What can I say about myself that can't be immediately known with a passing glance? A lot, actually. But the average girl is not concerned with a personality. She doesn't want to hear your personal reflections on the subtleties of life and the nature of the universe. This girl though, this girl that I have longed for, desired so deeply for so long, she is not average. Not even close.
My problem? She's interested in me, but in the wrong way. See, I used to want sex, sex, and more sex, forgoing relationships, staying single to maximize my late-night activities. Yet, no substance can be found in that lifestyle, no lingering satisfaction. It took me a long time to realize that truth. I need emotional fulfillment, real, tangible love, and only this girl stands to provide it. But she is what I used to want; all about the physical, a shallow girl living a shallow life, and even though I hate myself for loving her, I can't help but continue to do so. Her name is Megan, and this story is about her.
I first saw Megan as she was easing herself out of a pool, and I would not soon forget this graceful creature who smiled as she strode forward, dripping hair wrapped around a delicate shoulder, green eyes staring into mine as we shook hands.
The local pool was part of my summer routine, and I was there with a few friends. I had barely walked out onto the patio, eyes adjusting to a momentary blindness from the blazing sun reflecting off the white concrete, when I heard a squeal of delight and wet arms circling my chest.
It was the younger sister of a girl I knew from school. I'd met her a few years earlier and nothing in my memory said we were the kind of friends who hugged as a greeting. Annoyed, I listened to her mundane chittering about the events of her summer. My friends snorted and walked past; my acquaintance, still at an uncomfortable proximity, remained oblivious. I muttered a bland response when asked about my summer, intent on ending the conversation through awkwardness. I half-listened for another minute, my face showing no hint of my building irritation, as her squawking reached a crescendo. I was watching one of my friends make some very obscene and very conspicuous gestures at two lovely women at the far end of the pool, beckoning me to join him, when I suddenly heard, "Oh, how rude of me! I totally forgot I'm here with my friends!" My eyes focused back on the girl in front of me, and then down the length of her arm towards the point of her index finger: two girls, and a sullen-looking boy, their heads floating above the water just a few feet away.
That was when Megan got out of the water and we first met. Now, I'm not a hopeless romantic. I don't believe in love at first sight, soul mates, or true love. But for just a moment, I held my breath when I saw Megan. She was a little taller than most girls, her hair was long, stained black from the water (I assumed it would be dark brown when dry), and her skin was lightly tanned, a slight bronze color. Thin lips, a sharp nose, green eyes set a perfect distance apart and rimmed with elegant lashes; I had never met a girl who could be accurately described as possessing utterly captivating beauty. She smiled, white teeth revealed, and I let my eyes flow down her face and take in her body for a brief second before she was suddenly in front of me, her eyes alight as she made it a point to stare me up and down while extending her hand and saying, "Hi. I'm Megan."
Fast forward. It's the evening and I'm at Tuesday's. Not the restaurant, a house. Every Tuesday during the summer my friends would all converge at an empty house to drink and have fun, and drink more. Someone decided the event would be called Tuesday's, and despite the staggering lack of creativity, the name stuck. Sometimes, Tuesday's would be packed; other times, it would only be my close friends and I sharing drinks and watching dismally low-quality kung-fu films. That night it was packed nearly to the point of discomfort. I had invited Megan to join me, but not directly. I had to carefully breach the subject of evening plans with Chitterer to avoid any misinterpretation of my intent, deliberate or otherwise.
She took a step forward, placed her hands on her hips, gave me a knowing smile and asked, "Why do you want to know?"
Check
, I thought. After I casually mentioned I was headed to a party, she squealed for the second time and invited herself and her friends.
Checkmate
.
No surprise, Chitterer strides in the front door, sullen-looking boy and Megan in tow. Chitterer began an explanation of why the other girl was missing before I turned and gestured towards the kitchen and waiting alcohol, asking her to fix me a drink. She complies with an overly eager nod and disappears into the mass of people, hopefully to get lost along the way back.
