EDITOR'S NOTE: the author originally submitted this piece to Non-erotic, likely because it contains no explicit sex, but we feel despite the lack of sex it is a better fit in Humor & Satire. Enjoy!
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My name is Anna Fryan and I'm nineteen years old. I just graduated from high school one year after most people with my birth year graduate. "You might not be the brightest star in the heavens," my mom tells me, "but you're a very sweet girl." She also, like most people who know me, tells me I'm very pretty. McDonald's' customers sometimes try to flirt with me. One even waited outside until I got off work to ask for my phone number. I said thanks but no thanks because I don't go for leather and tattoo types. Anyway, I have long, light brown hair, blue eyes and a nice smile. I'm not overweight like a lot of the girls I work with, but I'm hardly what you 'd call skinny either. Pleasantly plump and built like a brick shit house are just two of the phrases people have used to describe my body. Bubble butt is another one. It used to bother me until friends convinced me that it was a compliment, something to be proud of, because plenty of guys go for girls with big, round backsides. My boobs attract plenty of attention also, much of it unwanted and rude.
See, I'm looking for a nice guy, a quality guy, one who's smart, well educated and going places, a guy who likes me for more than just my body and what he thinks he can get from it. Quality guys are attracted to me. But then, after just a few minutes of conversation, be it on the phone, email or in person, they lose interest, at least the ones seeking a serious relationship. The would-be users I drop like a hot iron. Bright star or not, I've become quite the expert in IDing guys who want me for just a piece of ass. You can't fool all the dumb girls all the time, I tell them.
But, like I said, more often than not, the quality guys who want more than just sex lose interest. Of course, I can understand why. I mean, my lack of education and smarts shows, not to mention where I work and what I do. I don't pretend to be someone I'm not. Once I did, though, and it was an embarrassing disaster. I had met this guy online, told him I was in my first year of our state university majoring in something or other, I forget. Anyway, he started asking these questions I couldn't answer and also correcting my spelling and grammar. He exposed me for the phony I was. So ever since then I've been straight with people.
Perhaps I should lower my standards, seek out guys closer to my level. Problem is, guys like that turn me off. I enjoy being with smart, well-educated people. Brainy guys, especially if they're good looking, turn me on. Somehow, I hope that some of their intelligence will rub off on me. Wishful thinking, right? Well, maybe, but I haven't given up. When I'm not on Facebook or running several times a week to keep my weight stable, I devote much of my spare time to reading. Tests show I read on a ninth grade level. Even so, I try to tackle heavy subjects, psychology, philosophy, history, stuff like that. I struggle, man do I struggle. The high school I attended serve kids from working class, blue-collar families. The school's state academic ranking is an embarrassment. Even so, we had our share of bright kids, many of whom overcame their disadvantaged circumstances (at least disadvantaged next to kids from wealthier backgrounds) and went on to college. Cream rises to the top, as they say.
Sherri Baxter is one of those kids, nice as well as smart. We met in high school and remain friends to this day, even though she's light years ahead of me in brain power. She encourages me to keep reading, to keep improving myself. She knows the kind of guy I'd like to get on with, and has someone in mind. His name is Arnold, a friend of a friend. Like Sherri, he's in his second year of university, a "gentleman and a scholar," she says. At least that's what she's heard from a "reliable source."
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Arnold calls me after Sherri passes on my phone number. "Good time or bad time?" he asks.
Right away, I'm impressed—he sounds courteous. "Good time," I say, "just got off work."
"I've heard you're well-read," he says after some small talk. He reads a lot too, he tells me, a mix of fact and fiction. "I'm a man of eclectic tastes," he says.
"Ec-lec...um, is that a type of book or something?" He chuckles. Then I cringe, thinking he'll insult me.
"It means I read from several sources, enjoy a broad range of subjects."
"Oh. Thanks." Right away, he earns brownie points for not putting me down the way others have done.
"Anytime, Anna. I look forward to trading reading lists with you, preferably in person."
It sounds good to me, which is why we arrange to meet at a local Starbucks. It's not a "date date," more of a meet-and-greet. I'm jittery as I enter the place, looking for the guy who described himself as "Mr. Average" looking. "You'll know me by my black frame glasses," he had said. Sherri had given her source a general description of me, though I show up with a few alterations. My hair, normally worn straight down, is up. Also, I wear a low-cut dress hemmed a couple inches above my thick knees. I must have changed outfits ten times before settling on this, a clear departure from my usual conservative attire—nothing you'd call slutty, but it does call attention to my feminine assets without being provocative.
Finding a seat is easy in the downtime of a late afternoon in Starbucks. Training my eyes toward the entrance, I glance at my watch, realize I'm over five minutes early. As the minutes pass, I get more nervous and fidgety. "I'm waiting for someone," I tell the waitress when she comes over.
Just as she walks away, "Mr. Average" enters. At least I think it's him. He's on the tall side with dark frame glasses wearing jeans and a long-sleeve, blue and white checkered button-down. I raise my hand and shout, "Over here." When he doesn't respond, I repeat myself, this time getting his attention. "Arnold?"
He stands before my table. "The name's Barney, not Arnold."
Not only do I feel stupid, but disappointed. This guy's cute. "Sorry, I'm waiting for a guy named Arnold."
He smiles, then moves to the counter to place his order.
Arnold is now ten minutes late, and I'm getting annoyed. His number is on my phone. Should I give him a call? I debate this as Barney pays the cashier. He starts to walk out, then glances back at me. "It's none of my business, I know, but this Arnold looks like he's late for his date."
I nod. "Yes, by over ten minutes."
He steps closer. "Blind date?"
"Um, kind of." Should I be telling him this, a total stranger?
"His loss," Barney says, shaking his head sympathetically.
Politely, I smile. I'm flattered but also on guard. Like I said, guys tend to hit on me looking for just one thing.
