Was it a fig or a date, Part III?

I promise this is the end of this mini-series, for those of you who love to skip to the end. I almost wrote a fake last 2 paragraphs, just to piss you off. Cheaters.

We drove back to her place, which was not too far from the little wine bar. She was giggling a lot in the car, which can either be a BIG turn off, or a BIG turn on. Since she was drunk, I decided not to really judge the act. It WAS cute, though.

She asked me some questions about my recent writing work and I waxed ecstatic about some projects that are in the editing phase and two projects that are being pitched for wider distribution. She seemed interested, but every time I hit a speed bump, her hand would tap my hand "accidentally" and she giggled again.

I looked over at her, the seat a little further back than the normal position. She has a nice face, a good profile, a cute smile, and a pretty decent small rack. From a physical standpoint, she has many good attributes. Her life is stable enough (which can be a little boring, actually), has a good temperament, but in terms of personality we don't click. She's way too prudish, and I think it would be wise for her to keep herself that way. I have been known to turn good girls into rip-roaring-whoring-gals in the bedroom. While none have ever complained, I _have_ heard them complain about future beaus not being as adventurous in the sack as I.

We pulled up to her house and there was a spot 3 cars down from her door. I got out of the car and helped her out of her side. She'd noticeably sobered up a little on the short hop back to her place. I did have to help her a little bit, but she wasn't sloppy drunk, just happy drunk.

As I held her apartment's screen door open for her, she put her hand on my shoulder. "I'm not asking you in for sex, but you should come in for a little while." I smiled at her and told her that while I would absolutely LOVE to oblige her, I didn't want to be her bad boy. She pulled my shoulder closer to her, and with a small taste of wine on her breath, she said "No bad boy needed, just some fun on the couch." Then she kissed me on the lips.

It was obvious that was her ploy, but she was wasted and I wasn't. She's a good girl and I'm far from a good boy. If I went in, the night would not end well.

I could use some sex, really I could. Local sex would be nice. Better than the booty-call, I would gladly accept a smoochy-call from someone and keep it friendly. But with this gal, I just didn't feel right. She obviously has well designed boundaries that she's proud of and lives by, and I don't think taking advantage of her when she's been drinking would be the move of a gentleman.

I broke her kiss, put my hands on her back (just to check) and ran my fingers up to her shoulder. Her body gave a tiny convulsion, which told me exactly what I needed to know: this nice, sweet gal shouldn't be alone in her apartment with Mr. Sane. She pulled me back for another kiss but I turned my head a little and her lips sloppily hit the side of my mouth and my cheek.

"So you really don't want to come in?" No, I want to come in, but it's a bad idea. "Do you think I'm ugly?" Oh my god no. I just think I'm the wrong kind of guy for you. "What kind of guy is for me?" Someone with a good job, good morals, who mows the lawn and has a similar lifestyle to yours. "Oh, they're boring." She's obviously still drunk.

I ask her for her keys and open the door after trying 3 different ones. I open her apartment door on the first try, though, and lay her down on her couch. I even removed her shoes and put her purse on the kitchen counter. She was tired, her eyes falling slowly. I smooched her on the forehead, and thanked her as she sleepily waved at me goodnight.

Back in my car, back on the road, back to my cat and my apartment and my solitude that I know I needed right now.

Maggie is a great gal, there is no doubt about it. I can't do a great gal now, not just sexually. I have no desire to lead anyone on. I see so many friend bloggers and real life friends who are dicked around by scum and scoundrels and I don't want to be that guy.

Now, if a cute, sexy, hot, fun, fuckable and vulgar gal came my way who was comfortable with my situation, that'd be another story. But for now, Little Fire Hydrant stays in his pants, and Chicago $ane sleeps with his kitty. And I'm OK with that.

It's bizarre: I have no problem meeting golddigging whores bags or hot model types, but I have no desire for either. When Miss Average comes around, she ALWAYS shuns me. I haven't dated an average looking woman in over 15 years. Then you have a cute, sexy, responsible gal like Maggie, and I don't even want to touch her because I don't want to spoil her for the next, better guy who is more in line with her life.

