close enough to grab her collar. She yelps in frustration and defiance, and quickly tries to duck my grab. No luck, as I grab her hard though her 50-pound frame puts up as much resistance as it can. "Knock it off," I continue, "leave that dog alone." I hear no noise from the other side, but that's to be expected. Labradors are a docile breed, not hyper or aggressive by any stretch. One time while watching the Westminister Dog Show on TV one of their experts mentioned that labs are well-liked because they are easy to train and are not defiant. He called them the "Rainman" of the dog breed. I remember laughing at that.
I continue to bring Sophia under control when I hear the front light click on above Baker's door, then the sound of a squeaky hinge as the door opens. Great. Now I've gotta apologize for my stupid dog and all the noise she's making. But Baker doesn't come out. Instead it's a woman. A hot woman. A tall, hot woman with blond hair, short shorts, and orangy-tan colored legs. She's wearing an Abercrombie & Fitch Chinese laundry tee shirt, no shoes, and very little make up. She's one of those natural beauties who needs little to no makeup because, let's face it, they're gorgeous without it. She looks like Kate Bosworth. She comes outside and cautiously moves in my direction.
"Sorry," I begin, "I live a few doors down and my dog got out," I pause and point in the direction of my place, "and made a bee line for your place. Seems she doesn't like the idea of a dog getting to go on more walks than her." I wait for her to reply, but she doesn't talk. She's motionless, looking at me suspiciously like she's wishing she had brought out the pepper spray with her.
"Isn't this Baker's place?" I ask. "I usually see him walking the labrador on the weekends."
She begins to let her guard down. Her shoulders relax a little, and she starts to show some sign of registering what I've just said on her face. This woman is beautiful. Even with the 80s-style bangs. The decade is making a comeback, after all.
"Yeah, this is Dave's place. Well, I live here too, but it's his place," she responds.
"You live here? I generally only see Ba - Dave around. I'm Reed."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Rebecca, Dave's sister. I've been living here for the past six or so months."
Oh my fucking god. This creature, this exquisite nymph, is his sister AND she's been living here the whole time? Where the fuck have I been?
"Oh, Dave's sister, hi, how's it going," I say, trying to sound cool and unconcerned. "Sorry, I didn't know you were living with him. Haven't seen you around."
"So your dog escaped and came looking for trouble, eh?" Rebecca jokes. Then, leaning towards Sophia, in a high-pitched voice like you'd use when addressing a child, "aren't you a beautiful one little doggie..."
Sophia reacts with a deep, resonant WOOF and starts to snarl. Rebecca jumps back, startled.
"Sorry. Try not to take it personally," I reassure her, "it's the breed. They consider everyone outside of a select few to be a threat."
"Wow, you'd never know it from looking at her," Rebecca says.
We continue talking for a bit, and though I'd like to stay the whole evening learning more about this divine revelation who has popped up just doors away from me, I need to get back before Michelle arrives. I politely excuse myself, citing expectant guests to entertain, and she says she understands. I try leaving on a good note, suggesting that maybe sometime we can get together for a cup of coffee or a trip to the dog park that's not too far away.
"I'd like that," Rebecca says. "Well, you know where you can find me now."
I know where I'd like to find her.
___________________________________________________________________
Michelle and I have assumed our customary positions on the sofa, and are in the midst of a huge discussion only interrupted by the occasional tossing of a popcorn kernal or two at each other's mouth.
"So picture this," says Michelle, "I'm on my way to work on Olympic when I hear this weird noise from under my car. I drive a few more blocks, I still hear it."
"Something wrong with your car? I can take a look at it if you'd like."
"No, just listen. I pull into the driveway of McDonalds or Burger King or something, get out, and pop the hood. I leave the car running and just listen for a minute or two. I hear a faint pinging, but nothing like what I was hearing when I was in the car."
"Okay..."
"So I continue listening and looking around the engine compartment as best as I can without getting dirt and oil on my outfit - I had to be careful, I was wearing an especially nice outfit that day,"
"I'm sure you did," I interject.
"Yeah, I did. So this guy comes up to me and asks if there's a problem. At first I don't really pay attention but when he asks a second time I turn towards him and see he's a cop. And not bad looking either. I tell him what's going on and he pulls out his flashlight, shines it into the engine bay for a second or two and then jumps back like he's seen a ghost or something. I say 'what is it, what is it' and he just sits there a moment, totally dumbfounded. Then he starts to slowly step back towards the car and holds up his hand for me to stay where I am. I'm thinking 'is my car going to blow up? What's going on?' He gets as close to the engine as he was before, then shines the light in again. By this time I'm like 'whatever, don't joke with me 'cause I'm a woman, just show me what it is,' so I walk towards him and the car. The cop says 'walk slowly, don't startle it,' and I'm like 'startle it?' What are you talking about?"
