that I no longer had any chance with Kara in the foreseeable future. Not only were things incredibly awkward, but how could either of us tell whether it was just some strange after-effect of the love potion? Let alone the fact that she worked for me. So just yesterday, I had two intelligent, sexy women that acknowledged my existence. Now I only had one! For some reason, that led me to think that I should make my move on Amy.
I had forgotten my own cardinal rule of dating. The possibility that a girl might go out with you is far preferable to the certainty that she never wants to see you again.
Stupid, stupid me.
“Say, are you up for a drink at some point?”
“Why, Mr. Elder. Are you asking me out on a date?”
Well yes, I was. But I hated it when girls focused that much attention on it. Freaked me out. Not that I’m commitment-averse or anything.
“Depends. How do you define a date?”
“Hm. Let’s see. OK. One person asks the other out, with the hope that it might turn into something.”
“Turn into what?”
“A long-lasting relationship. True love. Marriage. Kids.”
“Aagh!” I admit it. I panicked. Or maybe it was an after-shock from my experience with Kara. Either way, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “What if one person asks the other out, with the hope that it might lead to meaningless sex?”
The line was quiet, and time seemed to barely move, like the flow of ketchup from a bottle when you’re desperate to cram down a plate of French fries. I stopped breathing, and imagined tearing out my own tongue by the root, then flogging myself with it as penance for my outright stupidity.
“Was that what you had in mind?”
Kill me. Kill me now. I was caught in a dilemma of my own making. Tell her no, and have her think I was not attracted to her. Tell her yes, and have her think I was only interested in her body. It was like I had littered a field with landmines, blindfolded myself, and gone for a walk. There was no good answer. I was gay or an asshole. Not that there’s anything wrong with either.
“Donnie?”
“Hi. Uh—.” Crack a joke, that’ll break the ice. “Uh—.” Say something! “Uh, I’d love to have sex with you! But that’s not why I’m asking you out for a drink. I mean, that’d be great, but I like you too, and we wouldn’t have to, you know, not for like a while. And if you just wanted to be friends that’s OK too. But I am attracted to you. I mean, you’re hot. Totally. But I’m a bit of an idiot, so I know I don’t have much of a chance. I, uh, shit.”
It would have been easier to get on a plane, fly to Tehran, and walk through town wearing an “I Love George Bush” t-shirt while drawing humorous caricatures of Mohammed. At least then I would know for sure I was a dead man. In fact, I was holding the phone away from my ear in order to press the Off button, when I heard her laughter build from a whisper to a roar. Putting the receiver back to my ear, I heard her laugh and laugh and laugh. And laugh. Only problem was, I didn’t know if she was laughing with me, or about me.
“Hello? Hellooooo? Amy? You having a good time?”
“Yes— Ha ha— Oh, Donnie. Yes, I am having a good time. Boy, for a good-looking guy, you are the most insecure thing. Don’t worry. I’d love to get together for a drink, date or not. See ya.”
She hung up, and I sat back in my sofa, feeling pretty damned good about myself for the first time that day.
C HAPTER 10
For the second time in just two weeks, I was visiting a customer on a mea culpa visit. Not the best for customer relations, if I was going to take over this business from Clay one day. There was no getting around it, though. Pain deferred is seldom pain avoided.
As it was, there were worse places to visit. Hidden Pleasures was a gentlemen’s club. Or, as some of Ted’s buds might have called it, a titty bar. Admittedly a higher class of joint than the type those guys frequented, but the basic
I had forgotten my own cardinal rule of dating. The possibility that a girl might go out with you is far preferable to the certainty that she never wants to see you again.
Stupid, stupid me.
“Say, are you up for a drink at some point?”
“Why, Mr. Elder. Are you asking me out on a date?”
Well yes, I was. But I hated it when girls focused that much attention on it. Freaked me out. Not that I’m commitment-averse or anything.
“Depends. How do you define a date?”
“Hm. Let’s see. OK. One person asks the other out, with the hope that it might turn into something.”
“Turn into what?”
“A long-lasting relationship. True love. Marriage. Kids.”
“Aagh!” I admit it. I panicked. Or maybe it was an after-shock from my experience with Kara. Either way, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “What if one person asks the other out, with the hope that it might lead to meaningless sex?”
The line was quiet, and time seemed to barely move, like the flow of ketchup from a bottle when you’re desperate to cram down a plate of French fries. I stopped breathing, and imagined tearing out my own tongue by the root, then flogging myself with it as penance for my outright stupidity.
“Was that what you had in mind?”
Kill me. Kill me now. I was caught in a dilemma of my own making. Tell her no, and have her think I was not attracted to her. Tell her yes, and have her think I was only interested in her body. It was like I had littered a field with landmines, blindfolded myself, and gone for a walk. There was no good answer. I was gay or an asshole. Not that there’s anything wrong with either.
“Donnie?”
“Hi. Uh—.” Crack a joke, that’ll break the ice. “Uh—.” Say something! “Uh, I’d love to have sex with you! But that’s not why I’m asking you out for a drink. I mean, that’d be great, but I like you too, and we wouldn’t have to, you know, not for like a while. And if you just wanted to be friends that’s OK too. But I am attracted to you. I mean, you’re hot. Totally. But I’m a bit of an idiot, so I know I don’t have much of a chance. I, uh, shit.”
It would have been easier to get on a plane, fly to Tehran, and walk through town wearing an “I Love George Bush” t-shirt while drawing humorous caricatures of Mohammed. At least then I would know for sure I was a dead man. In fact, I was holding the phone away from my ear in order to press the Off button, when I heard her laughter build from a whisper to a roar. Putting the receiver back to my ear, I heard her laugh and laugh and laugh. And laugh. Only problem was, I didn’t know if she was laughing with me, or about me.
“Hello? Hellooooo? Amy? You having a good time?”
“Yes— Ha ha— Oh, Donnie. Yes, I am having a good time. Boy, for a good-looking guy, you are the most insecure thing. Don’t worry. I’d love to get together for a drink, date or not. See ya.”
She hung up, and I sat back in my sofa, feeling pretty damned good about myself for the first time that day.
C HAPTER 10
For the second time in just two weeks, I was visiting a customer on a mea culpa visit. Not the best for customer relations, if I was going to take over this business from Clay one day. There was no getting around it, though. Pain deferred is seldom pain avoided.
As it was, there were worse places to visit. Hidden Pleasures was a gentlemen’s club. Or, as some of Ted’s buds might have called it, a titty bar. Admittedly a higher class of joint than the type those guys frequented, but the basic
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