Monday, May 09, 2005
Pallas Athena
"Tell me something romantic."
"Okay, yeah. Hmmn." I paused for a moment and rolled over to face her. Some of her curls hung over her left eye and I brushed them back, pinning them behind her ear. Her hezel eyes looked more green in the dim light but shone with a fiery intensity.
"When the stars shine in the clear winter sky I can see the full moon in Uranus."
Her smile dropped for the briefest of moments before she burst into laughter. "No dummy, I'm serious."
Olivia was in that weird place every woman's head goes to right after they've had sex, when you can tell by the look on their face that they're trying to work something out. I hated how the first post-coital moment on a woman's mind wasn't about bliss, it was the preoccupation with the other person's thoughts.
Guys, for the sake of contrast in case it ever comes up, have a maximum of three things going through our brains immediately following sex. Maybe four if there's been lots of drinking before hand; then we need some water to parch the cottonmouth. Otherwise it is three. We take note of how incredibly relaxed and at ease every muscle is because of the endorphin release, we think about going for some sleep, and we think about how a sandwich right about now is not a bad idea. Refueling is always wise, if for nothing else than energy. This holds true especially if the woman rolls over twenty minutes later wanting another go because you didn't pet her cat quite right.
But women operate differently. They plot for positioning after sex. They gauge. They surmise. They want to know what's going on inside of you, and whatever it is, it had better goddamn be about them.
It was our second date and we were at Olivia's pad. Her roomate worked the graveyard shift so we wouldn't be having any unexpected surprises. I rolled over to reach for my tee shirt from the ground but she grabbed my arm away, leading it back to her side.
I guess you can say things were moving along well.
I rolled back over facing away from Olivia again and this time grabbed some of the sheets and blankets we'd tossed away earlier. Olivia did the same and moved in next to me, draping her arm over my shoulder and resting her hand on my chest.
"Really, tell me something." She rested her head on my arm. "What's the most romantic thing you've ever heard?"
There was no dodging this. "Here's one," I began, freeing an arm to place it behind my head. "There's an Oasis song where the more annoying Gallagher brother sings say that you'll stay, forever and a day in the time of my life, and that line has always grabbed me. The whole idea of endless time, of two people being together forever. And to verbalize it that way, it's like infinity plus one in calculus. It's always sounded very romantic to me, even though I'm pretty sure the song is about kicking drug addiction."
Olivia shifted her weight and draped her leg over my midsection, curling her head in the crick where my arm and shoulder came together. "Tell me something else." She nuzzled her head into place and inhaled deeply, her eyes closed and lips parted slightly, revealing the faint outline of a smile.
This is how it is with women. Intimacy meant we could and should spill each other's company secrets, regardless of how I felt about it. And she'd continue down this course until I relented. She might as well ask me a blunt what are you thinking.
"I'll tell you I'm not going to start sharing deep-rooted personal secrets, if that's what you're fishing for. This isn't a slumber party."
Olivia rose and grabbed the pillow behind her, smacking me over the face with it. "You're no fun," she responded.
"Sorry, Venus and Mars. Guys don't get into that. Consider that a lesson in the differences between the sexes, free of charge."
She made a W shape from her thumb and forefinger on each hand, touching the thumbs at their crest. "Whatever." She got up and headed for her bathroom.
"We should go get a drink somewhere, it's only 11:30," I call after her. "Maybe that place we went last time."
Olivia returned from the bathroom, her hair pulled back and tied in a tail with an elastic band. "No, that's back downtown, too far. There's a place on St. Clair West we can go to, it's pretty close." She reached down and picked up my pants, softly tossing them at me as she smirked. "You'd better get going. I need somebody who can keep up the pace with me outside of bed as well."
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Zemra was a bar northwest of Chinatown in what you could call the west midtown section of Toronto. It's a laid back neighborhood bar that's gone through a recent remodel to package itself as more highbrow, and though it's really not they've done enough marketing to get the sheep packed in here thinking it is. On most nights the Errol Fisher Blues Band plays, but tonight the bar bustled with people and excitement as some jazz band played Benny Goodman standards. Olivia navagated through the crowds as she zeroed in on the bar, stopping only briefly to say hello to a couple of familiar faces.
"What are you drinking?" she yelled into my ear. I barely heard her, it was so loud.
