Breakfast with Lilies, Part II

Continued from Part I.

Lily and I sit down at a table after a 2 minute wait. She faces the door, I face the painted wall behind her.

She's very attractive, as is the case with all the Anonymous Female Bloggers I've met so far. Her eyes are bright and she smiles a LOT. She has nice teeth, unfortunately. I love a gal with a few junky teeth in her grill.

"So. Who are you?" I smile. "I mean it." I continue to smile. "That's not going to work on me. I've read your entire site, I know your tricks." I'm Sane. I like to write words. What do you want to know?

"Born here?" Chicago, yeah. "Why are you so interesting?" I shrug. "Are you for real?" I'm here, right now. "You bullshit a lot, right?" Not at all. Every story I've written is backed by real people, many of whom have read the stories about them. Sometimes I discombobulate time frames or reference points, but they're as accurate as they can be.

"I read the post about that girl Celine. And I read her blog, too. You killed that girl." Woman. And I may have, but she wanted it and needed it. What do you need? "Nothing. Just breakfast. I'm surprised you accepted my invitation." Why? I like to meet people. "To sleep with them?" No, definitely not. "So what's the reason?" Just to meet people with a similar passion. "And that's it?" Totally. "And you don't try to sleep with them?" I'm not a whore, I'm picky. Plus, I never try to sleep with anyone. If they want me enough, they come to me.

"I would never do that." A lot of girls don't. It doesn't bother me. "What if you miss someone great?" Then I do. Women, and men, are a dime a dozen. I have no time for dancing around chances. If an opportunity doesn't arise, I don't bother. It's not a risk worth taking. So why did you bring this topic up first?

"Just wondering. Your blog isn't about sex always, but it seems to be a reoccurring theme." I have readers who request those stories more. I always oblige a faithful reader or commenter or emailer. "That's nice of you." I guess. I don't do it to be nice, I do it because it gives people more reason to communicate or look for new paths to take in their own lives.

"You like knowing the effect your words have." I do. Not just sexual vibes, either. "I like that. You talk for yourself, but you talk to us." Do I? I never thought of it that way. Most of my older stories are cut-and-paste from past journals with a little refreshing.

"What do you do for a living?" I'm a writer. "I know, it's your cover and all that. I mean for real." I slay dragons. She laughs. "Dragons?" Big ones. Fire-breathers with huge wings. I'm like Harry Potter. "Your glasses and haircut are wrong." I smile. "Your hair isn't too long. There are many women who go for that look." Maybe. I don't do it for them.

Our waitress comes and we order near identical breakfasts. She gets orange juice, I ask for a glass of OJ only 1/10th full. To mix with water. She raises her eyebrow. "No sugar, right?" Bingo. "So you slay dragons and cast magic spells." Basically. What do you do? "I working in marketing and advertising." I figured. You dress well. "I love this dress. We're a casual office, so we get to wear what we want." Better than jeans and a T-shirt. I secretly look over her body and realize it's pretty nice. Good rack, not too big. I'd jump on it given the right chance.

We chat, nice conversation and all, as our food quickly arrives. She covers her mouth as she eats the bigger chunks of flesh, which is cute. "So why are you single now, again?" I haven't met anyone that I like enough, or that likes me. "So you have people you like, but they're not into you?" It happens. The crush passes quickly, I don't get sad or frustrated over anyone anymore. How about you? "I'm dating a guy, but not that seriously. He's a good guy, just a bit boring." A bit? "Ok, a lot boring." Video games, sports, etc? "Something like that. He's nice, just not very confident about trying new things." I nod as I eat.

"So are you looking?" For a girlfriend? She nods. No, not really. "Then what?" A summer lover. A secret mistress. A sugar baby who wants to jump on my chest and put her face in my V on my hips. Someone fun who isn't going to go crazy for me, who understands my busy schedule means I can disappear for a week with little warning but an email. "Good luck. That's hard to find." Not that hard. But I don't look that hard, either. "You should. You're interesting, women get a kick out of that." Some. Most want a simple guy, I think.

"I have a simple guy and it drives me crazy some days." What do you do about it? "Fantasize about something better." Does it help? "Not really. Your blog helps me through that, that there are interesting guys out there. If you're for real." I think I'm for real. "Do you hold anything back, when you write?" A lot. Details that shouldn't be shared. Sometimes I'll do a dinner or a movie or drinks with someone and not post it for their sake. Or my own.

We get halfway through our meal, chit-chatting about this and that. Common friends, common writer's block issues, etc. "So tell me what you think about me." That's a new question. Haven't gotten that one before.

Cute, mature, good conversation. We probably wouldn't get along in real life, but here we're comfortable, one not knowing the other. It's the opposite of normal comfort. I'd do this again, just to chat. "And?" And what? "What will you write on your blog?" About? "Your typical sexist female rating." Ohhh, do you mean would I have sex with you or tease you? "Something like that." Hmm. That's a tough question. You're not flirtatious at all. You haven't done any of the usual signs of physical attraction. So it's a hard question to answer.

