Women can be heartless, I tell ya. A pair of finely aged specimens sat next to me and my Deep Eddy Vodka last night. One did a few swipes in the car on their way over. She informed us that one particular swipee was on his way to meet her.
“What do you know about this fella?” I asked.
“Nothing. He had a cute picture, so I told him to come meet me. Why waste time, you know?”
“I hear ya.”
“Until we meet face-to-face I have no idea if there’s chemistry.”
“What if there’s none?”
“Then I’ll get rid of him.”
“Jesus, you sound like my uncles back in the day.”
“Italian thing. Never mind.”
So we sat and chatted as she lubed up the chassis (added enough alcohol to her system to help his chances). I understood her asking him by when her friend and I were potential witnesses. Even creepy men tend to behave in crowds. I would never have a prospect meet me while a buddy is nearby. That never ends well. Rather take my chances solo, and keep my balls unbusted.
So, homeboy shows up, and I can tell by her reaction it will be a pit stop for him. He wisely orders an iced tea, thus limiting his losses.
I thought he was handsome enough, but my standards are hardly comparable to most women’s. For me it’s like matching ties and shirts. This goes with that. Hence, I could picture the two of them as the next bar-side couple to gross me out with face-slobbering PDA.
He left his two dollars, tucked his tail, and headed back into the jungle. The dew hadn’t sufficient time to condense on his glass before it was over.
“Christ, woman! What was that all about?”
“I could tell the minute I saw him it wasn’t going to happen.”
“You’re speaking like a superficial dude.”
“Look, I couldn’t see myself fucking him, so he had to go. He wasn’t as cute as his pictures. I was worried he might be a redhead, which is a ‘hell no’ for me.”
“Didn’t he have gray hair?”
“Yes, but it used to be red. I can tell.”
This is precisely the reason why I cuddle my ale avoid ego bruising denials.