Friday, May 8, 2009

A man with hands, a woman with a scar, Part I

To get to the chase for those who will scroll down to the bottom first anyway: I got laid.  For those who care more, I am writing this post because it is the right time to.  I've blogged for years under my real name and other pseudonyms.  Please don't link to this post from your blog.  Don't share it with friends.  I am seriously contemplating by the end of this post to stop this blog entirely and let it age until Google decides to kill it.  I won't know until I reach the end.

I am writing this without editing, publishing the moment I hit a place where I need a cigarette break.  I will aim for 4 parts of nearly-equal lengths.  As usual, this post is not safe for work.

This is Part I of a longer mini-series of posts.

You can skip the details now and tease me.  Get it of of your system now, you won't want to when you reach the last part.

I left the house yesterday (Thursday evening) after taking a great long, hot shower.  I walked to my closet only to remember that MOST of my clothes are in my wardrobe, which is now in storage.  I figured the night was probably a date, and on HER request, so I wanted to dress it up a bit.  All I had dressy was the exact same shirt that I wore on my night with Celine (the same shirt that gave me away to the Starbucks barista, too).  It was recently washed, crisply pressed and lightly starched.  ***To read more about people I write about, just use the search feature at the top of this page***

I put on my favorite underwear: Emporio Armani silky undershirt and underwear.  They feel great, they let my family jewels move nicely, and they feel great (I know I said it twice).  Plus they're brand-spanking new.

When I went out to my car, I smirked at the dents recently acquired from two sleepy girls who banged into me.  I'll address them next week, deciding if I want to spend the $2700 cash to repair them properly or just have them pulled out (leaving a bit of damage).  It's not important.

I gassed the car up (only $9, because I keep it topped off daily), hit the gas station's vacuum to suck up any stray bits of junk and ashes, did another Febreze run, and took off.  It was 6:15pm, and I was supposed to pick her up in West Humboldt Park or wherever she lives at 7.  I hate being late.

After getting off the Kennedy at California, it was packed with traffic at 6:52pm.  Ugh.  I grabbed my cell phone and contemplated letting her know I was running late when it magically rang the minute the screen came on.  It was her.  "I'm running 5 minutes late, meet you out front?"  Perfect.

I arrived, out front, at 7:04pm.  Not 30 seconds later and she's walking out the door, dressed to the nines.  I didn't even tell her where we were going.  I hopped out of the car, gave her a kiss on the lips hello, and helped her in.  As she sat in, my eyes went to her legs without her noticing me.  They're gorgeous, maybe even better than a woman who I think has some of the best legs imaginable.

I'm not a leg guy, but if they're tone and nice, I'm all for it.  A woman's body is a woman's body.  I don't mind flaws, a little extra poundage, or any of that.  I'm only superficial initially, and I come to love every woman's body in a short period of time.  I hadn't seen Stace's yet, and wasn't planning on it, but with all the talk here about me taking care of my own needs soon, I figured I should get some face time with her flesh while clothed so I have something to think about later.

We took off.  "How was your day?" she asked.  Uneventful.  Did some work, ran some errands.  I left her hanging without a lot of information, and then asked her how her day's been, or even her week (two options, fellas).  Her mouth ran like a dot matrix printer, which is exactly what I wanted to hear.  I paid attention while driving, focusing on a few points here and there that would allow me to form new questions to keep her talking.

We're on Lake Short Drive when she finishes.  She actually doesn't end her sentence, "and that was pretty much why I hate that department, where are we going?"  For food.  "Great, I'm starving and we never discussed the plans.  What kind of food?  Assyrian?"  No, something else, foreign.  Hope it doesn't upset your stomach.  "Exciting!  And mysterious!"  Not really, but I didn't have much I could use to get her to keep talking.  She was getting excited just by me listening intently, casting glances at her and nodding when the road in front of me was clear.

I asked her about things with Ralph, her recent ex.  "He's gone, back to his parents.  He emails less and less since I rarely respond, never respond really." That's good.  How are you taking it?  "Amazing, considering we were together since after college.  I don't know why I wasted so much time with him.  I guess we all make mistakes."  Many mistakes.  At least you're getting out there.  "Not so much, really.  Dating is hard, it's hard to meet people.  I tried Nerve and Craigslist but everyone is so obviously horny, they have no tact." She looks right at me, "Well, most have no tact."  As Emeril would say, Bam!

I get off at a Loop exit from LSD (a highway on Lake Michigan in Chicago, the Loop being our downtown nickname), pull up to a valet in minutes and we get out.  "Ruby of Siam?" It's Thai.  "They could make the outside look nicer." Trust me, you'll be amazed at the inside.  She grabs my elbow (I love that) and I escort her inside, beaming myself at the beautiful woman on my arm who definitely turns a few guys heads (and women's frowns).  She's a knockout in her dress.

"Wow, is this place brand new?"  Not at all, it's just the cleanest and nicest Thai I know of.  "I'm impressed!"  The maître d' walks up to me and says "Good evening Mr. Sane.  Your usual table?" Stace looks at me, even more impressed.  I was actually hoping this guy wasn't there.  I pass him a $10 I had ready, skipping the line of people who were obviously waiting a little longer.  It wasn't too packed, but the slower after-dinner crowd means fewer servers, so they keep many tables open.  Lunch here is psychotically busy.

We get seated, me helping Stace into her chair,  and I sit to her left.  "Would you mind sitting across from me?  I'd like to see if I catch you watching others."  That's right, I forgot that she didn't peg me as the crowd watching type until she quizzed me on a few people who had already left and I scored 100%.  No problem to move seats, so I did.

The waiter brought out the American menu, and their secret Thai menu.  Even my Thai friends don't get this one, it's held for regulars (the food is made differently, not as pretty, but the taste is fantastic).  Stace gets the American menu but immediately notices my ratty, hand-printed menu that is mostly in Thai with some scrambled American words.  "What is THAT?"  House specialties, it's not for most people.  "Is it better?"  Only if you like Thai.  I'll let you try some of mine.

She asks me for help with her selection, to which I offer her two contrasting options for appetizers, soups, and the main course.  She goes for spicy, which I like.  Her eyes are on me constantly, and mine on hers.  "So what have you seen so far?"  I mention that a couple to her right is on the verge of breaking up (later in the night their conversation gets heated, by the way).  I mention the beautiful blonde at a table behind her is a post-op transvestite.  I mention the black couple that came in will be treated slower than most, due to an odd racism that is inherent in many Thai restaurants (it's not on purpose, though).  "You didn't move your eyes from me at all."  I shrug, which gets her belting out a high pitched laugh.  "What exactly do you do for a living?  Are you a spy?"  I've been asked this before.  No, I write.  Sort of the same thing.

I order for the both of us, mostly in English but try my hand at some Thai.  The waiter laughs at my mispronunciations, correcting me, then slaughters the English he speaks.  I'll learn the language some day, but not today.  Stace is beaming the entire time.  Her leg brushes up against mine, "You're really interesting.  It's exciting to be with a man instead of the usual boys."  I'm a boy at heart, just a man on the outside.  "Yes you are," she says with a devilish grin.

More to come, smoke break.