She is five minutes late and I am updating Twitter (www.twitter.com/__jb__): “Remember girls… only make a guy wait if you’re worth it.”
“Girl,” shows up—a yellow and white sundress, blonde hair, tan body, hazel eyes… she looked better than I recalled from when I bumped into her at Starbucks on Monday.
We’re grabbing drinks at a small brewery, everything on the menu is amazing. You can only get it there, by pint or growler. The conversation is comfortable for a first date, interview-like dialogue: she asks about my forthcoming book and suggests a few avenues to promote it. She is taking interest in something that is important to me, I’m intrigued by her.
Outside of being attractive, Girl is quirky. She looks like another dumb flight attendant, but it is apparent that the hamster running the wheel inside her head is virile.
Two hours into talking and drinking, in which I peg that she looks like a shorter, blonde Miranda Kerr, she asks if I want to do something else. I nominate dinner, or at least something resembling food, and she bites. I tell her I am going to pay for our tab and she asks me to hold her purse as she heads to the restroom.
I’m being tested in a way only a woman would proctor.
As I am adding the tab and tip, clutching a white “clutch,” I notice that she is not in the restroom, rather she is sitting with a couple. They are older… presumably in their 50s. The situation perplexes me, why would she be sitting at another table?
She is playing Scrabble with the old couple. Now I am baffled.
By the time I clear the bill and make my way over to the table, Girl introduces me to the older couple. The woman is losing, there are apparently stakes I wouldn’t understand. The gentleman and I begin discussing beer whilst the women formulate words that only exist in the minds of women—words that resemble run-on sentences. Words that resemble my writing “style” at times.
It’s his turn, I guess technically “our” turn, the girls are up one point… the guys have one tile left and it’s the only tile left in the game, the velour bag is empty. I grab the tile, an “N,” and spell the word “IN.” We collect the two points necessary to crown us vocabulary victors of the bar.
The couple leaves, Girl mentions that she isn’t hungry anymore and wants another beer. She also mentions that she is about to kick my ass in Scrabble. I tell her to buy the beer and prepare to be crushed. I’m not sober. I am together enough to play victim to her rape the English language.
Two glowing hefeweizens in hand, she names the stakes, “If you win, I’ll let you kiss me. What do I get if I win?”
“You get to say you beat me in Scrabble… I will also let you touch my no-no area”—she’s making rules like this is middle school, so I am speaking as if I just entered elementary school.
This makes her laugh. I shake my head, as what I said was entirely stupid… I’ll blame the alcohol.
I dominate in Scrabble… but win by three measly points after a late surge by Girl.
Again, her intracranial hamster is virile and I am impressed.
She suggests going to another bar and I can already feel myself inside her.
We arrive at the new bar, technically it’s a British pub… even though the proprietor is based out of Houston. I mean, there’s a red phone booth in front of the pub entrance—this place is obviously Texan.
We walk in and Girl goes straight to the bar. She orders two beers and grabs us a table. She is taking control and I am liking this. I’m two sips into my beer when I notice a guy wearing a bowling pin costume roaming about the bar… and then I see a guy wearing a panda bear costume.
I excuse myself, much to Girl’s dismay…
“Hi, I’m JB… and you’re a fucking panda. Let me borrow your head.”
“But… I’m Sean… “
It doesn’t matter, I have beheaded Ling-Ling. “Frrrruck rouuuu, panda.” I say under my breath.
I return to the table, where Girl is laughing at me because I now have the head of a panda bear. I am now “cute JB” and this is all the motive she needs to kiss me.
I can feel myself inside her.
Three girls come up, all of which would be worthy of the top two-thirds of my dick, and want pictures with me… I oblige and excuse them, I have business to attend to.
After two more beers and cheap conversation, Girl wants to go home. Her home. She is doing that awkward little dance as we walk out of the pub; she likes me, wants to see me again, but is anxious… like she is questioning whether to give it up to me. I’m not going to fight it… there is something about her that makes me want to see her again. I think I like her. I’m obliging yet again when I hail her a cab, open the door, escort her in with a kiss on the cheek, give the cabbie a ten and a five, and tell him to take her to her place. The door closes… I smack the trunk lid twice, the international symbol for “all is clear.”
I am rolling the dice on this one.
It takes me three minutes to stumble to my car. I am debating calling my own cab when she text messages me…
“The cab driver said I should give you a second shot. That you handled my departure like a gentleman. Meet me at my place: #### Street Name, #####.”
I can feel myself inside her.
I get in my car and start driving to the address she has given me, the one I have punched into the Maps application on my iPhone. It takes me 12 minutes to get to her place, two minutes faster than the application told me. I knock on her door and she opens it: lace top, black satin pajama bottoms, hair disheveled above part-my-legs-and-fuck-me eyes. She looks like neo-collegiate slut. I feel like a freshman at Bowling Green again and her place could pass for a sorority house.
“You realize you still have the panda bear head on, right?” She says.
I feel my head and realize it’s extraordinarily furry and that it has bear ears… “Are you going to invite a bear in?”
I am not sure how I drove to her place… with this bear head on.
She pulls me into her room and pushes me onto her bed, rips off the panda head and throws it onto the floor. I collect on my Scrabble victory for a second time, this time with fervor. Double letter score, she’s got her hand in my pants. Triple word score, my no-no area is in her mouth. I pull her top off, her pants down, and she hops on.
I feel myself inside her.
One of the last things I remember before I pass out is reaching down from her bed and grabbing the panda bear head. She wore it during reverse cowgirl.
“This is not my apartment. This is not my Persian cat. This is not my panda costume,” I groggily observe as I wake up. She’s laying face down beside me, still naked, and I finally get a clear view of the body I was handling a few hours prior. I soak it in. The body that I was admiring when she walked up in that yellow sundress. The dress now piled on her hardwood floor near the polyester bear head. She is gorgeous and I am sober now, my mouth feels like I ate the rest of the panda costume. As I am staring at her bronzed, perfectly-formed ass, she rolls over and smiles. She looks like a summertime ten car pile up on I-10. A beautiful organization of utter chaos.
Her cat is staring at me… the scrunched up face and blue eyes telling me “I saw what you did last night, guy.”
I want to give the cat a high-five, but I doubt he will reciprocate.
The condom, used, is cemented to my leg. I was too drunk, and tired, to properly dispose of it.
I walk to the bathroom and rip off the latex sheath, along with a seven inch strip of hair, as I open the door.
There is a girl, presumably Girl’s roommate, and a dog in the bathroom. I am naked, holding a used condom with hair on it. “Good morning,” I say with a smile of disbelief.
“I just met your roommate. She saw my dick. I think it’s time for me to go.”
A hug, a kiss on the cheek as to not disrupt the perfect harmony of our respective morning breaths, and I am walking to my car.
“Frrrruck rouuuu, panda.”