A Bad Man in a Bad Place

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I am prone to self underestimation. I don’t think that women like me (this blog belies that, but this is only part of my life and none of you live in my head with me) nor find me attractive (they do, I just don’t think it) and I believe both of these things doubly so about beautiful women.

Hayseed was over tonight, because I had enough ingredients in my apartment to make fish Tacos.

Afterwards, I got an email from a promoter showing off the photos from the last party. I told Hayseed that I wanted to go to the party but begged off at the last minute because, well, I thought the women at the party were out of my league, too beautiful by half to be interested in someone like me.

So we looked at the pictures. I was right. Beautiful, well put together, way out of my… hang on a second. I know her. I had sex with her like a year or two ago. She’s the one who gave me the T-Shirt that the Sous Chef stole from me.

So. Yes. I have to reassess myself a lot. Fortunately, it’s the new year and it’s the proper time of year and life to do that.

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I’ve been talking to a friend about her fantasies recently. I’ve lived most of mine (and probably many of yours, too) and now I’m looking for new ones.

What are yours?

(There’s a post coming soon about what happens when I finally get to practice my newfound rope-tying skills on a lover, but that’s still gestating)

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It’s clear. There’s a blatantly obvious reason that I do so well with women. They’ve been damaging their own brains for awhile now.

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Rollergirl materialized at my front door at 11:30pm.  Rang the buzzer.  Came upstairs.

She was more prepared this time.  Four and a half inch heels, plunging neckline, and tight pants. 

Which put her at 5′9, the height I like.  Hadn’t even told her I have a height thing.

We’re both working on finals.  A fine 12 hour respite for sex and sleep.

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Legs: what’s the difference between jam and jelly?

Bad Man: jelly is smooth, I think. Jam has chunks

Bad Man: it goes jelly -> jam -> preserves in order of gooeyness

Legs: no, it’s simpler than that

Legs: you can’t jelly a dick down a throat

Bad Man: oh my god.

…

Bad Man: such good stuffing.  I’m slobbering for it.

Legs: that’s what she said

Happy Thanksgiving, from me and mine to you and yours.

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Not an adult blogger, but an interesting tumblr blog (and a pretty girl) please welcome Mimi Lachula to the blogroll.

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It’s been awesome to see heartfelt conversation in the comments about women and their fantasies.  If you only read one post this year, read that one.  Below see an excerpt from the Today Show, which suggests that after marriage, things go stale and our sex lives taper. I have thoughts on that, but for the moment, I wanted to show this to you so that those of you who thought I was attacking you, or those men who thought the woman on Craigslist was attacking you for not being Manly McHardon enough, well, it cuts both ways and never gets easier and is only going to be solved by bold action and communication.  Take it away, Kathy Lee.

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At 10:30 tonight I got a call with a blocked ID.

“Hi there, how are you?”
“Fine thanks.”
“You’re no fun, you never reply to my text messages.” Oh fuck. It’s The Jaguar.
“No, I’m not. I sent you one three months ago asking you to stop texting me.”
“You’re no fun. Collin Farrell was at the Phantom of the Opera premiere tonight.” She goes to premieres. Who wouldn’t want a lingerie model at their premieres, right? It’s just me that she annoys.
“I don’t really watch a lot of movies.”

It went like this for awhile, before she noticed that I was on the street. I was eating my dinner (a schawarma from Chickpea) and not paying her much attention. Between mouthfuls, I made clear that I didn’t want to hear from her. She said she hoped I was doing well, and hung up.

At 12:19, I got a text message:

“Good night. I miss you. (i know im crazy)”

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Last night I sat through a ham fisted attempt to take me home. Is this what women experience when guys try to “pick them up?” God.

I was walking by a girl in a bar, and she stopped me. “Hi!” I didn’t recognize her, and I blamed it on the alcohol.
“Do you recognize me?”
“I don’t, I’m sorry, I’ve been drinking.” She introduced herself, and told me about the last time we’d met. I remembered her, and chuckled to myself.

“Come with me, I want to show you something.” Not having anything better to do, I followed her upstairs to a dark room, through a heavy door, and into a room where George Washington once made speeches. Decorated in the original, or some very similar motif, she showed off her knowledge of history by telling me the stories of things that were up there.

Eventually, we made our way back downstairs, and she offered to get the two of us glasses of wine, which I accepted. The first hint that I was facing a ham fisted pickup was when she asked me whether “I’d like to drink them somewhere romantic.”

The second was when she asked if we could go back up to the dark room to make out.

I wasn’t having any of it, I wasn’t interested. When my friends saw me, they gave me a confused look - one that said “hey, umm, good for you if that’s what you’re looking for but why do you look so uncomfortable?” I politely sat through the conversation - “I just moved here from another city in August and broke up with my boyfriend at that time - and I haven’t been with anyone since” and just sipped my wine and listened.

I tried, politely, to get out of the conversation. So she invited me back to her place. Some of her friends would be going there, she told me. I told her that I was tired, and probably going home. She persisted, and tried to give me her phone number, which I didn’t take. I made my excuses and left soon after.

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Every girl I’ve been with has a themesong. Or, at least, a song that reminds me of her. Nick Cave - “One of These Things First” evokes The Liberal. The Developer is evoked by Moby - “Why does my heart feel so bad?” SouthernBelle - Little Red Corvette.

Tonight I found myself taking Princess up on an offer she made earlier in the day. She’s featured as a model in a magazine this month, and they were having a launch party for the issue, so I stopped by.

She looked the same as I remember, which is to say, beautiful. I wasn’t sure why she’d asked me to show, and I’m still not. I stopped by, had a beer, she showed off her dance moves (and her body) to quite an effect. There was a group of three men sitting on couches, effectively drooling. I smiled, and laughed, and shook my head.

She showed me her picture in the magazine, and she looked fierce. I was happy to see that.

We spoke for maybe five minutes before I excused myself - it was her big night, not mine, and I would only have been in the way.

I caugt her explaining to her friends that it was “The Lawyer” (hey, she gave me a nickname…) and after a bit, she disappeared without saying goodbye.

I caught her downstairs by the coat check right before I left, told her to have a good night, and she told me to keep on lawyering. It was a little anticlimactic to get a “keep being a good lawyer” but I’m pretty sure she was wasted.

When I got home tonight, I realized that her theme song seems to be Cold Water Music by AiM, although she makes me think of a lot of songs. One of the things I liked most about her is that she understood my synaesthesia. That I hear music and see things as I hear it. She had the same sort of appreciate of music that I do, and it was so nice to see someone who understood the world the same way I do.

I saw her smile and it just made me happy. She has one of those “light up the room” smiles that always captivate me. The smile, this time, was for herself and the party, not for me. I was glad to see her happy, even if only for a moment.

note that this has been significantly edited now that I’m sober

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