Empirical Evidence

Last night, I brought out the big guns.

You see, my now-and-then foreign affair had returned from many weeks abroad, and having been deprived of the pleasures of the flesh for much longer than I care to recall, I was set to welcome him back with arms (and legs) wide open. So excited, in fact, that from the moment I heard from him to the moment I spoke to him again, my heart was racing. Why so excited? Bear in mind that this guy is the same one who called me 63 minutes after his plane landed to inform me that he was back in town, he sorely missed ravaging me, and do I have any plans for the evening?

Oh, did I ever.

So I brought out the big guns. I washed my hair, laundered my sheets, chilled a bottle of wine, brought out the expensive scented candles and incense, vacuumed the copious amounts of cat hair off the carpet and sofas, opened all the windows, turned all the fans on, cleared away all the clutter on horizontal surfaces, shaved, exfoliated, moisturized, pumiced my heels, did my nails, curled my hair, applied just enough makeup to look dashing but not too much to muss up during a wild roll in the hay, and picked out the perfect outfit that would hug my curves and show just enough skin to drive him wild. I even wore perfume, fer chrissakes! I never wear perfume.

Imagine my rage when he calls me to cancel, just minutes before he's scheduled to show up. All that work for nothing! All dressed up and no place to go. Feeling like a walking fucking cliché, I decided I wasn't going to waste my efforts, goddamnit. I picked up my keys and drove my fabulous-looking ass to a bar. I was a woman on a mission, and primed to within an all-encompassing urgence for a hard-and-fast, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am revenge fuck.

And I picked up a guy. In his thirties, average looks, kinda nerdy, good personality. Turns out he's a software engineer. And he goes on and on about his condo doubling in value, the new place he just bought in Rancho Palos Verdes, the 2 luxury imports parked in his garage, his expensive, inbred Siamese feline, his expensive taste in clothes, his shopping sprees at Crate & Barrel and Williams-Sonoma, his upcoming weeklong luxury trip to India to learn about different types of cuisine, his Le Creuset pot set, his plasma TV with satellite, his set of Henckels knives, his vegetable garden down the hill from his house, his Calphalon cookware collection, rama lama ding dong. I'm a little annoyed by his constant self-validation, but flattered by the attention, so I stay. But I kept on thinking, "Why on earth does he so strongly feel the need to make me aware-- at every possible juncture-- of the fact that he makes a shitload of money?" As if I remotely gave a damn.

Time flies, and we take off for his not-so-humble abode. We hadn't drank much in between the talking, so no worries. As I followed him there, it ocurred to me that this was, perhaps, not the best idea I've ever had. But, I had been primed for action, and all that pent-up energy needed a release. And this time, for the first time in weeks, I really didn't want to be by myself when it happened.

Yes, it's a nice house. Yes, those are nice cars. Yes, it's a nice garden. Yes, she's a nice overbred, overpriced cat. Yes, that's a nice TV. Can we please skip the small talk and get on with it? So we did. I've got to hand it to the guy, he tried his hardest. Funny I should use that word, but I digress. Slow kissing, strawberries soaked in champagne (before he even knew he was going to score? Cheesy, lame, and wrong!), lots of attention to my sensitive areas, the works. Like any fumbling nerd who'd finally lucked out, he dropped hints for a blowjob, instead of segueing smoothly into the act. A seasoned seducer would have known this.

The moment a smile touched my lips, he dropped trou and eagerly waved it in my face. Well, "waved" is a strong word. You see, our overachieving friend here, while boasting accolades of his successful career and reveling in the material spoils and acquisitions thereof, had proved in that very moment that his money really was all he had to give. It was just too bad that all of it did not make up for his one tiny shortcoming. How short, you ask? 1.5 inches, I estimate.

Maybe he's a grower, not a show-er.

Nope. Well, not by much in any case. Since I couldn't quite work up the urge to wrap my lips around it, I grasped it in my hand, and was disheartened to realize I'd only need thumb and forefinger to attend to him. What a disappointment. I gripped it like a champ, gave it my handjob best, and yadda-yadda-yadda, I put my shirt back on and grabbed my purse. "Can I have your number?" he asked. I smiled sweetly, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek. "Good-night."

So much for my own impulse-buying. I'll do better next time.