I will ask you to join for me for coffee at a quiet local place, and if you say yes, my stomach will flood with butterflies. I will agonize over what I’m going to wear, what I’ll say, how I should try to come across, but all of that will melt away when I see you sitting there, reading a dog-eared paperback with the quiet air of mystery that had me so enchanted in the first place. We’ll talk for hours, and I’ll be working extra hard not to say anything stupid. I’ll also be struggling not to get lost in your eyes as you open up about your hopes and dreams; I’ll already love you, but I won’t want you to know it. Not yet, at least.
We’ll part ways with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and nothing more, because you’re not that kind of girl and I’m not that kind of guy, and that’s OK. I will wait for days to hear from you before caving in and finally picking up the phone to ask you if you enjoyed yourself; if you say yes then I will be elated, my heart will ache and swell and I will feel like a little boy again. There will be a sense of magic in the air that neither of us has experienced in years. I will want to know everything about you, but you won’t be in a rush to let me know it all. I’ll write about you constantly, I’ll draw you as well—anything to pass the time until we’re together again. I might as well, at that point. It’s not like I’ll be able to think of anything else.
Finally, our second date will arrive, then a third, then a fourth. I’ll think about buying you a gift, decide that it might embarass you, and then go ahead and do it anyway. You’ll come over with a bottle of red wine and we’ll warm each other on the sofa as we watch our favorite movies; you’ll like goofy comedies, while I prefer thrillers, but just being around you will be enough to turn any box-office flop into a Scorsesian masterpiece in my eyes. Charged with affection and dizzy with desire, I will ask you if you will be with me, and if you do then I will be the happiest man who ever lived. I will be inspired to transform my life and to do whatever it takes to make you feel as blessed as I do. At long last, our lips will touch and we will disappear in the moment.
Life will be better than I’d ever thought it could be. I’ll be overjoyed when I’m with you, and I’ll ache when we’re apart. We’ll argue, of course, but only because we’ll care so much about what we have, and nothing will ever get said that either of us can’t forgive. We’ll be stronger together than we ever could have been alone. After a couple of months, I’ll light dozens of candles in my apartment and scatter a trail of flower petals from the front door to the bedroom. After you come in from a long day of work, I’ll sweep you up in my arms and whisk you away before we fall onto the mattress and escape into each other’s bodies. I’ll plant hard, passionate kisses on your neck as we both reach our peak, and we’ll lie there sweating and smiling as the flames flicker and cast tall shadows on the wall.
That’s when I’ll break out the Astroglide.
You’ll ask me what I’ve got it for, and I’ll tell you that you already know. You’ll say that you’ve never done this before and I’ll tell you not to be coy. You’ll be reticent at first, but years of emotionally bullying women into giving up the pooty-hole will make persuading you a simple task, and after a couple of minutes you will gingerly agree to give me what I want. As you get on all fours and stick your delicious rump in the air, I will slap both of your cheeks red raw before parting them and performing anilingus on you. Then I will lube up my throbbing cock and start pushing it into your brown eye. You’ll whimper and pant, gripping the sheets with both hands before biting the pillow to muffle your confused screams of discomfort. You’ll tell me to slow down, and I’ll comply, but before long I’ll be jackhammering your shitpipe with the wild abandon of a sailor on shore leave. I’ll bury it down to the hilt and deposit a piping-hot load inside of your rectum before withdrawing and lighting a pre-rolled joint, taking deep hits as I struggle not to laugh at the wounded look on your face.
Then I’ll tell you to get the fuck out of my house. You’ll try to reason with me, you’ll cry and tell me that I’m being unfair; my demeanor will go from one of contempt to one of irritation, and I’ll start yelling at you to hurry up and get your clothes on. I’ll call you a pig and blame my current behavior on your daddy issues, and as you sob and pull your coat on I’ll tell you not to call me again.
That’s when I’ll turn my back on you, literally. At this point you will see the full-sized portrait tattoo of Adolf Hitler adorning my left buttock and remark that everything now makes sense. I will then scream at you in broken German and frog-march you out the door before announcing that your cat’s death had not been an accident.
Then I’ll load up a crack pipe and get bombed until sunrise before heading off to my nursing job at the retirement complex. You will write a blog entry about me, but no one will read it.