"Ketel One dirty martini," I said, responding to what I think was her question.
"Good," she replied. "Get us two, I'll be over there." She pointed to an open area along the wall between a jukebox and a small occupied table.
That's what I liked about Olivia. She was revealing herself more and more to be the type of person who spoke her mind and went after what she wanted. Assertive. Opportunistic.
After waiting an ungodly amount of time for a bartender's attention, and then even longer for the drinks, I joined Olivia. She eyed me up and down, giving me a look like she'd spent the past few minutes figuring out how to ask me something and the moment of truth was upon her. I mouthed a what to get her moving along.
"You've dated a lot of women, haven't you?" she finally asked.
"Was this a field questionnaire?" I responded.
"No, I can tell you've dated a lot of women, and if my intuition is correct you've gone through a lot of them."
"Oh, so you've figured me out, what makes me tick?" I asked.
"No, it's more a vibe you give off. You seem like you know your way around different women, different people. There's only one way you get to be like that."
I took a long sip of my martini and slowly cased the room from side to side. It was a mixed crowd, a marked difference from what I was used to in Southern California. The only times I encountered a truly mixed crowd on age and social demographic fronts were at restaurants with attached lounges. Otherwise, bar makeup could be split along three groups: college and post-college white kids under 26, urban professionals roughly along the age bracket of 28-36, and what I referred to as "the others" - career drinkers, bikers, and white trash. Rarely did you see the latter group intermingle with the former. There was a mutual loathing between the groups - bikers didn't want to be around preppy kids, and preppy kids didn't want to be in a crowded bar wedged next to the 30-something urbanites these kids were destined to become.
Zemra was much different. Here I saw a truer microcosm of the city. At one table there was a late-30s married couple, and at the very next table three guys from the local university. At the bar were a few girls, and anchoring the corner bar seats were some old grizzled men who looked like they hadn't vacated their seats since the day Zemra was opened. It was a nice makeup. Refreshing. Something I certainly hadn't been exposed to back home.
I turned my attention back to Olivia, still waiting for my answer. "I've been known to worship at the altar of women," I said coolly and unapologetically.
"You've got to stop worshipping so much and find the right one to shower your attentions on," she replied.
"Maybe I've been engaged in too much idolotry," I joked. Olivia wasn't amused. "Then again," I added, "who knows, maybe you'll turn out to be my Pallas Athena and this was all meant to be." I stressed the last three words and Olivia smiled. Women love that pre-destined, meant to be talk.
I excused myself and waded through the bodies in search of a bathroom. When I found it I noticed an older woman waiting near the door wearing a faded Transformers shirt.
"I haven't seen that shirt in years," I told her.
"They are always in fashion. Transformers never get old," she replied. It was official - she was a nut.
"Maybe in Canada," I countered.
"Maybe everywhere!" she shot back. "Transformers have been with us since the beginning of time. They were one of the wandering tribes of Israel."
I laughed "Is that so? They did all that wandering around in the desert? Wouldn't the sand get in their delicate electronics? Better yet, couldn't they have just changed into airplanes and flown the fuck outta there to Jerusalem?"
"You mock me." She responded.
"No, I just think you've maybe been worshipping false gods." I walked past her towards the bathroom door.
"The decepticons will get you!" she said with a raised voice. "They see you when you're sleeping!"
Apparently the Transformers were Santa Claus, too.
When I returned Olivia had moved to the bar and was talking to a group of guys. I went in and introduced myself and one by one they began turning their attentions elsewhere, knowing the 4-man sausagefest surrounding Olivia wouldn't yield the results they each were after.
Somewhere between 1 and 1:30 we decided we'd had enough of the crowd and the jazz oldies and made our way back to Olivia's apartment. It wasn't the last time I'd see Olivia socially but a few weeks later she told me she'd met somebody else, a guy in one of her classes she had been privately crushing on for some time. He'd finally asked her out and they'd clicked so well they'd been out the three nights since. I found it strange somebody as strong-willed as Olivia shrunk back from asking a guy out but people can be inconsistent at times.
Time to search for another palace to do my worshipping at.
"Okay, yeah. Hmmn." I paused for a moment and rolled over to face her. Some of her curls hung over her left eye and I brushed them back, pinning them behind her ear. Her hezel eyes looked more green in the dim light but shone with a fiery intensity.