Maybe I'm becoming soft. My mother definitely taught me too well. Thanks, mom.

The best nights end in being flustered

Saturday night was uneventful.  I dressed up, as every man should do for a Saturday.  It doesn't take long, just a few minutes of thought, an ironing board, some shoe shine (even on new shoes, yes), and a shower, floss and nail clip.

I love Chicago.  I'm pretty sick of Chicago guys and the women that love them.  Don't get me wrong, at least once a week I run into a woman who actually makes me look twice.  But the ratty, haggard, age-d looking folk I've been seeing is just hard to navigate for me.  Either they're faking it up on the outside, or their ruined inside is showing through completely.  Where are the ladies and the gentlemen?  Where are the smiles and the laughter, other than those who are completely drunk on the whitey-boy equivalent to Mad Dog (PBR)?

So I ended the night early, glad to be home.  I had fun, don't get me wrong.  I laughed and smiled and made people laugh and smile, but I'm hungry for a Saturday where I can actually blink my eyes in surprise.  I want to be speechless.

My friend Rachel called me this morning to wish me a Happy Mother's Day.  I guess I'm a mom: I clean my house, I cook, I kiss my daughter (the cat) goodbye every morning and hello every evening before feeding her, I walk my neighbor's dog and I do my own basic laundry (plus drop off dry-cleaning).  Rachel is the one person in the world who knows how to pull my heart strings about life.  And no, I never slept with her.

She asked me how dating is going, and I told her that there are many interesting girls in Chicago, sexy ones, fun ones, hot ones and cute ones.  There are a few pretty ones (which is a hard bar to cross in my mind because it has nothing to do with outside appearance.  Where are the stunners, inside and out?  Where are the most lovely of lovelies?

Don't get me wrong: I'm not looking for one.  You can't if you're a man.  The minute a woman smells desperation, she'll hit the road because desperate men are scary.  I was only desperate twice in my life for companionship and both led to codependent and hurtful relationships.  I don't do that again.  I told Rachel that I'd honestly be just fine with a sugar-baby: when she's with me, she'll be a woman in nice clothes, her hair done, her nails clean and painted, her belly full with good food, her head only slightly buzzed with good wine in small amounts.  

There's something fun about that relationship: holding hands and laughing at the world, casting hilarious glances at the rest of the world, wandering through life for a short while together only when we want to be together rather than being forced together because of a lease or a debt or a loneliness.  She asked if I had any prospects.  Not really.  She asked if I pitched it lately.  I didn't.  She's right: I need to pitch it to those who aren't perfect to see their reaction.

When I date, actively date, it's a numbers game only.  I will ask for the phone number of every cute, pretty, sexy, hot, beautiful, lovely or amazing woman I meet.  I once had a day where I was so busy I ran into 10 women who fit in one of those categories and ended up with zero numbers.  2 days later, I ran into 5 women of the same types and got all 5.  5 out of 15 is a pretty good percentage for me, usually hovering in the 10% mark.

I really love dating.  Not the conquest, not fucking, not making huge plans for the future, but just dating.  There's something great about taking a cute gal or a beautiful woman out for dinner and getting her home by 11 and waiting a week to call again.  Yes, a week.  I'm busy, and if she's not busy, it won't work out.  I don't mean CRAZY busy even: just have friends or other guys they're dating or a book they're reading or a quilt they're quilting.  Something.

This isn't a rant or a complaint.  I was flustered last night because I wanted to see one woman I found attractive, and I don't mean on the outside.  A woman for me is a woman who beams beauty from the inside.  She smiles.  She blushes.  Her baggage of her past is neatly opened and organized and stored away rather than worn on her sleeve.  I didn't see this woman last night, and it was a Saturday: the night of nights to present yourself to society.

Even those I have casual sex with have this quality.  It's not just a girlfriend thing, or a sugar-baby thing, or a casual fuck buddy thing.  It's a woman thing, and I fear greatly for the field of possibilities.  I live in a city where us guys are outnumbered by women, so the odds should be pretty good.  The odds yesterday were terrible, and that's not a night worth discussing much.