"What was in there?"
"A small possum. Can you believe it? Somehow a small possum climbed into my engine bay and stayed there, too scared to go anywhere. I didn't believe it myself until I saw the cop's light reflecting in its little beady eyes. He flushed it out and it took off for the nearest tree. We ended up laughing about it."
"Weird. End of story?"
"No. We both stayed and talked for a while. We seemed to hit it off. I was like forty minutes late for work that morning but it didn't matter because now I have a date this weekend." Michelle smiled happily at me and tossed a kernel into my mouth.
"No shit? That's great! My little Michi is all growns up. She's all growns up," I repeat, trying to sound like Vince Vaughn in Swingers."Shut up dude, you always say that. It's not like it's the first date I've ever been on."
"This is cool, if it works out then the guy can sign off on our tickets and stuff."
"There you go, I'm not even one date deep into this thing and you're already scheming how it can benefit you," Michelle huffs.
"Hey, I said OUR tickets."
I flip around the channels. Monday nights stink for TV shows. That's one of the reasons I've cut back so much in the past year. Aside from Monday Night Football which tonight is a dog of a game, there's not much to invest your time in. I go through a cycle of channels without finding anything to hold my interest and fling the remote at Michelle. "Work your magic and find us something," I tell her.
Michelle puts down her beer and picks up the remote. She flips past a few of the same losers I just finished speeding by: Nick at Nite, Law and Order reruns, and E True Hollywood Story, before stopping on one of those home fitness commercials. This one is for a machine promising the best full body workout you can get for just 20 minutes a day. Michelle puts down the remote and lifts her shirt, revealing her tummy.
"I need to go back to the gym and put get some more definition in my abs," she says.
"You think so?" I ask.
"These beers aren't helping. What do you think?"
I look at her tummy, then get up and take a closer look. It's well toned, no six-pack level definition, but enough where it makes a woman look sexy. Not the 'roided out look of a bodybuilder.
"Sure, hit the gym," I say, "you know, your tummy is one of your best features." I didn't say that to make her feel better about herself, I said it because it was the truth. I remember times when we'd be at the beach and people would stop and look at her tummy. She's the only person I know who could wear a bikini to the beach and instead of checking out her ass or boobs, everybody's fixated on her abs. Even women would look out of sheer jealousy. I was even jealous. I tried like hell to do the crunches and exercises to make the muscles in that area pop, but there's been zero change.
"I think I will," Michelle replies, and resumes looking for something to watch. We finally settle on a show, some new comedy called Two and a Half Men, starring Charlie Sheen. About 1o minutes into the program Michelle turns to me, her mouth wide open. "Oh my God," she says, "you are just like this guy. Don't you see?"
"Who, Sheen? No way. How am I like him?"
"Dude, you are TOTALLY like him. He's a well-off womanizer who always seems to slip out of trouble and has a snappy comeback for everything. You're a spitting image of him."
I follow the next few lines of dialogue on the show closely and I'm not convinced. "Every guy is like Charlie Sheen," I say.
"No way. All guys are not like this," says Michelle. "Just you."
"Okay, picture this, then," I begin, "a guy wants to get into you pants. He has to have you. It's driving him crazy. But he can't come out and just say 'baby, I'm dying to get into your pants, whaddya think?' He has to charm you, sweet talk you, impress you, do things for you so you can undo the locks and let him through your Panama Canal."
"So romantic."
"You're missing the point. This is what Sheen is doing on the show. And all guys do that. They're chasing the prize, and guys will do anything to get it. Some are even more desperate than others."
"No, you're missing the point," Michelle says, pointing at the screen. "Look at how he carries himself. He's confident. He knows what he wants. He's been around the block before, and now he's using that knowledge to put himself on the fast track into the pants of the next woman he meets. Look at him. He's even smug about it, so certain he's gonna score. That is so you."
I'd never been painted with that brush before. I felt like all this time I'd been able to keep my motives from women. I thought they wouldn't realized I was just a suave upgrade over the regular joe, but it turns out that wasn't the case. It was like going behind the curtain in OZ and finding out the man inside is just a shadow of the thing that was so amazing and spellbinding.
We watched the rest of the show and then something else on the History Channel before Michelle left. I let the dog clean up all the kernels that went astray, and as I cleared the table of empty beer bottles, I thought about the upcoming week and the new women coming into my life. How could they factor in? One thing's for sure, I'd better tighten up that curtain. I don't want anybody else seeing the shadow working the gears and levers of the great and powerful OZ.
1 Comments:
I fall for older beauties too. I don't know why cuz it seems it's always been that way.
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