"When the stars shine in the clear winter sky I can see the full moon in Uranus."
Her smile dropped for the briefest of moments before she burst into laughter. "No dummy, I'm serious."
Olivia was in that weird place every woman's head goes to right after they've had sex, when you can tell by the look on their face that they're trying to work something out. I hated how the first post-coital moment on a woman's mind wasn't about bliss, it was the preoccupation with the other person's thoughts.
Guys, for the sake of contrast in case it ever comes up, have a maximum of three things going through our brains immediately following sex. Maybe four if there's been lots of drinking before hand; then we need some water to parch the cottonmouth. Otherwise it is three. We take note of how incredibly relaxed and at ease every muscle is because of the endorphin release, we think about going for some sleep, and we think about how a sandwich right about now is not a bad idea. Refueling is always wise, if for nothing else than energy. This holds true especially if the woman rolls over twenty minutes later wanting another go because you didn't pet her cat quite right.
But women operate differently. They plot for positioning after sex. They gauge. They surmise. They want to know what's going on inside of you, and whatever it is, it had better goddamn be about them.
It was our second date and we were at Olivia's pad. Her roomate worked the graveyard shift so we wouldn't be having any unexpected surprises. I rolled over to reach for my tee shirt from the ground but she grabbed my arm away, leading it back to her side.
I guess you can say things were moving along well.
I rolled back over facing away from Olivia again and this time grabbed some of the sheets and blankets we'd tossed away earlier. Olivia did the same and moved in next to me, draping her arm over my shoulder and resting her hand on my chest.
"Really, tell me something." She rested her head on my arm. "What's the most romantic thing you've ever heard?"
There was no dodging this. "Here's one," I began, freeing an arm to place it behind my head. "There's an Oasis song where the more annoying Gallagher brother sings say that you'll stay, forever and a day in the time of my life, and that line has always grabbed me. The whole idea of endless time, of two people being together forever. And to verbalize it that way, it's like infinity plus one in calculus. It's always sounded very romantic to me, even though I'm pretty sure the song is about kicking drug addiction."
Olivia shifted her weight and draped her leg over my midsection, curling her head in the crick where my arm and shoulder came together. "Tell me something else." She nuzzled her head into place and inhaled deeply, her eyes closed and lips parted slightly, revealing the faint outline of a smile.
This is how it is with women. Intimacy meant we could and should spill each other's company secrets, regardless of how I felt about it. And she'd continue down this course until I relented. She might as well ask me a blunt what are you thinking.
"I'll tell you I'm not going to start sharing deep-rooted personal secrets, if that's what you're fishing for. This isn't a slumber party."
Olivia rose and grabbed the pillow behind her, smacking me over the face with it. "You're no fun," she responded.
"Sorry, Venus and Mars. Guys don't get into that. Consider that a lesson in the differences between the sexes, free of charge."
She made a W shape from her thumb and forefinger on each hand, touching the thumbs at their crest. "Whatever." She got up and headed for her bathroom.
"We should go get a drink somewhere, it's only 11:30," I call after her. "Maybe that place we went last time."
Olivia returned from the bathroom, her hair pulled back and tied in a tail with an elastic band. "No, that's back downtown, too far. There's a place on St. Clair West we can go to, it's pretty close." She reached down and picked up my pants, softly tossing them at me as she smirked. "You'd better get going. I need somebody who can keep up the pace with me outside of bed as well."
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Zemra was a bar northwest of Chinatown in what you could call the west midtown section of Toronto. It's a laid back neighborhood bar that's gone through a recent remodel to package itself as more highbrow, and though it's really not they've done enough marketing to get the sheep packed in here thinking it is. On most nights the Errol Fisher Blues Band plays, but tonight the bar bustled with people and excitement as some jazz band played Benny Goodman standards. Olivia navagated through the crowds as she zeroed in on the bar, stopping only briefly to say hello to a couple of familiar faces.
"What are you drinking?" she yelled into my ear. I barely heard her, it was so loud.
"Ketel One dirty martini," I said, responding to what I think was her question.
"Good," she replied. "Get us two, I'll be over there." She pointed to an open area along the wall between a jukebox and a small occupied table.
That's what I liked about Olivia. She was revealing herself more and more to be the type of person who spoke her mind and went after what she wanted. Assertive. Opportunistic.
