GIRL 79
PSYCHIC GIRL
At first it was more of an argument in a chat room than flirting. We disagreed about everything. Dating. Sex. Kids. One thing I found consistently in my life is that a woman's hatred is not necessarily rejection. Indifference is another thing, but if a woman has psychological energy to hate a man, that energy is coming from the same organs and glands that passionate sexual desire come from.
Naturally, eventually she agreed to meet me.
But there was trouble. I couldn't give her a nickname. At first she wouldn't send me her picture, so she was Ghost Girl. Then she said that I emphasized sex too much, so we joked that on our first date she should enter the room naked, bent over, carrying a pizza and a sixpack. So she became Pizza Girl. Then on the eve of the date, she told me she had been a Navy diver. Therefore, Diver Girl. And then finally, with hours to go, she confessed that she was a professional psychic, and that she didn't like to tell men that because they would freak out on her before the date. I didn't care. Psychic phenomena were quite routine to me by then.
But in the parking lot of the restaurant, I had a problem. Her face looked like her picture, but she was a foot shorter than I expected, and she was big in the middle, very big. She wore flip flops with Capri pants, trying to tease me because I'd stated that I hate a woman wearing flip flops out on a date, and I abhor Capri pedal-pusher pants because they make women look shorter and fatter. But her weight disqualified her from being lustworthy to me, and immediately I worried. Since she was a psychic, would she be able to read my thoughts?
I didn't want my thoughts read on that subject. This goes to the entire politeness versus truth issue. I'd rather tell the truth in a less confrontational venue, like email, than be judged on tellingher to her face that she was too fat for me.
So I kept my shields up. It took tremendous energy to keep the brick wall erected so she couldn't see my real feelings. Later, when she decided after dinner that I wasn't for her, I felt I could relax.
I remember it like it was five minutes ago. At the very instant I relaxed my mind, I was sitting on a park bench of the restaurant eating an ice cream cone bought across the street. I was leaning back, my arm draped on the bench behind her, enjoying the evening and enjoying her. While we weren't suited for each other, I liked her - she was fascinating and hilariously funny, and the ghost stories she told were the best I'd ever heard. Moreover, she could see dead people if they were suicides or evil, and her son could see all dead people who lingered here on this earthly plane.
But at the exact moment I relaxed, she began spouting all this stuff about insanely kinky sex. Orgies and dildos and things I'd only fantasized about when I was too drunk even to get hard. On and on she went, and it was completely bizarre and frightening.
I walked her to her car. It was a Saturn. Same color and style as my first wife's. She began kicking the door panels to show me how dent resistant it was. Finally she climbed in and roared off.
I was shaken when I drove home. I don't remember the drive or going to bed, but I remember my nightmares - all the strange, kinky things she'd talked about coming true. And though they were nightmares, I woke with a hardon the size of a telephone pole. When I finished myself, the cum flew over my head and hit the headboard.
A few hours later I instant messaged her.
Hi, I said, and after a few lines of pleasantries I told her that what she'd talked about had been all my fantasies in one Easter basket.
She didn't seem surprised. "I figured," she typed. "I don't usually talk like that, and suddenly I did."
I told her about my relaxing.
"Wow," she typed. "You have some pretty strong mental power to be able to keep me out like that. But, wow, when the door to your mind is opened, it's like walking into a cheap triple-X video peep show store."
I know, I wrote. I think it's partly my nature and partly the result of being in dry relationships for too long.
"I'm sorry," she wrote. "Good luck."
Thanks, I typed. But any time you want to act out those fantasies, let me know.
She laughed. "I think I'll pass," she typed.
I closed the instant message window and deleted her from the contact list and breathed a sigh of relief.
Now I had my thoughts to myself again.
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