Sour Dick-Sucking Lips (Part 4)


Four hours later my phone rings. It’s her. The worst thing I can do is pick up the phone but that’s exactly what I do because I’m deathly afraid that if I don’t speak to her now I will have to play phone tag for several more days. That would kill the seduction for sure. She has the power and I’m still in a spell, but at least I’m aware I’m in the spell, which is one step away from snapping out of it. I call her out indirectly about taking so long to call by saying “Finally.” She doesn’t apologize or give me an excuse, which is worrying. During our short conversation we set up a date for the next night at a hotel bar that I suggested. After the call I get a thought: “She’s not shy, you idiot, she’s cold.”

The next day she texts me a few hours before the date and asks to relocate to a bar closer to her neighborhood. I reply “Okay,” but I’m livid. “She better have a damn good excuse,” I say to myself, and pack up my things from the coffee shop where I was tunneling through Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev. I begin to walk and take the long route so I can be late, and pass by pant-suited women wearing sneakers and bald men walking tiny dogs. A tall brunette with curly hair approaches on the left and gives me a half-second glance then looks down and to the right and in my head I’m thinking what I’m going to say to Rachel about changing plans, and if this really is a lost cause and I should just stand her up right there at the bar and at least make her feel like horseshit. The spell is weakening, and my anger is still high and my lower lip is pushing up on my upper lip into the early stage of a frown, and I walk into the bar 20 minutes late to find her drinking alone, almost done with a bubble glass of red wine. She is playing with her phone, either because she’s bored or because doesn’t want to appear like a total loser. I accept that I have zero power with her. I tell myself to do everything possible to fuck her tonight but deep inside I know that it’s absolutely not going to happen.

She has her hair back into a complicated bun so that her eyes and forehead are visible. I like it because I knew it took some time to do. She has on a slight v-neck sweater that draws my eyes down to her small breasts and her lips are gleaming like usual. The sight of her appearance relaxes me slightly and I tell myself that the fact she is here, looking good for me, is a positive sign and she really does like me and I should just make the most of it.

I am slightly distant and out-of-sorts for the first hour of the date. I ramble on about insignificant matters, like the nude painting on the wall and the schizophrenic weather, waiting for the Johnnie Walker Black to kick in and for her to do something that allows me to say this is all worth it and I’m not wasting my time and lifeblood. As if she senses this she reaches into her large purse and pulls out The Rum Diary by Hunter S. Thomspon and hands it to me: “I think you’ll like this.” Pleased, I pull out my beaten copy of The Unbearable Lightness Of Being from my bag, since I always leave it in my bag to show girls I meet in coffee shops (so they think I’m deep), and hand it to her. I tell her that by noting passages I’ve marked in the book she will learn more about me than she can by mere casual conversation. She doesn’t make a comment about this and I realize that I made a grave mistake and should not have given her the book because she won’t get it. I tighten the muscles in my forehead and something is telling my mouth to open and my vocal chords to vibrate and without thinking I say, “Look, this is my only copy. If we don’t happen to see each other again I’m going to ask you to mail it back to me.” She laughs and then I look at her with wide open eyes and say, “I’m serious.” She is still laughing, and I realize that I will never see her again.

Our legs have been touching for a while around the knee. I ask her why she is sitting so far away from me. She moves closer, my hands find homes around her thigh and hip and lower back and we kiss, but it wasn’t nearly as good as the first time because the spell was much weaker. Still, it’s good, because I love her lips.

A little bit after the kiss the topic gets on schooling and I ask her what her major in college was. I’m on my third drink, and so is she. The cocktailer brings us two complimentary Jameson shots because they were out of some frou-frou drink she tried to order earlier. They sit on the table, untouched.

“Woman’s studies.”

“What?!” I fake surprise. Only a chick as cold as her could be a card-carrying feminist.

“WO-MAN’S STU-DIES.” She says it in a way that suggests other men have been just as disappointed as me.

“Well that explains everything.” I say, smug-like.

“What do you mean?”

“It explains why you’re cold like all the white chicks I’ve dated.” Maybe I should have used the word “frigid” instead of “cold” but I think that would have ended the date immediately. I soften it all with a smirk but her face shows she doesn’t care for the comment. I feel tricked because the only reason I approached her was because she looked South American. “False advertising,” I mumble, but actually I’m happy to learn that none of this is my fault. There is a limit to what game can accomplish: unfortunately it can’t undo four years of brainwashing that teaches impressionable young women that they are actually better than men.

I pour a third of her shot into mine. We both drink our shots, and now I’m feeling a glimmer of hope I may actually hit tonight, because she doesn’t move her body away from me after I call her cold and she has nearly four servings of alcohol in her system. She’s a small girl so I know she’s feeling loose. Half-an-hour passes. I ask for the check. It’s $55. She plops her Powerpuff Girls MasterCard on the check presenter but I slide it off. It’s a bad habit that I only let girls pay after I fuck them, which generally isn’t a problem when it happens by the end of the first date. Maybe I’m still spellbound, who knows. I tip $20 to show the cocktailer appreciation for the Jamesons.

We start the walk to her place. It’s about seven blocks away and I briefly consider hailing a cab because it’s cold but I don’t want to spend any more money on her. Our arms are locked in the French style and there isn’t much conversation. There’s nothing specific I can think of that would warm her up to getting banged in moments time. I see both sides of this problem: on one hand if I keep talking I can distract her from what it is I want her to do, but on the other hand a silence can allow her to fantasize about having me deep inside her, assuming that’s where she’s at. Also, if I talk too much I may say something stupid at the absolute worse time to do such a thing. Tonight I pick silence, but after I bring up one thing…


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