Big Bad Bill

Bill, Samantha's father, has an interesting sense of humor.

I was feeling domestic after having dinner with my pregnant, married friend, and decided to catch up with my ex-girlfriend, Sam. We ended up spending the evening together: she cut my hair, we recounted stories of recent lovers - hers involving none but big-dicked Rick, and told notable stories. Here's my favorite of hers:

Sam and her father were standing in line, buying groceries for Sam's sick mother. Her father, the plump, jovial, childlike fellow that he is, spotted the condoms by the register and thought it an apt time for a father/daughter practical joke. He giggled and proposed his idea.

"Sammy, wouldn't it be funny if you took one of those condom boxes and said, 'Daddy, are these the same condoms we used last night?'"

I feel for the guy who wakes up to Sam dreaming about that.

Mean Street

Morgan didn't go home with me the night of the bar, but a simple concert date later and a drink back at my new apartment (see paragraph 3 of blog entry "Right Now") led to sex. We both knew it felt a little forced, but neither of us cared. We were playing the same game and had the same intentions.

Morgan had given herself tattoos, which we discussed for twenty minutes before undressing. She was very easy with her skirt, with lying down, with spreading her legs. A little practiced. While most girls enable penetration in their own, uniquely coy way, Morgan let the routine run its course without the slightest signature or stamp on it.

Drowning in the ebb and flow of routine, I asked if she was okay, or if there was anything I could do differently. She grunted to keep going, annoyed at the question, as if it only stalled the inevitable finish.

If she wasn't going to communicate, I would have to move on without her. Just when she felt me releasing, her chipmunk cheeks rose to form a smile. Her eyes opened and peered at me, anticipating. What was it about my coming that woke this girl up? Encouraged, I let it go, and she grinned bigger than I had ever seen her, far bigger than she had from my bad rum joke at the bar on Friday.

After a quiet tea in the kitchen, I asked her if she wanted to spend the night or if she wanted me to take her home. I thought I'd give her the option, as a beautiful body is always welcome in my bed, but I didn't want her to feel trapped without her car here.

This is where the night got weirder.

She said she'd go, but I didn't need to give her a ride home, citing the distance. I assured her that it wasn't too far, and that I'd be happy to. Nevertheless, she began dialing her friend's number. I took her empty tea cup to the sink, allowing her privacy.

When I returned, she grabbed her purse and started for the front door.

"Oh, is your friend coming already?" I asked.

"I couldn't get in touch with her," she admitted.

I didn't understand why she was leaving. I reiterated that she could stay the night, or that I'd be happy to take her home myself. She wanted neither and said that she'd take a cab.

"Okay..." I thought. She told me I didn't have to wait with her, but I followed her out anyway. My apartment isn't in the safest neighborhood and, besides, I'm the type of guy to watch my date walk all the way into her house and lock the door behind her before driving away.

She stayed silent as I stood there.

"Did you give the cab my address?"

"No."

"Where'd you tell it to meet you?"

"I actually couldn't find the number for the cab. Do you think I can catch one down there?"

She started toward the six-lane drag near my house. I told her the chance of catching a cab at this hour was slim, but the desperation and determination in her eyes made me feel sorry to question her.

I started toward my car, keys out. "Look, my car's right here. I'll take you home." I was getting short. Her lack of logic was getting the best of my grace.

She kept walking. I jumped in my car. Followed her in first gear. "Well, I'm going in that direction, so if you want to hop in, I'll even put the fancy sunroof down." (It was an '87 Volvo - nothing fancy about it.)

She stood at the corner, watching the traffic lights turn with no cabs in sight. "Come on, please get in," I asked firmly.

"Please think of the sleep you're missing worrying about me."

I couldn't detect any sarcasm. Was her sense of self-worth really that low to value my sleep more than her safety? Couldn't be.

"All right, I'm heading to your place right now, and you can come with me if you want. But I'm going all the way to your place, regardless."

She just watched me drive away. I headed toward the freeway and pulled over once I was out of sight. She really made me take it that far. I had no idea what my next move was. Then I got a text message:

"Sorry about the drama, I really would have preferred to spend the night w you, but I am insanely stubborn."

Really? That was it? She assumed that my offer to drive her home meant that I wanted her to leave. My feminist attempt to give her choice and freedom had backfired.

I pulled up beside her. "Will you please sleep with me tonight?"

She smiled and got in. I didn't sleep very well next to her last night, though she snoozed like a baby. I couldn't reconcile her severe reaction when her manner had been so tempered all evening.

I drove Morgan home early this morning with the sunroof down all the way. She asked to be dropped off a few blocks from her house (at 24, she lives with her dad), and I figured that she would be safe at ten in the morning. It was a pedestrian neighborhood, and I knew her house was around the corner.

As I started pulling away, I looked through my rear view mirror and watched her walk into a bar.

Everybody Wants Some!!

Picking up a girl in a bar is no simple task for men like me. There is no easy "in": no mutual friend, school, nor organization. One is left with the bar itself as the only common ground.

Well, that's when it dawned on me: The bar. Use the bar.

What is there to discuss in a bar? The bartender. The clientele. The music. The decor. It might sound silly, but that's exactly why it works. No girl wants me to attempt depth at first contact. The bar is fun, immediate, and neutral. The only challenge is making it interesting.

I saw the girl I wanted. She had puckered lips and chipmunk cheekbones. Her long legs and short waist seemed perfect for bell bottoms, but she wore short shorts. No guys around her; better without competition.

I could talk about her: her clothes, her hair, her figure, her face. Every girl likes to talk about herself, but do I know how to talk about her? Probably not. The chance of me talking about her in a way she likes is slim. And besides, every other guy's plan is to talk about her to her. Better I not.

She was near enough to me and in a conversational lull.

There was nothing funny or noteworthy about the bartender. A remark regarding the clientele might come off as judgmental. For me, talking about music is risky, as most hip girls tend to know more about it than I do. I chose the decor.

"Do you think the designer of this bar was trying to make us feel like we were in the belly of a pirate ship?"

Yeah, I went out on a limb with that one. But the wooden panels on the walls really did speak to 16th century sea voyages.

She didn't laugh, but she did reply with a studied glance at the walls and a few words in the affirmative. It wasn't a dismissal.

Now that we were on a pirate ship together, I succumbed to the corny joke and told her it was ironic that they didn't serve rum at the bar. An idiotic thing to say, but she smiled anyway, in spite of herself. She probably had a good relationship with her dad.

The music was loud. I had to keep moving toward her face when I talked, and made an effort to breathe ever so slightly into her ear while speaking. I always liked when girls did that to me. It was a good sign that she didn't back away.

Too lazy to get up on her tippy toes, she pulled my earlobe gently down to her mouth. The touch was nice. She told me her name: Morgan.

Stupidly, shamelessly, it was on.