I won’t bore you with detailing how much I care about Charlie or how physically attracted to him I still am. Or how great the sex still is, despite doing it with the same person for over eight years. There isn’t anything I can say to excuse the following statements, and I won’t try to do so, other than saying I’m a girl who’s fond of one-night, casual sex, and I miss it.
I also don’t find myself sexually attracted to very many men. Chuckles lucked out in that I didn’t get bored with him right away. Used to be, guys were an easy way to pass the time while I sought relationships with other women. If we ever split up, I doubt I’ll be in another relationship with a man again.
All that being said, there is one particular man who I can’t get off my mind. So to speak. He’s a regular customer as of late, someone I haven’t seen coming in much until recently. He’s a shorter guy (I prefer 5’11” as a minimum), maybe 5’8″ or so. I realize that’s significantly taller than I am, but what can I say? I’m a height queen. He’s also blonde – not usually my preference, either. He’s married, has three kids, and is a firefighter. I won’t use his name, because I’m not fond of it, but I haven’t yet decided what I’m going to call him. Bruce Wayne? Too cheesy? How about “Aaron”? That seems like a nice name.
When he first started coming in, Aaron was so nice to everyone that I thought he had to be gay or a Bible-thumper. It has been my experience that there are very few straight, young men who are polite to young women. Period. They’re either smarmy, or flirty, or kind of dirty, or just plain rude — that is, when they’re no longer able to at least try and get into your pants. No offense, straight male friends of the Interwebs.
So I figured Aaron was either nice because he loves Jesus (those regular customers are always super-nice, which is cool), or just wasn’t in to women. I’ve made his drink on more than one occasion and swooned in silence most of the time at his absolutely, ridiculously amazing body, sparkling eyes, and knock-out smile.
I ran into him once on my way to the psychiatrists’ offices who ran the anxiety study. He was all decked out in his uniform, something for which I am usually not a sucker. He had just resuscitated a woman who had a heart attack and we had an awkward conversation over her stretcher as we waited for the elevators (“Oh, hey! How are you?” “Um, okay, I guess.” “Do you work here, too?” “Uh, no … just going to see my doctor.”)
Until yesterday, I assumed it was completely one-sided. A guy that looks like that (like, Brad Pitt, movie-star-good-looking) must have a drop-dead gorgeous wife, right? Why would he be interested in the dumpy, weird-looking, tattooed chick with bad skin who makes his coffee? That’s a bit of a joke, people. I’m not weird looking. [smirk]
But then yesterday he came in and waited in line to get to my register, despite the fact that there were two other people behind him that he let go ahead of him to Sarah’s register.
Then, this morning, we were completely slammed and I was pounding out the drinks on the bar. I leaned forward and called his name, asking if he wanted his drink for here or to go. “To go, please, Courtney!” He said, using my name, which makes me go all wobbly in the knees. I asked if he wanted me to throw in the extra shot, since I had one left over. He responds with, “Whatever you want to give me, I’ll take,” with a twinkle in his eye.
I melted into a little puddle in my shoes. I almost said “You just have to get a few drinks in me first,” but I just clammed up. Did I over-think that? He probably wasn’t being flirty, right? Either way, it’s the first a guy has made me feel rubbery in a very, very long time. And here I thought I was basically a lesbian, excluding the husband.