I’m sitting in the park watching Jack go through the motions. He’s the self-proclaimed monkey bar master, and I’m his biggest fan. I watch to make sure he lands safely, and I watch to make sure his brain is undamaged as he twirls ever so ungracefully, around a bar mounted just high enough to so some damage to his frontal lobe, and my nervous system. In the distance, I see a father watching his son playing not far from mine. Interesting hat, I say to myself. He has on one of those ski hats with the earflaps and dangling strings. You know, the ones you mostly see girls wearing. Though on this man, it’s arresting. I move in closer to where Jack is playing. The man moves in to talk to Jack, giving him little hints on skillful monkey bar dismounts. Jack doesn’t need any coaching, buts he humors the ski bunny just the same. My obvious relation to his new pupil encourages a light little conversation between parents. His name is Richard, but to me, he’s the guy who’s too cute for his own good, and mine. He fancies me, and I’m interested just the same.

The dimples on this mans cheeks are obviously chiseled out of other women’s broken hearts. I’m not yet on the defensive, but Christ, I know somehow I should be. Too cute to be the real deal I think to my self, yet somehow I dismiss this primal intuition as insecurity, and listen only to his next words. He asks for my phone number, and like a doe looking down the barrel of a really good-looking hunter’s rifle, I oblige him. I surrender and give him my number. That night he calls me. I answer the phone and I wonder why I’m seeing his number on my phone after meeting him only two hours earlier. What ever happened to the three-day-don’t-call-rule to which we women are subjected? The one that men have devised as a way to keep us in a holding pattern and inevitably try to sack us and never call again.

We talk about this and that and he reveals to me his desire to come over and help me finish my glass of wine. He tells me how sexy I am. By this point, disappointment sets in. I had a feeling about this one. I had a feeling that he was a fast mover with one thing on his mind, and it wasn’t to merely help me finish my drink. So, my intuition about this one was dead on. Several elements about this whole thing bothered me, but also validated my sometimes-lost sense of intuition. That I was right about him from the moment we met, was not such a bad thing, I suppose. Wolves are dressed up in sheep’s clothing all the time. We women are taught to be on the lookout for these types of men whether at the playground or the bar. I have found that these deplorable sorts are opportunists by nature and geography and or props, AKA using your son and your role as a father to sack a woman, is neither below them nor outside their repartee. The fact that I was able to spot but still give this man a chance, speaks to my trusting but also leery eye.

Ya know, I never have quite figured out why I don’t listen to my intuitions and first instincts about people. Either I don’t know when to listen to myself, or my inner voice has a perpetual sore throat and cannot be heard over the intense beating of my heart when in the presence of an attractive man. Whatever the cause, Robert turned out to be no different from the others that have proven them selves little more than little boys hard up to play games, and with not a deck of cards in sight. However, in some small way, I’m happy to report that for once, my sneaking suspicions turned out to be based in fact, and was not entirely drowned out by my desire for clitoral stimulation.

So, with all this said, I still took his phone calls and one Sunday afternoon, I met him at his place, and we went to lunch. I know, I know, my intuition, my better judgment, whatever I just mentioned, had told me to steer clear of this one, but by now, I just want to kiss him, screw with him a little, and then be on my way. What’s the harm in that? Men do it all the time. Plus, I thought it would make for some interesting conversation latter on when my girlfriends and I meet for a drink the following Thursday evening.

I meet him at his place around 2pm, after he pushed back the time in order to get things “situated” before the New Year, now a couple days away. I wait for him to take a shower. I wait for him to feed his down stairs neighbor’s reptiles, and then I wait for him to be a gentleman and stop fucking with so many other things and go out with me like he said he was going to. I mean really, the shower thing was annoying, but feeding the snakes mealworms atop a bed of spring mix was where I should have drawn the line. But I didn’t. We hadn’t kissed yet, see. So anyway, as he’s closing the door to his neighbor’s apartment after playing reptilian caretaker, he tells me what beautiful eyes I have, blah blah. I’m getting thoroughly bored by this time. I want food, and I’d like to move things along to the next segment of the date, if by this point, you could call it that.

So we walk over to little Italy, a little neighborhood here in down town San Diego and it must be said that I was wearing these great shoes that were a bit large for me, especially the right shoe. I was walking kinda weird, I think, because when I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, which is par for the course for me, he asked if I was drunk. No, I said. Knowing full well that’s exactly what I needed to be right now. Getting through this evening would be one thing, but screwing with him by playing this man-eater part that I was determined to play tonight, definitely warranted me kicking back a few.

“What would you like to drink miss?” The waiter asked as we took our seats at this little pizza spot.

“What do you have on tap”, I reply.

Christ, I should have ordered two at once.

He runs off a small but distinguished list of beers, all of which I fancy.

“I’ll take a Peroni”, I say. And my date doubles the order and we, I mean I, pound the first one and order a second within ten minutes of the initial order.

We order a veggie pizza and talk a bit.

By this point I start using the persona that I was gonna use in order to screw with this womanizer a bit. I feelsing like a little turning of the tables is just what this man deserves.

“You probably have women fawning all over you, don’t you?” I said.

With that comment he turned the color of the traffic lights I perpetually run here in San Diego, and for me, that was validation enough that my little plan was working marvelously.

Some flirtatious little stares and gestures that suggested latter kissing, led us walking back to his place.

We sat on his couch and began talking. I have to admit that I was more than happy being in his company. Did I mention he was incredibly attractive??

And so begins the pre-kissing-banter, consisting of this and uninteresting that. All of a sudden he leans in to kiss me. And it was not awkward in the least. It felt good. I was being kissed by a man that knew how to kiss a woman. I was being kissed by a man that had kissed many a woman. I wanted to consummate our fledgling relationship right that very moment, but by no means would I give into this. By no means would I sleep with this man tonight, or ever, for that matter. And so the six-dates-and-or-one-month, which-ever-comes-first-rule of mine kicks in, and I kick in into low gear. I don’t remember how I wound up straddling him, but I immediately get off his lap.

“I feel like I’m 18 years old again”, I tell him.

He giggles.

I giggle.

In retrospect, I wish this story had more to offer. I wish I could tell you there was much more of a climactic ending then what actually happened. I wish this for more than just story telling sake. For my life’s sake, I wish there was more. But, I called it on this one. He was the quintessential asshole that probably never listened to a word I uttered. He stared at my boobs, though. And he did ask if he could smell my pits. Yes, that was probably some sort of a sign that I should be on my way. So I went on my way; my way to being alone, yet again. But I don’t have to contend anymore with armpit smellers, and that gets me through the day.