"What if I don't do that stuff." Then I wouldn't waste my time. "You never chase?" Only when the door is opened. "That has to make dating hard." Actually, it makes it easy. If she's too immature or frigid to show me a good sign of attraction, I don't ever have to worry if she likes me enough or not. Girls grow past those problems, usually. Some don't. "So if I was flirtatious or showed you a sign?"

I ate as I thought about it, and took a drink. "And?" I'd play it right back. "With no goal?" I never have a goal. "You don't meet a girl and think right away about kissing her, or more?" Sure I do, but I don't act on it unless she gives me the green light, even passively. "I've never done that." And you date boring guys. Go figure. "Maybe it's a problem." I'm certain about it. Ever dated a guy who showed no interest in you? "Sure, a lot." I bet they were interested, but they played it cool because you played it cold. A man can never be warmer than a woman is or the woman will quickly get bored.

"You know this game well." It's not a game, it's hormones and chemicals and posturing and peacocking. It's how humans have done it for all of history. "And you know this why?" I've succeeded, always. I rarely get hurt or burned. I never hurt or burn another. I give them exactly what I can read that they want, and fulfill them completely. "Do you know how hot that sounds?" I'm sure it does. "You know it drives some women crazy, right?" I guess. It's not a goal. "You probably love it." I love knowing that for some people I reignite that burning desire inside. That's a worthy goal, but I don't aim for it.

"You're really interesting." You said that. "I mean it. So if I don't do one of the signs you like, you wouldn't make a pass at me or anything?" No. And since we're talking about it, I would venture that it will never happen. But you are cute, you have a great body, and if I was any other guy, I would try. And you'd be disappointed. "I would. But thanks for that."

Breakfast was interesting, to be sure. Will I see her again? I'm not sure. If she invites me out again, I'd do it if my schedule allowed.

As for her, as a woman, physically she's totally fuckable. That's my problem, though, with Chicago women. The ones who want me are really not my type. The ones I want don't have an attraction to me. So I move on these railroad tracks, softly sliding over the hills and valleys, not really looking back but also unsure of the road ahead.

It's always great to meet someone who reads me, or who I read. This gal was pleasant, fun, jovial with an obvious air of sexual desire for SOMETHING, just not me. I hope things get spiced up with her boyfriend, or that she meets someone that she can't stop touching because she needs to.

That's what I look for. The gal who meets me and just needs to feel her hand on some part of my body, even for a glancing moment. It's electric for her, and it opens the door for me to pursue, woo, envelope, tease and inhale. In time, I'm sure she'll appear. Hopefully before the summer is over.

It was nice meeting you, "Lily," and I hope we can share breakfast again. Thanks for some interesting questions, and thanks for some heart-felt answers. I hope I was everything you thought I'd be with a little surprise thrown in for good measure.

Breakfast with Lilies, Part I

I woke up too early. I had my mental alarm clock set for 6am, but I pounced awake at 5am because something didn't feel right. I live in a ghetto neighborhood of a prominent town, as I have always. Wherever I move, I find the ghetto. I prefer the ghetto, there is more to do, there is more vibrancy. The wise people float to the top of the shit pile, form a union of barter and negotiation; we watch each other's back.

I sleep really deep -- World War III won't wake me up, but if I think my neighbors or my own property is being penetrated by a vile creature, I am up and conscious and defensive/offensive immediately. My cat looked up at me and licked her paws in shame of her daddy bouncing up, fully naked, at nothing.

Pulling my sleeping pants on, I went into the hallway and realized what I was nervous about: the neighbor was trying to break into his own apartment on the top floor. I wandered up there, asked if he needed help. 5 minutes later, I popped the lock on his door and told him to get a more secure lock. He was thankful.

As I wandered down, I logged onto my Google Mail account for this blog to see what lovely emails I had received from the night before. While I love email from all of you, I especially love the emails from the foreigners halfway around the globe. When you're about to get off of work, I'm waking up. I promise some of you that someday I will come and visit, just for the simple fact that I am greatly entertained by your random expressions. There's also a few of you who are worthy of being bent over the rickshaw or the rice paddy float or whatever other prejudice thing I can think of.

Nonetheless, I was up. A quick shower, just to rinse down from a sweaty eventless night (plus I wanted all traces of the manspooge gone from my belly hair), fed the cat, Swiffer WetJet'd the kitchen and living room floors, and noticed I was out of eggs.

I get fresh eggs delivered 2 times a week to my humble tiny apartment from a dairy farm. Eggs, cheese, heavy cream (pasteurized but not homogenized!), and sometimes little trinkets that they or their neighbors have grown. Sadly, today is the day for the next delivery, and I made too many eggs since Friday. Damn it.

