95 and counting

Near the end of a long and quiet day yesterday a woman walked in the front door of the shop. She was the woman I’d met about a month ago for drinks and so on. We’d kept in contact since, though the conversation in most part was regarding my continuing unavailability. Stuck in the shop as I am she took things into her own hands. The mountain came to Mohammed.

I was not unhappy to see her, though I was tired, and expecting any minute another bunch of people to walk in and inspect the shop. I cracked a bottle of wine regardless and we sat talking drinking that.

Later, as we went through the dregs of the bottle and after I had seen off the latest potential buyers she cornered me in the shadows of the hallway. She looked into my eyes with intent, her mouth curling into a sassy line as she probed me with personal questions, before pressing her substantial bust against me and went seeking my lips.

I’m a big man, but I felt at a disadvantage with the wall pressed hard against my backbone. I responded from courtesy, caught somewhat by surprise and still some way from processing this latest development. Then at the crucial moment she managed to knock over a tray of stuff, and the spell was broken.

We took a deep breath. I felt a little discombobulated, unusual for me (what a great word btw). When we’d met I’d liked her in that general way. She was smart, had a bit of lip to her, and was sexy in some indefinable way. And she liked me, which helps plenty. I was never going to get serious with her – hey, who am I going to get serious with? – but I thought I’d see her again, and go further.

The going further was definitely on the agenda last night, but I felt a little off-balance not having read that particular memo. I don’t know why that should matter. I’m always happy to act independently of the rules, and of course am willing to oblige as gentlemen do. So then, why did it feel so wrong?

In the first place I was surprised she had taken the initiative, and was pursuing it so vigorously. I’m all in favour of that as a general rule, but at the same time am more used to being the initiator. I think it’s true of men in general, and me particularly, that we like to be in control. It takes some quick adjusting when that’s not the case. It’s worth noting I was good to go pretty swiftly.

More significant was something she had let slip just before grappling with me. She’d made a reference to us being ‘involved’. Now involved can mean anything. I’m involved with my mates, and there’s nothing romantic going on between us. Then again it might indicate that she saw something more serious with me. That’s normal I guess, but not for me, not after one date, not after a dozen really except on the rarest of occasions.

I’m hard to get, always and traditionally. That’s exacerbated by my present circumstances. I’d love to get involved with someone in a big way, but really need to get through this crap first. I’ve taken a step back from something I’m already a little behind the line on, but, as they say, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

I’m happy to play, and happy to engage on that understanding. To find myself potentially the object of someone’s domestic desires caused a bit of a head wobble. No, no, no…I could hear myself thinking. Danger Will Robinson. Disengage.

It passed. I like her, but not, as the saying goes, in that way.

I accept I’m a slippery customer, but what am I to do? Live as a monk? Or simply commit? Well, I’ll commit when the time is right, and when the person is to. Given I reckon they’re about 1 in a hundred I’ve got to get through the other 99 first.

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