Saturday, May 16, 2009
So last night I met up with a female blogger who admitted to reading this site daily. Per her request, details of her life shall remain missing. I would highly doubt that she'll post her side of the story on her own site, but who knows?
We agreed to meet at a bar in her neck of the woods in Chicago. Let's say Hipster Central: Wicker Park, Logan Square, Ukrainian Village, Humboldt Park. She sent me a photo her self (indie cute) and I obliged with a reply of one of mine. 9pm, non-date because she has a boyfriend (and even if she didn't), just to chat and meet a fellow writer.
I picked a bar I hadn't been to in awhile, a dive bar. It was fairly quiet, but early for a Friday. A few older folks, a couple of early drinking hipsters, a yuppie table. Nice, dark, quiet. I decided to wear some new threads since I was planning on going out solo afterwards: new shoes, new jeans, new dress shirt. Nothing too exotic. It was rainy, so I donned my early spring jacket which hadn't been worn since late last spring.
I arrived at 8:55pm, found a seat at the bar near the door and waited. The bartender, a relatively indie-looking dude, asked me for my drink but I said I was waiting for someone. "Female?" Yeah. "That her?" he said, pointing to the other end of the bar. I looked. She saw me and smiled. Oops.
I wandered down the bar and she smiled again. As I was removing my jacket to place on my stool, she says "I've seen you around before. A few times." Really? "Sure. You don't recognize me?" Sorry, not really. "In winter last year you were chatting up a group of my friends." Oh, I do that often. So what did you think then? "Not much. Probably thought not my type, who knows?" Were you single then? "Yeah." So I sit. She's already drinking (a cocktail, not a beer), and I ordered my tequila, rocks.
We chat. She's cute, on the slim side, short, nice hair a la the 50s. She's pretty warm to talk to. She asks me about my blogging adventures, and I told her she's the first. She smiles a lot, which seems to be rare around the indie/hipster gals. She's no hipster, just a refreshing take on fashion. I appreciated it, although I didn't say so. She did comment on my shoes in a positive way.
I asked her about her blogging history: she started with LiveJournal back in college, did a little Xanga, had a TypePad and ended up at Blogger mostly because it just works. That's pretty much why I picked it, I said. I prefer Wordpress, but I wanted a blog that just worked. Nothing shiny and flashy. No need for advertisement.
Her work sounded decent, not in the writing field. She's a corporate busybody and likes the structure. Odd for someone who dresses outside the box, but I'll accept it. Has a pet, lives with a roommate (not the boyfriend, and probably not with him ever), good core group of friends, family not-too-far-but-far-enough. She wants to move to NYC (all bloggers from Chicago seem to have this glitch). Happy with work, happy with the guy, happy with friends, happy with money. Pretty decent overall.
She asked me, "Why don't you settle down at your age?" I think I'm fairly settled down, compared to my twenties. I asked her if she considers herself settled. "Everything is in flux, but I'm comfortable. If any one thing changes, I can take it in stride. Two things, I might get a little concerned." Ahh. Work, love, sex, entertainment are all for stability, not for happiness. I ask what she wants to do. "Own my own company." I'll say she's 22-32 to keep it generic. At her age, she needs to jump on that idea NOW, not next decade. Risks can be easier swallowed as failures or successes when you're still "young." Not to say that someone 32-42 can't take a risk and go solo, but it's easier to handle younger. Energy. Drive. Excitement. Lack of huge responsibilities.
"Your hair is way too long." I know, I need a good barbershop closer to home. "How do you usually cut it?" However. Random. It grows ridiculously fast. If I shave it off, it grows back instantly. "Always the scruff?" The beard comes and goes but I'll keep a 5 o'clock shadow most of the time. Easier. Hides the scars and cuts and irregular facial lines. "No wrinkles at your age?" Only when I laugh. I'll age extremely well. My dad looks 25 years younger, my mom 15 years younger. Good skin. No product.
She tells me about her business idea, and it happens to be a counter-niche to something I do. I tell her I'll email her some business contacts that can help her aim her targets. She's laughing a lot. About 2 drinks into our (her?) conversation, she's laughing more, and her hand falls on my hand a few times. Need to put a stop to THAT, so I put my hand on my thigh instead. She doesn't notice.
She keeps inquiring into my life, but I'm the usual quiet and discrete talker. I really don't have much to say. It seems to frustrate her, but when I make a topic change, she gets reinvigorated. I'm thankful that she has nothing to say about favorite bands or favorite beers; it doesn't seem that either really motivate her to talk. I've been bored to death on more than one friendly date by talk of the latest shitty band or the latest horrid-tasting beer. There are good ones out there, both, but most leave me bloated and burpy. Especially the bands.
Drinks set 3 come to the bar in front of us, on the house, and she continues her banter and jest. Boyfriend is a great guy, not her typical type, but very open with letting her be and just being a good boyfriend a few days a week. Sounds like the perfect relationship in many ways. They started dating in January. He's tall, good looking, educated, responsible. One of the few good ones, I guess. I didn't ask her about sex, and she didn't offer. I'm guessing it's probably decent enough but nothing exciting.
