September 6th, that was the day she stopped talking to me. 42 days ago. Cold turkey, just pure, unadulterated radio silence. I called, texted, even stooped so low as to write (and send) her an email apologizing for whatever act I had unknowingly committed to warrant such a dramatic action, still nothing. By September 10th, I got worried, maybe something had happened to her, maybe she is in a hospital somewhere and all my digital and technological attempts at reaching her were futile. I went by her house, well the house she was renting with her metro-sexual, “but not homosexual” roommate Frank. Her car parked in the driveway, I could feel the heat from the just-killed engine radiating off of it as I slid between the beat-up VW and the over grown hedges on the way to her front door. ‘She’s not here’ was Frank’s response. My less than convinced face gave away more than my tightly shut lips and I left knowing that she was in that house. She was in that house, actively avoiding me. Avoiding. Me.

For all intents and purposes, I will refer to her as ‘her’ (or ‘she’ ‘she-devil’ ‘she who must not be named’ ‘bitch’ ‘demon cunt’ or ‘that girl’). At this point, hearing her name is like a knife straight through the gut and a broomstick to the shins while simultaneously being kneed in the nuts, the feeling is unpleasant and grating at best. I was never like this. I was never the guy who fell for girls, who became obsessed with girls, who cared that a girl was not responding to texts. I’m not that guy. She pulled me right into her orbit, knocked me out of my solar system and sent me spiraling in to her galaxy and fuck, if it wasn’t beautiful. Her eyes emulated the moon and out-shone the sun. The freckles on her face could out complicate any constellation up above and the peaks and valley, nooks and crannies of her beautiful body had me lost like Frodo wandering through Middle Earth. See, the old me would never talk like this. A boob was a boob was a boob, it was never a peak or curve of a body, it was a boob, but now this bitch has me weaving phrases together like a goddamn wordsmith. She’s not even pretty. That was it, the first thought I had after seeing her. My body reacted before my brain even had the chance to realize what was happening. My dick was semi hard before I could see the uniqueness in her face. She’s not even that pretty I thought to myself. Her hair is a mess, her shirt is on backwards and she clearly has a boyfriend. She stood there next to a 6’4 beanpole looking motherfucker, dressed very, very well. Her arm was draped loosely over his, she used this faint grip as support so she wouldn’t fall over as she laughed expressly at some story he was spewing from his uppity mouth. She was tall, she was wearing heels and under her backwards shirt a skimpy dress, which was flattening and unflattering at best. But as she regained composure and wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes, her gaze landed in mine. Her giant irises locked with mine and for a second I saw our entire future together. We would raise a family, two boys, one girl and a dog or a cat, live in the city, but retire to the country, die within days of each other all the while sustaining a magical and interesting sex life. She must have seen the same thing too because she kept her gaze fixed, strategically removed the backwards button down and moved toward my direction. She passed by me, breaking her gaze while moving to the bar. I followed her. It wasn’t the creepy kind of lurking-following, I made my way to the bar arriving shortly after she had. What are you having? It was a cliché line, but I assumed that’s how people at these kind of bars flirted. You’ll see. Confused and a little offended I waited silently, unsure and intrigued how this ‘you’ll see’ scenario was going to play out. After what seemed like forever (but in reality was close to 45 seconds) the bartender appeared with two brimming tall tequila shots with salt and lime garnishes. She carelessly pushes one in front of me so rough that a bit of the overflowing tequila jumped out of the glass and splashed on the bar. Take it, now. Don’t let me do it alone. That was all I needed, the illusion that I was somehow helping her, that I was doing her a disservice by not taking the shot, I picked up the glass, raised it to her and the bartender, tapped it on the bar then poured the stinging nectar down my throat. Jesus that burns. She locks eyes with the bartender, who is laughing evilly from behind his wooden wall (her description, not mine). She kicks the barstool behind her, making the heavy wood budge slightly. Fuck you Tommy, just cause I stopped blowing you doesn’t mean you stop giving me top shelf. He shrugs, laughs then moves on to the next thirsty patron. Fucking bartenders right? You think doctors have a god complex? Try dating a bartender, no one thinks more highly of themselves than the rulers of the whisky. I laugh, at least I tried to, my throat was still raw from the moonshine tequila I just inhaled. I inhaled deep, watching her watch me. Her eyes never once left mine, which made me uneasy. Her height also threw me off. She was in heels, which made her about half an inch taller than me. Her eyes were higher than mine and locked, looking down into mine. I refused to break the gaze first, but I was determined to break the silence. Doesn’t your boyfriend have some sort of rule about taking shots with strange men? I don’t have a boyfriend. I exhale, my dick immediately waking up at this answer. My brain was still confused, was there something my penis knew that I didn’t, is this what primal attraction is, cause I’m still not sure if I’m into her. So the suit you came with is what, your male escort for the evening? Actually, I’m his escort. I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not. This must have been evident by my face, because she quickly clarified that she was joking. We exchanged what would be deemed as very clever witty banter in many circles. Clever quips about the dying art of prostitution and the fall in quality liquor slinging fuck buddies were punted back and forth, the final volley landing on me, I turn the conversation instantly with a quick Are you taking applications for a new fuck buddy. Then, faster than I could count to ten, or read the numbers on my coat check ticket, we were walking out the door, her arm linked in mine, hailing a cab.