Dressing Down
I don't use superlatives. I don't know, maybe something is wrong with me, but I've never used a superlative to describe any women I've been with. Except one. And with that one exception, I've never called anyone the best of anything. I also never called any woman that I have been seeing beautiful. I just don't use that word. In some eyes this makes me a distant, callous person. Those people can bite me.
The point is, getting flattery out of me is a bit harder than getting me to admit that I'm wrong. However, having me give unsolicited compliments, is like pulling hen's teeth from a duck. Or something like that.
It happened once...
This is not that story.
Regardless, hidden amongst my many charms, is a skill I do well... Abasing people.
This is that story...
It was hard not to notice her. In a bar teeming with slack-jawed yokels and their lipstick-smeared, big-haired consorts, she couldn't have been more conspicuous. It wasn't that she was jumping up on the tables or causing a stir or laughing that kind of lurching, over-loud guffaw hat comes out of sorority pledges every time they get full of too much hooch. If anything, the woman seemed subdued, almost bored with it all. As a mass of dead-eyed young lotharios reeking of Old Spice made their plays on oily-skinned lasses with stringy hair who looked like they
needed a shoehorn to wedge themselves into their jeans, she stood there, sipping Bushmills, looking for all the world as if there were any place else she'd rather be. And in a crowd like this, that made her the most interesting person in the room by far.
She was puffing on a cigarette that left a thick trail smoke in the air. As the vapor fell, it cascaded down past her graceful neck and then poured past her breasts held in place only by her tight knit gray T-shirt. As it cooled, it fell faster, until it swept and eddied over the denim seams that clung around her elegant hips. A person would walk nearby and the smoke would scurry around her thighs, finally descending past her shapely calves and pool by her open sandals.
After I followed the smoke, I looked up, and found her face, realized that it was finer, fairer than any artist would have carved or painted, if indeed any would attempt. The haze knew better than to dare obscure her face. I found I couldn't look away.
Now, she was a story.
Which I guess is why I found myself standing in front of her, my palms moist from fear and my tongue swelled from the lack of saliva in my dry, pasty mouth. I was standing in front of a honest-to-goodness attractive woman, one with just a hint of blush in her cheek and a striking shade of green in her eyes, and she was actually looking at me, waiting for me to speak.
I was asking for a phone number.
She protested, she hesitated, and she balked. She insisted I shouldn't have the number, and it would never work out. She tried to convince me that a date would be a bad idea. I insisted, I pleaded and in the end she gave up and gave me the number I wanted.
...
Situations like this, sitting around drinking cheap-ass domestic beer while ogling young women, never fail to depress the hell out of me. Maybe it's because the entire setting reeks with the overpowering smell of desperation. Or that the women strike me as utterly unattainable, an especially depressing proposition when you're stuck in Woodbridge. Or maybe it's just because I prefer Bass to domestics.
...
The number I was after wasn't the phone number of the stunning raven-haired maiden whom I had just spoken with, nor was the number of her even more marvelous friend, also at the bar that evening. No, it was the number of somebody that she hated, and spat when the "Bitch's" her name was mentioned.
She told me of things about the "Bitch," to dissuade me. She told me how the "Bitch" was thoughtless, uncaring, and childish. I asked questions, I made comments and finally, I spoke.
"That Bitch and I have one thing in common. We both hate you."
Words like that just don't make the lady-folk swoon.
The point is, getting flattery out of me is a bit harder than getting me to admit that I'm wrong. However, having me give unsolicited compliments, is like pulling hen's teeth from a duck. Or something like that.
It happened once...
This is not that story.
Regardless, hidden amongst my many charms, is a skill I do well... Abasing people.
This is that story...
It was hard not to notice her. In a bar teeming with slack-jawed yokels and their lipstick-smeared, big-haired consorts, she couldn't have been more conspicuous. It wasn't that she was jumping up on the tables or causing a stir or laughing that kind of lurching, over-loud guffaw hat comes out of sorority pledges every time they get full of too much hooch. If anything, the woman seemed subdued, almost bored with it all. As a mass of dead-eyed young lotharios reeking of Old Spice made their plays on oily-skinned lasses with stringy hair who looked like they
needed a shoehorn to wedge themselves into their jeans, she stood there, sipping Bushmills, looking for all the world as if there were any place else she'd rather be. And in a crowd like this, that made her the most interesting person in the room by far.
She was puffing on a cigarette that left a thick trail smoke in the air. As the vapor fell, it cascaded down past her graceful neck and then poured past her breasts held in place only by her tight knit gray T-shirt. As it cooled, it fell faster, until it swept and eddied over the denim seams that clung around her elegant hips. A person would walk nearby and the smoke would scurry around her thighs, finally descending past her shapely calves and pool by her open sandals.
After I followed the smoke, I looked up, and found her face, realized that it was finer, fairer than any artist would have carved or painted, if indeed any would attempt. The haze knew better than to dare obscure her face. I found I couldn't look away.
Now, she was a story.
Which I guess is why I found myself standing in front of her, my palms moist from fear and my tongue swelled from the lack of saliva in my dry, pasty mouth. I was standing in front of a honest-to-goodness attractive woman, one with just a hint of blush in her cheek and a striking shade of green in her eyes, and she was actually looking at me, waiting for me to speak.
I was asking for a phone number.
She protested, she hesitated, and she balked. She insisted I shouldn't have the number, and it would never work out. She tried to convince me that a date would be a bad idea. I insisted, I pleaded and in the end she gave up and gave me the number I wanted.
...
Situations like this, sitting around drinking cheap-ass domestic beer while ogling young women, never fail to depress the hell out of me. Maybe it's because the entire setting reeks with the overpowering smell of desperation. Or that the women strike me as utterly unattainable, an especially depressing proposition when you're stuck in Woodbridge. Or maybe it's just because I prefer Bass to domestics.
...
The number I was after wasn't the phone number of the stunning raven-haired maiden whom I had just spoken with, nor was the number of her even more marvelous friend, also at the bar that evening. No, it was the number of somebody that she hated, and spat when the "Bitch's" her name was mentioned.
She told me of things about the "Bitch," to dissuade me. She told me how the "Bitch" was thoughtless, uncaring, and childish. I asked questions, I made comments and finally, I spoke.
"That Bitch and I have one thing in common. We both hate you."
Words like that just don't make the lady-folk swoon.
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