She goes to the bathroom so I twitter an update and text friends to see where they're going. As she comes out, she catches me flipping my phone closed. "Booty call next?" I laugh. No, just figuring out what to do post-midnight. "I'm beat. You ready to call it a night here?" If you are. "Probably. Was up late last night, got up early for work today, worked an extra hour, and I'm going out tomorrow night for a crazy night out with friends." Cool, need a ride?
"This is where you always get the girl in your stories. I'll take the ride, but sorry to dissapoint you." I laugh and we lock eyes, then she laughs. "I can see why you do, but keep your hands off of me." I laugh again. She's cute as hell, probably fuck buddy material if she was interested and found me sexy, but I would say a strong no on both sides. Plus she's not my type, really. It was a good chat, we exchange phone numbers to try it again and wander out to my car.
I let her in ("OOoh, gentleman, hah!"), and I narrowly get creamed by a Special Olympics ("Critical Mass") type moron on a bike riding way too close to the cars in hopes of collecting from the car insurance people for their next dooring. The guy yells at me, and I laugh. I accept that bikes have equal rights, but like any moving vehicle, THEY are responsible for being careful. Riding that close to cars is ridiculous at that fixed-gear speed.
She notices that I almost got clipped and tells me about her battle with being a biker and also a pedestrian and once-on-a-while borrowing the roommate's car. Bikers have attitudes until they need a car for life, then things change. I always mind them, until they almost kill me (about once a week, actually). I tell her a story about an intercourse I had with a biker (talk, not sex) and she laughs hysterically, telling me she probably knows the guy. Her hand is on my arm, and I pull it away to grip the streering wheel. I ask if I should drop her at her house or near it, to prevent her fears of me being a stalker. "In front is fine." She gives me the address and Mr. GPS tells me where to go.
We continue our talk and I notice I need gas, so I ask if it's OK to hit the nearest gas station. I have no idea how I went from full to empty in 4 days, but it happens. She's fine with it. I go and pump gas and have a talk with a tall, pimp-dressed black guy outside of an SUV. He digs my shoes, too. We laugh about being stuck pumping our own gas while the ladies are in the clubs, and nod our goodbyes. $18.46, I guess I wasn't that low. Stupid gas light.
When I get in the car, I apologize for the delay (slow pump) and there it is: she kisses me. What the fuck is going on here? She tells me earlier I'm not her type, she has a great boyfriend, life is good, yadda yadda yadda, and now she's got her lips on me. I'm not one to turn down a great kiss, ever, so I kiss back. For about 3 minutes. I break the embrace and let her know that was completely unexpected. "I wanted to see if you'd get surprised." Did I? "No. Smooth, too." So you did it just for empirical evidence to check if I could get surprised? "Well, I wanted to, also. You're fun as hell. And you look like you could kill 15 guys when you walked in or I saw you before, but you're really nice. The listening thing is amazing. And I wanted to touch your hair." Ok. I'd remind you not to let it happen again.
Then she shoves her face on me AGAIN. I'm sitting with my foot on the brake pedal, the car in drive, one hand on the streering wheel and her face on my face. This time I think about it while we're kissing for about 5 minutes. She's pretty good. The nibbles on my bottom lip would get this girl in trouble if it happened for too long. I break off again and let her know that teasing me is NOT going to get her bonus points. "Who's teasing? You're a good kisser, I'm not going to sleep with you tonight, and I'm not married to anyone." Oh, no, not that. Tonight? "Oh, we'll be friends. Don't worry, it won't ruin any affairs you have planned." I laugh at this and she laughs too. I kick Mr. GPS in gear and take off towards her place, a short 8 blocks away.
As she gets out, I did check out her ass (which was seated at the bar). Pretty good. She turns around and says "Just so you know, it's just a kiss." I laugh and tell her I'd stop her if she tried anything more. "You almost know the right thing to say, if you say anything at all, don't you?" Sure. Friends, then? "Friends, for sure. I'll catch you online. What will you write about?"
I'll write that we fucked, that I gave it to you hard, that your boyfriend catches us so I tie him up in a chair and do you in ways you'd never let him do you. She laughs out loud, I smile and she slams the door.
No, we didn't fuck. No, we won't fuck. There's absolutely no chemistry there in any way, shape or form. The night was fun. It wasn't a date, it was friends who didn't know they were friends, refriending. The kiss? It was good. Very good. But it was just a kiss, a thank you for a nice night, a little tease to a guy who can't call someone up and get the third leg in. One thing I can say for this gal, she understands boundaries, and I can appreciate that.
And she did call me cute. Always need more women friends who find me cute: they'll introduce me to their friends and tell good stories. I consider it in the win category.
Who's next to meet and get drinks? Or coffee? And, no, it isn't for sex. Just because I had a few rounds of play in the past 6 months doesn't mean I'm THAT kind of guy. I dig friends, and I especially dig writers.