I turn around from facing the kitchen to get a good look at Megan. She's wearing heels and a black skirt. Her breasts are fully covered – which desperately makes me want to see them – under a stylish, sexy red button-up. There's a thin, white belt at a slight angle circling her narrow waist. Her hair – dark brown, as I guessed earlier – is partially covering one eye; the rest is drawn back behind her head in an elaborate ponytail. My eyes run down the smooth lines of her legs, and then back up to her face. She doesn't need to wear makeup, she's already exquisite.
She is perfection incarnate.
"Megan," I said with a careful, controlled smile. It's best to remain cool and aloof. Drives the girls crazy. "Thirsty?"
Megan returns the smile and nods. I tell her that there's better alcohol in the basement. I say, "It's for the exclusive use of my friends. And people we, from time to time, share it with."
Megan looks in Chitterer's direction, but before she says anything I show my open palm. Megan says nothing, places her hand in mine, and we walk around a few people before heading down the steps into the basement. I turn around for a moment when I hear my name; I see Chitterer holding two shots, standing next to the now hopeful -looking boy, but then I'm walking down stairs and I'm in the basement.
Fast forward. I've had a few drinks and so has Megan. We're talking on a couch, and even though there are a few people around us, they were all quite physically engaged with one another, so we were effectively alone. That was when the trouble began.
We had been talking for maybe two hours, covering topics I was actually interested in, and not only did she have a unique perspective on everything, her opinions were well-formed and solid. She was easily the only girl I'd ever given my sincere attention during a conversation. Beautiful with excellent conversational skills? Come on. This isn't happening. Personal experience throughout high school and college had taught me that there was a proven inverse ratio between a girl's looks and her intelligence – if one goes up, the other goes down. What had initially begun as my plan to seduce this Aphrodite of the pool was becoming – to my despair – something less like a plan and a hell of a lot more like textbook infatuation, that killer of one night stands, the destroyer of casual sex.
The rule is that the less interest you show in a girl, the hornier she gets for you. It doesn't make sense at all, not when considered logically. Since when are girls logical? Basically, you treat her like dirt, like trash, and even though she'll tell all her friends what a shitty guy you are, even though she'll complain to every other guy she knows, probably crying while doing so, she will do everything within reason to prove to you that she's not dirt, that she's not trash, whether it's through sex, gifts, well, no, mostly just sex.
That being said, the Cardinal Rule, the Golden Rule, the only rule of the Game, is to never, ever, show interest. Act casual. Detached. Feign everything and feel nothing. If you want to get laid, anyway. So here I am, breaking the one rule that matters. Fuck.
This is bad
, I thought.
If I'm not careful I'll wander right into the friend zone… If I haven't already.
But maybe that wasn't so bad. Megan certainly seemed, well, different. I know, I know, everyone says those words when they're defending that certain someone. "He's different," she says. "She's different," he says. "Not like the previous ones," they say.
I didn't know alcohol caused your balls to shrivel and your sac to fall off.
This is absurd. Am I really having an argument with myself?
Suddenly Megan's hand is gripping my thigh. I turn to look her. I didn't realize that she had gotten right next to me. I forgot that when you drink you magically tend to move close to other people, among other things.
She's looking into my eyes. "Are you alright? You looked troubled for a moment."
"Sorry, just had a few random thoughts."
She giggles. "Don't tell me I'm distracting you." She hasn't taken her hand from my leg. Is she closer than she was?
I inhale. Was I holding my breath? Something smells strange. Nothing remotely like alcohol. Smells like… lilac? Her perfume, probably. It's sweet. Intoxicating. My leg begins to tremble. I think I'm starting to sweat.
Oh my god.
I'm nervous. I am actually nervous. This can't be happening. I'm suave, I'm smooth. You need a dictionary for words like
debonair
and
amiable
and
urbane
to adequately describe me.
Since when did you become such a bitch? Check your pants, your balls are probably lodged in your shoes.
I know what Megan wants. It's what she has wanted since she showed up at the party. Probably before then, actually. Maybe right when she got out of the water and first laid eyes on me.
Sex!
"Megan, you are really something special," I say.
