Post Love

I left my wife three years ago.
I write about the women that fill up the void.

Intermission Twenty One

I was spending some time with some New Yorkers a while ago, a group of friends who’d taken me in for the weekend and took me around the city like one of their own. On our first night, still getting to know some of the group, I took note of an inside joke revolving around two people I was drinking with. Warren, a boyish looking fellow, had shown up an hour late for a date with Megan, a tall brunette with fantastic legs, and never acknowledged his doing so.

To save face from being the victim in the scenario, Megan said that it had been a pity date. She had had no intentions of making out with him. She followed the low blow up with a line, that stale old line women like to use when they’re on the offensive. Women can tell if they’re going to make out with a guy within fifteen seconds. Then she made a face at Warren. The group laughed. Warren wasn’t one of the guys she wanted to make out with. 

I take a while to warm up to new crowds, and I was only a few beers in. That’s why I didn’t say what I wanted to say. I’ve had a rebuttal to that line for a while now. Always wanted to have a go at a woman after she’s said it, but I figured I’d let it go in the name of our budding and fragile young friendships. That and plain old cowardice, ofcourse. Megan was intimidating in her bold statements, her full lips, long slender neck. Half a bottle of bourbon and five minutes alone and I would have said it.

Fifteen? It takes you fifteen fucking seconds to figure that out? And you’re proud of this? This is your Statement of Powerful Womanhood? It takes me one second. One. And I have no idea what you’re doing with the other fourteen of em. Judging? Contemplating? Picturing a future together? A bank account? Are you testing his confidence within the confines of your inexperienced intuition? Sometimes I’ll take a bus that passes by a busy intersection, where a crowd of people gets on at any time of the day. I’ll sit there and watch them pile in, one by one, I’ll look at them and give them one second each, would, would, no, guy, would, guy, guy, sorry, would, and so on until the bus starts moving and my eyes roll on over to the ones I would. There’s a lot of people in this world, my dear, and I want to make out with every single one I find attractive. I want to fuck them. I don’t care about the rest. I don’t care about the things you waste your time with for fourteen seconds every time you meet a man. And don’t think that there is something despicable about how I relate to you. Don’t think there is something barbaric or juvenile about it, don’t think to call me a pig or a shallow bastard. I look at you and I want to kiss you. You’re beautiful. And it’s been well over fifteen seconds now that I’ve been putting you in your place. Don’t just stand there, you fool. Kiss me.

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