After waiting an ungodly amount of time for a bartender's attention, and then even longer for the drinks, I joined Olivia. She eyed me up and down, giving me a look like she'd spent the past few minutes figuring out how to ask me something and the moment of truth was upon her. I mouthed a what to get her moving along.
"You've dated a lot of women, haven't you?" she finally asked.
"Was this a field questionnaire?" I responded.
"No, I can tell you've dated a lot of women, and if my intuition is correct you've gone through a lot of them."
"Oh, so you've figured me out, what makes me tick?" I asked.
"No, it's more a vibe you give off. You seem like you know your way around different women, different people. There's only one way you get to be like that."
I took a long sip of my martini and slowly cased the room from side to side. It was a mixed crowd, a marked difference from what I was used to in Southern California. The only times I encountered a truly mixed crowd on age and social demographic fronts were at restaurants with attached lounges. Otherwise, bar makeup could be split along three groups: college and post-college white kids under 26, urban professionals roughly along the age bracket of 28-36, and what I referred to as "the others" - career drinkers, bikers, and white trash. Rarely did you see the latter group intermingle with the former. There was a mutual loathing between the groups - bikers didn't want to be around preppy kids, and preppy kids didn't want to be in a crowded bar wedged next to the 30-something urbanites these kids were destined to become.
Zemra was much different. Here I saw a truer microcosm of the city. At one table there was a late-30s married couple, and at the very next table three guys from the local university. At the bar were a few girls, and anchoring the corner bar seats were some old grizzled men who looked like they hadn't vacated their seats since the day Zemra was opened. It was a nice makeup. Refreshing. Something I certainly hadn't been exposed to back home.
I turned my attention back to Olivia, still waiting for my answer. "I've been known to worship at the altar of women," I said coolly and unapologetically.
"You've got to stop worshipping so much and find the right one to shower your attentions on," she replied.
"Maybe I've been engaged in too much idolotry," I joked. Olivia wasn't amused. "Then again," I added, "who knows, maybe you'll turn out to be my Pallas Athena and this was all meant to be." I stressed the last three words and Olivia smiled. Women love that pre-destined, meant to be talk.
I excused myself and waded through the bodies in search of a bathroom. When I found it I noticed an older woman waiting near the door wearing a faded Transformers shirt.
"I haven't seen that shirt in years," I told her.
"They are always in fashion. Transformers never get old," she replied. It was official - she was a nut.
"Maybe in Canada," I countered.
"Maybe everywhere!" she shot back. "Transformers have been with us since the beginning of time. They were one of the wandering tribes of Israel."
I laughed "Is that so? They did all that wandering around in the desert? Wouldn't the sand get in their delicate electronics? Better yet, couldn't they have just changed into airplanes and flown the fuck outta there to Jerusalem?"
"You mock me." She responded.
"No, I just think you've maybe been worshipping false gods." I walked past her towards the bathroom door.
"The decepticons will get you!" she said with a raised voice. "They see you when you're sleeping!"
Apparently the Transformers were Santa Claus, too.
When I returned Olivia had moved to the bar and was talking to a group of guys. I went in and introduced myself and one by one they began turning their attentions elsewhere, knowing the 4-man sausagefest surrounding Olivia wouldn't yield the results they each were after.
Somewhere between 1 and 1:30 we decided we'd had enough of the crowd and the jazz oldies and made our way back to Olivia's apartment. It wasn't the last time I'd see Olivia socially but a few weeks later she told me she'd met somebody else, a guy in one of her classes she had been privately crushing on for some time. He'd finally asked her out and they'd clicked so well they'd been out the three nights since. I found it strange somebody as strong-willed as Olivia shrunk back from asking a guy out but people can be inconsistent at times.
Time to search for another palace to do my worshipping at.
4 Comments:
"Guys want a sandwich." Classic.
I'm more like Samantha on "Sex and the City." The only conversation you need to have in bed is "give it to me" and "go home."
Not all of us want to cuddle and whisper sweet nothings to you in bed.
Anyways, I'm glad you're having a good time in Toronto. When are you headed back out this way?
I think the whole "cuddle after sex" thing is overblown and not as many women do it as we think. Cuddling is for Nicholas Sparks novels and Harlequin romance books.
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