I'll let you in on a little secret: Writers are lonely, little people. I know, I know. When people think of the writer, they think of the Stephen Kings and J.K. Rowlings of the world, but the fact is the writer is stuck inside his room writing a story no one's ever going to read and getting paid about a grand for it. That's a lonely life. I should know. I live it.
The writer doesn't live a glamorous life but he lives a life. Occasionally, letting girls know you're a writer gets you some pussy. Of course, you can't tell her what you write or she'll kick you to the curb. No girl's going to say, "I've always wanted to fuck a writer for the Washington Post" or "His latest article on why the corporate tax is bullshit really got me wet."
I got a story about picking up a girl with the whole writer schtick. It was last year when I made the stupid decision to study at some two-bit college in the city. The city fucking sucks. You got homelessness, you got urban poverty, you got drugs, all that stuff. It's always stuff the mayor will deal with just like the mayor before him and the mayor before that guy. Anyway, back to the story.
She and I went to the same English class, a class studying contemporary literature. That week, we were studying the works of Charles Bukowski. I saw her from across the room, a cute blonde Asian girl who always wore leather jackets and torn jeans. She had a tattoo running up her neck, a blue dragon spitting water. After class that day, I introduced myself.
She told me her name was Gucci Song or, at least, that's what she went by among friends. Her real name was Song Mingjyut and she was from Hong Kong. She had a heavy accent, making her voice go up and down like a damn rollercoaster, but she was as fluent as I was. I thought her accent was adorable.
I've never been one to swoon a girl off her feet with a song or use my silver tongue (my tongue was more of a tarnished bronze) so I pulled the old "I'm actually a writer" schtick. I tell her I'm writing a poem and I need a muse and I thought she'd make a great one. We could even use the opportunity to study up on our Bukowski and his poems. She bought it. We agreed to meet at the park, a nice place where all the couples met before they fucked each other like a bunch of Quiverfull rabbits.
We met up at the park around noon, between my British Lit class and her African Studies class. She came dressed in a tank top, showing off her massive tits. I noticed her neck tattoo descended down her right tit, past her cleavage. I hoped to see how far that dragon went down.
We started talking and studying and, based on how she was talking, I got the idea she could read me like a book and knew my every intention. We got to chatting about Hong Kong and how she thought it should be independent until the Republic of China ruled over the mainland again. I told her I could see her point but, personally, I thought Hong Kong should remain part of the People's Republic until the Republic ruled the mainland. She told me that was the equivalent of asking slaves to remain in chattels until, eventually, slavery was abolished. She said she'd much rather live under British rule than live under Chinese rule.
We agreed to continue this conversation in her dorm, empty since her roommate was away on some cheerleading thing. We had about an hour and a half until our next classes. Once in her dorm, her own intentions came out. She slipped onto her knees and began telling me about how she's long thought I was cute and how she's been meaning to ask me out. It didn't come off as that bullshit some girls (hell, some guys) spew when their horny. It seemed...genuine.
