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.

My readers remember all

Posted while on the road, mobile-blog FTW.

I love that my readers are cogent enough to send me emails reminding me that I should call the waitress I met not that long ago. Thanks to those of you who emailed me.

On my way to meet my gay friend Miguel and his sister Jandra (who, by the way, is the TENTH Jandra I've ever met), I decided to give her a jingle from the car.

I pull up her listing in my phone, listed as "Maggie, Server, Call!" and let it ring a few times. I don't leave voice mails if I am calling someone to ask them out. I figure I'll let it get to 4 and then just hang up when the call is answered.

"Sane." Whoa, how'd you know it was me? "I learned we have a common friend. And she said you'd call on day 7." FUCK. "Are you nervous that she'll tell me something you don't want me to hear about?" No, you should actually listen to every word she has to say about me.

"What?" I mean it. "Aren't you supposed to say DON'T listen to her?" If I did, you'd pay more attention to her. "I understand your logic. But now that I know you're playing mind games, doesn't it mean I will still?" No, that's why they're mind games.

She laughs, loudly. Then the phone is muffled while she talks to someone else in the room. "Sorry, roommate. OK, I was expecting you to call. Now you're going to ask me out, right?" I'm not sure I even have to answer that, you know what I'll say next. "Two choice for this week?" Right. I laugh. Pick one. "I already did. Tomorrow night, or is that too early?" I laugh again. This is not good. Tuesday is fine.

"Let's see, did you pick Persian and Italian food options?" Close, Indian and Thai. "Oh, not too exciting, are we?" We've yet to see. 8pm? "I can do that. If you still want to go out. Now that I know everything." No one knows everything, and the more people know, the more they actually don't know. "She said you were mysterious." Not mysterious, I'm an open book. It's the closed book who seem not so interesting. "Ok, then it's a date." Is it? Or is it just two friends gossiping about a mutual third?

"I'll see you tomorrow, Sane." Mmmhmmm. If only I knew where to pick you up. "Shit! I live in Lakeview." Figured as much. "What does THAT mean?" I gotta go. I hang up.

So there you have it, fine readers. The Man that they call Sane has a date, of sorts.

Of course, we know it can go nowhere. She knows someone I've met recently, and the word is out. That means she's going to try to be competitive with our mutual friend and see where she can get me. That actually reduces my desire to jump on her and pound her until she melts through the mattress. Sad, too. But it's a date, and I like dates, and I'd like to go on more dates, so I'm going to follow through.

Who wants to bet that we DON'T hit it off, and that neither of us jumps the other one? I bet you a night of cooking, handmade ice cream and casual sex that we don't.

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.

A preface to a possibly eventful evening

I called Stace today, as I said I would, to see if she wanted to get together next week.  She answered her phone, obviously at work.  When a woman doesn't screen your calls, it's usually an obvious sign of attraction.  Bonus points for her.

I told her we should grab dinner next week, maybe Tuesday or Thursday.  "Oh, I'm busy Tuesday but I can cancel."  If a woman cancels something, she's REALLY attracted to something about you.  If I woman says no to your date night choices, she has to counter with another night.  If she doesn't, never call her again.  I told her Thursday is fine, too, and there's no need to cancel.

"Ok, Thursday is fine, what did you have in mind?"  I'm hungry for Thai or maybe Assyrian.  "Assyrian?  Sounds exotic, let's do that!" Easy as pie, friends, when you give a woman two choices.

I told her I'd see her then, and would pick her up at 7 unless 8 was better (two choices).  "7 is good, I'll be ready.  Oh, what are you doing tonight?"  I was going to the Continental to try to meet up with 2 friends.  "Is that set in stone?"  Not really, but I've missed my good people.  "I'd really like to see you tonight, maybe after?"  I usually go to the Cunti (nicknamed because you can always hook up with a grotesque whorish trolly hipster girl after 3am) around 2am.  I told her I'd call her back and let her know.

I stewed about it for an hour, unsure if I wanted to see her this fast.  We just met 5 days ago, and I like to give things time, especially if there's a chance we'll hang out more than a few times.

I don't know if I necessarily like Stace as a woman for me.  First, I picked her at 25, but she's 23 and just out of a semi-long term relationship.  Rebound central, guys.  Second, she's deep in debt, which doesn't bother me, but she's also getting out of her lease in July.  Dangerous rebound.  I don't like to hurt people.  She is attractive, has a very nice body (from what I could tell), and she definitely is into me.

I call her one hour later on the dot and decide to accept.  My friends at the Continental won't miss me at all.   I figure I'd meet up with them later if the date ends early.  Who knows?

"I'm glad you called back!  I kept checking my phone to see if I missed it."  Cute.  Definitely wants to see me.  I tell her I'm free tonight now, but I have an early morning so we should meet up early.  "Can you pick me up from my place?  I'll be home by 5:30, need to shower fast and change, so I'll be done by 7." 7 it is.  She didn't ask where we're going, but I know just the spot, or actually, two spots.

Off to the shower for me.  Trim my beard to 1-day scruff, put on my new Emporio Armani underwear and undershirt (I wear those), maybe take care of some dental care, spray down the car with Febreze and open the windows.

I'm not thinking anything serious is ahead, but who knows.  More details later, for sure.