“Come here, you.” His handsome face was crisscrossed with shadow from the streetlight by a naked winter tree but I could see him well enough to know he was staring at my mouth with something between a cocky grin and vodka-soaked lust. I laughed and did as he asked, crushing my lips against his, his tongue invading my mouth like a Spanish conquistador, taking every inch of space that had formerly been occupied by my native taste buds. It was a little overwhelming but I admit that, opening my eyes enough to see his through the vapor cloud of our intermingled breath, I thought for a fleeting moment it would be worth it to keep kissing him if it meant I could have sex with him. He was very….pretty. I’ve never been with a man quite so pretty. He even wears his hair longish, as if he’s going for the leading role in a period film or trying out for a romance novel modeling gig.
And he knows he is too, which leads me to wonder what the hell he saw in me–I am not what you would call petite, I am not particularly well-proportioned by American standards. I am adorable, yes, but I’m not the buxom girl with a tiny waist on the cover of your summer reading per se. I’m more the girl dudes like to dance with at a bar because she’s got hips they can grab and a round ass that shakes when she wiggles it and lips that make you want to grab her on a streetcorner and make out with her in front of all of New York.
But I am also not looking to hook up with someone based on just his looks and his hot hot hubris. No no, I’m on a noble quest to find /love/ or whatever, so I pulled away and stared at him for a moment. I felt like asking him what he wanted from me but I didn’t have to since his hands were under my coat, grabbing at my round derriére.
I declined his gracious invitation to host me at his apartment for a “Jeopardy marathon” (this guy totally knows how to bag a chick like me) in favor of a trip to a nearby diner for a late dinner. I doted on him there, putting on my best girly faces; the pouty lips, the batting lashes, the blushing cheeks. I poked fun at his vulnerabilities and at my own, I laughed at his jokes, I tucked my feet between his and when he reached his hands across the table I rested my cheek on them and kissed the palms in a gesture that surprised even me with its familiarity. I blushed and felt my chest swell with a sharp inhalation. He tilted his head to one side and something changed in his face, as if I had suddenly come into focus for him.
He became restless, we got the check, I offered to pay but he refused, saying, “you’re too pretty to pay.” It was exactly the right thing to say. Another woman might have been flattered but I found it patronizing. It was practiced and calculated, one of a series of subtle moves designed to checkmate me into his bed. I’m not by a longshot the first girl he’s said this to, not even in the last month.
He told me his last name so naturally I Googled him that night. I found a poetry book he published a few years ago and a blog. On the latter I discovered a post about how he broke up with his serious long-term girlfriend just four months ago an then went on a streak of sexual conquests brought on by figuring out how to show only confidence and no insecurity. How to be a “playa,” so to speak. Ha, I thought, I knew I smelled a rat. I knew something was up with this guy. I knew I was being played.
But then I thought about the list. At the diner, not long after I kissed his palm, he admitted to me that he’d written a checklist of information about me. He showed it to me. The way he presented it was as if standing naked before me for the first time and waiting to hear me judge him. I loved the list. I delighted in watching him squirm when I stole it and tucked it away in my bra. After the diner he kissed me more intensely than before, grabbing at me and biting my neck and threading his fingers through my hair. My positive reaction to his vulnerability, or rather my lack of negative reaction, seemed to be an aphrodisiac of sorts. I invited him to share a taxi with me, partially because I liked being with him and wanted to prolong it and partially because I wanted to tease him into thinking there was a chance I might go to his apartment. He gathered me up into his lap and filled my mouth with his tongue again. This time I liked it. I wanted him to push it farther then suddenly we were at his place and I kissed him and pushed him out of the cab and said goodnight.
He likes being vulnerable to me. Is that a sign that he’s looking for more than just a game? If so, what’s with the recycled flattery? Then again, who am I kidding, we all know he wants to get in my pants so there’s my answer. The fact is that I want to get in his too; I simply want a loving relationship enough to put him at bay if he doesn’t. I guess it’s just a matter of how the game is played out.