Ask I pondered a low sugar protein bar instead, my "phone" rang. That's what I say when someone pops open a chat to yours truly. My friends find it comical, my clients and employees find it annoying. I almost always say, out loud, "Hello?" when I hear that lovely bloop sound.

It's a Guest. That means I have no idea who it could be. I look outside and notice the sun hasn't crested over the top of the apartment complex, leading me to think it is shy of 6am. I check my clock, which shows that I'm short of noon, according to GMT, my preferred time zone.

I say good morning/good afternoon, not knowing where this person is from. "Good morning. You're up?" I am. "At home still?" For now. "What's your plan?" Car wash. Maybe lunch with someone. "In the city?" Maybe. Which city, I have no idea. Who is this? "A reader."

Oooh, anonymous. Sexy. I am not one to dive into mystery too much, I prefer to dole it out. I'm not a chatwhore or a mailwhore, but I never mind a new friend or two online. Offline, I have little time for more people until I dump the remaining 9 friends who are on my axe list.

"Want to get breakfast?" they ask, before my reply completes. I hit the backspace key to erase my reply. What town are you in? "Chicago." Have we met before? "We've never talked before." Email? "No."

Hmm. When this person asked to get breakfast, I made a short list of who it could be. 4 possibilities, 5 if I included one person who would be obviously making a joke. What the hell, I'm out of fucking eggs and I look good after my shower. "So?" they ask again, a little impatient.

First, I didn't shave today so I look extra scruffy. "I don't care. I don't even know what you look like." Second, I don't know if you're male or female, so I think we should at least describe each other. "So that's a yes." Impatient, aren't you? "I work at 10am." Oh, on a time limit. Fine, what area? "Closer to the loop. Or convenient to the El." I throw out an idea.

"I haven't been there before, but fine." I throw on some slacks (grey with pink pinstripes), a pair of shoes I just acquired but haven't worn in, a dress shirt that I've been wanting to wear (pink, linen) and avoid the tie. Of course my cufflines are a mess, so I grab a pair of Turk's heads instead. Americans don't wear Turk's heads, ever. It's a nice change of pace, and 99% of people don't even notice them.

I zip back a reply: I can be there in 40 minutes. "Exactly?" Or whenever you're ready. "How about 8 instead?" 8 is fine, that gives me time to find coffee. "See you at 8, Sane."

Her description of herself: 26, 5'5", athletic fit, summer brunette (light), blue eyes, glasses (YES, cock-in-mouth), will be wearing a green casual dress. So she's a female, that's interesting. So far, I've yet to get any man-date requests from the 2 guys who are supposedly reading, lurking, fearing whatever it is that they fear so they don't post or at least say hi. Time to de-lurk, men. I know you're out there.

I break into the car and notice some lilies are blooming. When was it hot enough or wet enough for the lilies to come out, I have no idea. I like lilies, they remind me that the hot of summer has come, but in Chicago this is untrue. Poor lilies, reaching the peak of their lives late, I guess. I pop a few of my post-bulb beauties off to keep in the car as a reminder of my hard work and the dirt I had under my fingernails not that long ago.

Traffic is fine. I zip downtown and drop my car off at my usual lot, the owner a long time friend. I wander the area, missing my office in this part of town, talked to a few business owners just opening up their lighting galleries or furniture showrooms. It's early, very early, but the city is alive. The El passes overhead and I'm thankful for my earplugs, which I always wear near public transportation. You can't make it to your 30s with great hearing with a box of the ugly orange 28db plugs at the ready.

I have no idea who this person is. I know I've never talked to her, and she mentioned her name and I have no idea who she is. Still, I like meeting bloggers, and I will go out of my way to do so because you're all such interesting folk.

I finish my slow-paced walk around my old 'hood and finally make it to the restaurant we chose. It's a perfect day for a walk, and I may do more of it later, if these new shoes weren't bugging my ankles. Nordstrom FAIL, these fuckers are going back.

I look at the sun and estimate it to be around 8, so I have one more cigarette outside when I notice a brunette in a green dress. A lovely specimen of a young lady, she smiles at me with a crooked smile behind her awesome and sexy glasses. Her hips shake just enough, but more to the left than the right which tells me that her purse is really heavy.

She walks up to me and we shake hands. "You're exactly what I was expecting." One of my eyebrows raises in surprise, since most people's fantasies about what I look like are far from reality. "You're short, but you do stand tall." I laugh as I open the door for her, flicking my cigarette almost 15 feet away with a tap of my middle finger.

The restaurant isn't too busy, which is sad. 2 years ago, their morning crowd was always pretty thick. I guess the interior design "artists" have their credit cards maxed out and can't afford $20 for breakfast anymore. Their loss, my gain, but I really prefer busy restaurants because the food is fresher, usually.

We sit at our table and she smiles nervously. I ask her if she's nervous. "Hell yeah, you could be a crazy murderer and if I'm late to work, I'll get fired." Late because I killed you? "Exactly."

I smile.

Continued in part II.