THINK WITH THE HEAD
It's all just getting a little too incestuous. Last night, I finally went out with E, yet another Israeli architect, based in London, that I'd met online.
In her pictures she has child-like cheekbones, but a kind, sweet-looking pout. She claimed to be 28. But when we met, she confessed that she was, in fact, 32.
"That's okay," I said. "If you'd been 40 I'd have walked out the door, but what's a couple of years between friends?"
She also revealed that she was mates with the other Israeli architect I'd had the misfortune of meeting one Sunday night. Her friend, K, had told E that the date had been awful; that I'd appeared disappointed from the moment we'd met (am I really that transparent?); but that I was good-looking and that E and me should meet.
In real-life, she had full, bursting lips and a dark, enigmatic stare. We got on well enough, but I wasn't all there. Brain disengaged from body, and willy took control (this, despite my determination to behave myself in the run-up to Yom Kippur).
From then on, flirts became more outrageous. She pinched my arse and even prodded my nob at one point - in the pub! I responded in kind. Then we kissed rather more outrageously than I felt comfortable with in a public house.
"Let's go," I said.
I walked her back to her student digs. She took me up to the balcony. I could see the surrounding city, neon-blue lights illuminating nearby buildings, and the humid night air cloaking everything around me in a damp haze.
We kissed passionately. She groped at me in my jeans. I moved my hand up her legs. She pulled away. She looked out over the balcony. "I didn't enjoy what you just did," she said. I apologised and brain clawed back some territory. She was feigning hurt to get more attention from me. And I don't play that game.
A few moments later, she was blowing hot again. We kissed some more, she put her hand down my pants and she almost felt nuts (to paraphrase the Bloodhound Gang). We said goodbye and I got the bus home.
Somewhere in between Holburn and Oxford Street, she called me. I couldn't hear her well. I told her we'd speak later in the week. "If you want, I don't know?" she said, showing an insecurity that tallied utterly with her earlier demonstration of hot-and-cold blowing.
I think I will call her again. But I know that she's not for me. To be fair, though, I knew that from almost the moment we met. If only my brain didn't shut down when my willy engaged.
It's all just getting a little too incestuous. Last night, I finally went out with E, yet another Israeli architect, based in London, that I'd met online.
In her pictures she has child-like cheekbones, but a kind, sweet-looking pout. She claimed to be 28. But when we met, she confessed that she was, in fact, 32.
"That's okay," I said. "If you'd been 40 I'd have walked out the door, but what's a couple of years between friends?"
She also revealed that she was mates with the other Israeli architect I'd had the misfortune of meeting one Sunday night. Her friend, K, had told E that the date had been awful; that I'd appeared disappointed from the moment we'd met (am I really that transparent?); but that I was good-looking and that E and me should meet.
In real-life, she had full, bursting lips and a dark, enigmatic stare. We got on well enough, but I wasn't all there. Brain disengaged from body, and willy took control (this, despite my determination to behave myself in the run-up to Yom Kippur).
From then on, flirts became more outrageous. She pinched my arse and even prodded my nob at one point - in the pub! I responded in kind. Then we kissed rather more outrageously than I felt comfortable with in a public house.
"Let's go," I said.
I walked her back to her student digs. She took me up to the balcony. I could see the surrounding city, neon-blue lights illuminating nearby buildings, and the humid night air cloaking everything around me in a damp haze.
We kissed passionately. She groped at me in my jeans. I moved my hand up her legs. She pulled away. She looked out over the balcony. "I didn't enjoy what you just did," she said. I apologised and brain clawed back some territory. She was feigning hurt to get more attention from me. And I don't play that game.
A few moments later, she was blowing hot again. We kissed some more, she put her hand down my pants and she almost felt nuts (to paraphrase the Bloodhound Gang). We said goodbye and I got the bus home.
Somewhere in between Holburn and Oxford Street, she called me. I couldn't hear her well. I told her we'd speak later in the week. "If you want, I don't know?" she said, showing an insecurity that tallied utterly with her earlier demonstration of hot-and-cold blowing.
I think I will call her again. But I know that she's not for me. To be fair, though, I knew that from almost the moment we met. If only my brain didn't shut down when my willy engaged.
posted by David Cohen at 12:20 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home