|
Sex, sins, booze and breasts. For any man with an inkling of testosterone, this is the definition of college. Class was nothing but an interruption from the hangover. An opportunity to sit back, chug some water and prepare for the coming night. The night was my time to fly, even if it often meant I'd be shot down at the hands of a woman. 
My confidence had boiled over and rejection was simply a misstep to a new direction. I was quick to break the ice and women were just as quick to walk away. My breakneck Foolosophy on pick-ups was all wrong, but my reckless attitude caught the interest of some. My buddy, who was visiting from my hometown, was quick to notice my new style. He inquired as to how I comfortably spoke to any woman in the bar.
I prepared to demonstrate on the first women to walk by our table. Within the minute, I had two women sitting with us, seemingly unfazed by my awkward interruption to their conversation. I assumed that the odds had just tilted in my favor, that after so many burns, I eventually dodged the fiery wrath of a woman with her defenses up.
I left the blonde for my friend and spoke with the much more spunky brunette by the name of Lindsey. She had a nice body but I continually focused on what appeared to be a cute face, trying to see through the beer goggles at something I was missing. Eventually, my analysis was distracted as she cheerfully asked if she could show me the thong she just bought. My eyes became fixated on the duckies patterned around her ass.
Alarms of reasoning went off in my head. Within five minutes, a woman had accepted my flirtations and gone as far as to whip down her pants to display an odd cartoon-like set of panties. Then there was the question mark surrounding her face. I looked again, but the beer had dulled my senses, and the thong had put something higher than analyzing her face up on my 'to-do' list.
I ordered a shot of Jack to dull my doubts. I asked her for her phone number. She wrote down her home phone, cell phone and e-mail address. It seemed almost a little desperate but I waved it off-- I was in.
Just as she was leaving, she turned back to me, a concerned look stirring in her eyes.
“I have to tell you something,” she began. I braced myself expecting to finally discover what it was that had been nagging the back of my mind about this woman. “This scares a lot of guys off. I'm 27.”
I looked at her as if I was missing the punchline to a joke. I was 19 and while the age may be a bit of a gap, I wondered why it would scare any guy off. She looked no older than my own age. Something wasn't adding up in my mind, but by now, my only thought was how her shirt wrapped tightly around her breasts.
“If that's a problem for guys, you've been meeting the wrong ones,” I replied, attempting to play it cool when in reality I was mentally undressing her. I bit my tongue, stopping myself from saying what I really wanted to say to her. It involved a mixture of sweat, handcuffs and whipped cream. Going against my breakneck Foolosophy, I decided to slow-play this hand.
We kissed and she jumped out into the winter's air, looking more like a high school graduate than a woman of 27. I reached into my pocket and looked over her number. “Love Foolosopher?” I thought. “I'll prove them all wrong.”
 Afterwards, we talked for a few days over the Internet. She became more of a puzzle as she often remarked how surprised she was that I would go out with her. She even added how I must be more open-minded than most men. I hadn't any idea what she was talking about and I kept myself blissfully unaware. She was sexy and she seemed fun-- whatever it was that she was self-conscious about was a blind spot to me. My relationships always ended up with insane flaws and this time I was doing my best to swerve around it. Little did I think about hitting the ditch.
The next time I saw Lindsey, my lust got the best of me and forced a grin across my face. As if reading my mind for a list of fetishes, she showed up like she had just been grinding rails in the skate park. She wore sneakers, baggy yellow pants and a Sex Pistols t-shirt that smoothly curved around her body. Her hair was done up in pigtails to complete the mixture of bad girl and sweet girl. The only flaw was her make-up, which seemed slightly caked, though it was unable to step in the way of my instant attraction.
We went to the movies which served as nothing more but a backdrop for us to take the back seats and act like a couple of kids making out on their first date. After the movie, I asked her if she wanted to stop for a beer. She told me she couldn't.
“You remember I told you my age, right? You should know I have to be up early tomorrow,” she said.
I was hit with a sudden realization that made my stomach flip as the over-buttered popcorn attempted to escape digestion. Her face, her clothing, making out in the back of a theatre-- I'd made a horrible mistake about her age. Now she must be insinuating that she has school tomorrow. I came to the quick conclusion that I misheard her age at the bar.
My mind raced for an escape. I felt like a creep, having just groped every part of a girl who was god knows how old. Being 19 at the time, I wondered how young she would have to be to make this disgustingly wrong. My momentary pause, as I debated with myself on ways to flee the situation, seemed to prod her to continue.
She looked at me, frustration wincing into her face more and more as mine retained its dumb and hollow look.
“I'm 37, Jayden!”
Check back next week for the conclusion of "Higher Learning"...
|
