“Something like that.” Of course, if I were even remotely interested in this woman, I’d tell her the backstory of the whole pirates-and-rum theme decorating my body, but I don’t care nearly enough to bother.
“So freaking sexy,” my date says. She bites her lip. “I’d definitely like to see your bottle of rum.” She bites her lip. “And touch it.” She reaches across the table and brushes her fingertips across my hand. “Any time.”
Well, that wasn’t subtle.If there were a class on “How to Tell a Man You Want to Fuck Him Tonight Without Saying the Words ‘I Want to Fuck You Tonight,’” this woman could teach that class.
There’s a long beat.
Apparently, she’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m not in the mood to say a damned thing.
“So, you’re a fan of pirates, huh?” she finally asks, filling the awkward silence.
“Yup,” I say blandly.
“Cool,” she replies, like I’ve just said something eminently interesting.
I smirk to myself. This would be funny if it weren’t so fucking painful.
I open my mouth and close it again, unable to muster the energy for small talk.
She smiles at me. “Are you shy, Ryan?”
I smile at her. I’ve never been called shy a day in my life. But shyness would be the kindest excuse for our blatant lack of chemistry, so I decide to throw the poor woman a bone. “Yes, I’m very shy.”
“Well, don’t worry—I happen to love shy men.” She winks. “And, by the way, you’re doing great.”
Thank God, the waitress appears with our drinks, camouflaging the awkwardness of the moment, and I quickly take a long gulp of my liquid painkiller.
After a moment, What’s-Her-Name puts down her margarita and flashes me her most seductive smile. “I’m sure everyone tells you this all the time,” she says, “but you have the most beautiful eyes.”
Oh my God. It’s all I can do not to roll my “beautiful” eyes and run out of the restaurant screaming. This isn’t a conversation, it’s a prolonged Instagram post. “Thanks,” I say. I take a deep breath. “You, uh, have really beautiful hair.”
Kaylie-Kyla-Katie pets her dark hair from root to end like it’s a cat on top of her head. “Thanks. I use this conditioner from Brazil infused with tree nut oil—it really fortifies the shaft.” She tugs on a thick chunk of her hair, apparently demonstrating the efficacy of her Brazilian conditioner. Either that, or she’s demonstrating how she’d yank my shaft if given half the chance.
I shift in my seat. “So, hey, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself... please?” Yeah, that “please” got tacked onto the end there because I suddenly realized the name I was about to call her—“Kendra”—probably wasn’t right.
Thankfully, my uninteresting date takes the bait and launches into what’s sure to be a lengthy and painfully uninteresting monologue, thereby giving me some much-needed time to gather my thoughts.
Okay, so yeah, my fixation on Samantha these past six weeks hasn’t been rational—what kind of loon doesn’t feel attraction for a single woman for six fucking weeks because he can’t stop comparing every goddamned woman he meets to some flight attendant he chatted with in a bar? In my defense, though, I think my complete withdrawal from womankind these past six weeks hasn’t been so much about Samantha,per se, as my need to regroup after the whole Olivia fiasco. I mean, Jesus, getting involved with that woman was felony stupid—a lapse in judgment I’ll never understand—which means taking time off to figure my shit out is a smart and mature thing to do. Yeah, that’s it—I’m just being smart and mature.
Honestly, as I’m putting some real thought into this, I’d be willing to bet my super-charged attraction to Samantha that night six weeks ago had less to do with Samantha herself and more to do with my fractured state of mind that particular night. I bet if I met Samantha for the first time tonight—maybe downstairs at that real-estate mixer—there’d be no more chemistry with her than I’m feeling right now with Kiera-Kylie-Kendra.
What’s-Her-Name giggles loudly, drawing my attention to her monologue: “And so, I finally decided to get into mortgage banking because, obviously, my childhood dreams of becoming a ballerina weren’t gonna pan out, especially not with boobs like these!”
I glance at her boobs, note the objective beauty of them, and tune out again.
You know what? I’m acting crazy. What the fuck am I hoping to achieve by imitating a monk these days? Yeah, sure, Iprefersex with a partner I want to see again and again, but it’s not a necessity. I used to be a total manwhore back in the day. What the fuck happened to that guy? As I well know, sometimes, sex can be about nothing more than sex and there’s nothing wrong with that. I certainly don’t need to sit around for another six weeks (or, God forbid,months), saving myself for a woman Henn might never find.
Yeah, fuck it.
Time to get back on the horse and stop acting like a fucking lunatic-monk.
I tune back into whatever my date is saying, poised to suggest we take our food “to go” and maybe eat it at my place... but the minute I hear what she’s saying (“... and that’s why I prefer Chihuahuas to huskies!”), my dick shakes its little head, flips me the bird, and says, “Fuck naw, motherfucker—fuck naw.”
“Excuse me, Kendra,” I blurt, bolting upright.
Her face falls. “Kelsey.”
I cringe. God, I’m such a dick. “Sorry. I just remembered I have an important call to make. I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for a reply, I stride toward the front of the restaurant, swiping through my contacts list for Henn’s phone number as I go, just as the song overhead in the restaurant flips to a new song: “Bailando” by Enrique Iglesias.
