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Dating under false pretense can be pretty disastrous. You go into a relationship with an open-mind but preconceived notions surface and inch by inch the mind starts to close as you zero in on the person. It can leave you jumping to conclusions, associating the person with a past failure(s), wondering what's in store and how long the trip will last. Then there is that non-existent perfect person that has been created and modified over the years. At some point that imaginary person is just supposed to appear. You know, the one that's made up of all the awesome and great things that you remember from past relationships. The person is pretty wonderful but they are just a dream. I suppose I could play Frankenstein and create my very own 'Adam of Labors' but Chicago zoning restrictions and building permits kind of prevent me from building a laboratory on a hill. Sans the facility, I am left with this person being just another figment of my imagination. She would be perfect though. We would have enough in common to keep it going, enough differences to keep it interesting, stolen kisses to keep it romantic and communication would rely heavily on inside jokes. Last summer one of my best friends was in town for Pitchfork. At the time he was going through a pretty messy break-up but most of what he had told me about it was done by phone or through emails so I was not entirely aware of all the details. After the last of the bands that Friday we left Union Park and bar hopped throughout West Town, finding ourselves back at my apartment drinking a few more and listening to music. Around 2:30 or so he starts giving me full details and the harshness of what happened with his last girlfriend. Even at that hour and after countless High-Life's it was pretty hard to choke down what he was telling me. It was like I was hearing about her for the first time and from what I could remember, this wasn't the girl that I used to skateboard around Brooklyn with. I was in one of those situations where you feel there is no right answer but you need to say something: assure him that there are way better out there and that although it sucks right now you will make it out alive and much better than you were before meeting her? Yeah, I can't really say those things without a hint of doubt but hopefully it will be the case. As the night (or morning) progressed and the beeramid grew larger, we somehow decided to construct ideal girls. It started general enough, hair/ eye color, height, her favorite food, favorite season, etc., but then it started to become very specific. We started weeding out all of the worst parts about relationships and the things that happened with ex's that seem so easily fixable looking back. We did take precaution while building our imaginary relationships so that the things that caused the messy break-ups and all the headaches would not factor in and be an issue our imaginary girls. All said and done we decided that yes, we would both in fact like to date girls that wear sweaters which is when I realized that we managed to, in the course of 2 hours, come full circle and end the discussion just as general as we started. A girl that wears a sweater? How am I supposed to find a girl like that? Oh yeah, it's those other elements and details that we pieced together; those microscopic, minuscule parts that count. All the pop-culture, personal preferences, things she won't like about me, things I won't like about her details. That is what I am supposed to be looking for and if all of those are wrapped and underneath a really cute autumn sweater, well then I guess I am really lucky. Voodoo dolls and far more attractive Frankenstein creations aside, I am left looking beyond the clothing, trying to find that living sweater knitted and stitched together with dreams of bubblegum make-outs and late night Chinese food. Much like the woman in this story, I fall for those things on the surface because there is so much fantasy keeping those generalizations that reduce my speech and blow my mind alive and in plain sight...
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I’m a sucker for English accents. I blame Jane Austen and Alan Rickman. So when an Englishman came up to me at an art gallery and asked me out, I accepted. He was Oxford educated, a blue jean designer, and had moved to the city only a week ago. We agreed to meet at a tapas bar in his neighborhood. He was well versed in wines, literature, and had traveled the world. The conversation was charming, the dinner was delicious and the wine was quickly disappearing. He suggested we go back to his place. I was curious and needed some time to sober up before my long drive home so I accepted his invitation.
He lived on an idyllic tree-lined street. After he opened his door, it took me a second to register what I saw. Nothing. Or basically nothing. There was one bare mattress and one table covered in denim. That was it.
“Lawwwrren, I would love to see your ass in a pair of my jeans,” he purred as his arm wrapped around my waist. He kissed me hard on the mouth. The accent became less charming.
“Let me show you around,” he said slurping on the back of my neck leading me to the mattress room.
“Wow, this is something,” I said dodging his open mouth.At this point the date was over. I moved towards the door but he took my hands. “Lawwren, let’s take off our clothes,” he suggested as he unbuttoned his shirt.
“You know what, I’m going to leave mine on,” I said slowly backing away.
“Lawwren, do you mind if I take mine off?” he asked dropping his shirt on the floor.
“No, make yourself comfortable,” I said, mentally kicking myself.
I stood there with my coat on, purse in hand and watched this little man disrobe down to his flimsy briefs. I was shocked but at the same time fascinated. It was like some peculiar performance art piece. I couldn’t move. Unfortunately he interpreted this as being interested.
“Come over here,” he said once again pulling me to him. I turned my cheek and in that lovely English accent he whispered, “Lawwren, would you suck my cock?” Excuse me?
Before I could respond, he continued, “Lawwren, I want to feel your tongue on my testicles,” quickly followed by, “I want your mouth on my globular penis.”
I laughed in his mouth, gathered my senses, and moved quickly to the door.
“Can I see you again?” he asked as I fumbled for the doorknob.
“I have to check my schedule,” I stammered.
With that, I gave a weak nod to the naked stranger, ran to my car and locked the doors. I was stunned. Globular? I don’t want to go intimately near anything globular. I pictured an infected, misshapen balloon animal. As I drove home to my furnished apartment, my phone rang. It was him, the man with the globular penis. I didn’t answer.