GIRL 42
SHOP GIRL
Thanksgiving had come and gone. I had made the drive to my ex's house to see the teenagers, then back to the Snake Ranch to stare at the four walls. Dating hadn't been going well, and I was restless. The holidays are particularly lonely for the unattached, and the player role didn't fit me well.
So when Shop Girl popped up in a search and responded to one of my emails with its typical "can't help but respond" factors built in, I poured on the charm. She said she'd meet me.
By this time I had started to sort women into three piles:
C-Girls: C was for curiosity. Or circus. Or chubby. Females who were lined up more for the story I'd tell my friends on Monday morning than for any potential.
B-Girls: Two categories of B-girls. One was for failed A-Girls, females I'd predicted would be A-class, but didn't make the cut. The other was for females originally classified as B. They were interesting and sexy and worthy of attention, but there would be an embedded fatal flaw, something that would obviously prevent an ongoing relationship. Rather than elaborate, I should just show examples in this blog.
A-Girls: This is a woman who makes you forget about other women. She has legs, both the kind that are worthy of stroking to get to the pot o'gold, and in the sense of having a future. At the same time, A-Girls are frightening because they will bring a player's career to a swift end, and said playboy soon finds himself domesticated, corralled, taken over, and no longer free.
The search was leaving behind C-Girls and focusing on A-Girls. My B's were failed A-Girls, or so I told myself. Shop Girl is the story of the first deliberate attempt to find a real A-Girl since Girl 29, Separated Mom Girl.
Shop Girl had named herself. She owned a fancy, trendy dress shop on the Main Line. For you west coasters lucky enough not to have to deal with snotty east coast bullshit, the Main Line is the enclave of the upper class outside Philadelphia. Again, if you are not born into that group, you are the equivalent to a hairy-assed plumber with his butt crack exposed. In a word, uncouth. But Shop Girl seemed driven, cute and sexual.
I signed her up for a prime time date, smack dab on Saturday night. I never gave a first date slot a prime time date, lest they think more of themselves than they were entitled to. Monday night dates were for C-Girls. The week warmed up, until Thursday meant you were an A-Girl. But Friday and Saturday, they were for girlfriends or females targeted for closer examination, or for probable initial sex dates.
Perhaps that was my first mistake. All I know is that there I was, sitting at an absurdly expensive restaurant with Shop Girl, who was as alluring in person as in her photos. We met at an exquisite Philadelphia restaurant that was a stone's throw from her front door, down a flight of steps cut into the rocky side of a cliff. My mind immediately saw possibilities. We could go from after-dinner drinks to naked playtime in a matter of two hundred seconds.
But first I found out that her dress shop, her financial empire, had been purchased for her by her first ex-husband, who had been trying to wash his hands of her for years. My traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, frowned. He hated what he called "ex-wife girls," females who hosted the usual resentment to their exes. When they looked at him by candlelight, he always pretended to be asleep.
Then I found out what she thought of me. Somewhere between the entrée and dessert, she looked up at me, wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin and pronounced, "I've decided I'm not going to fuck you."
I glanced up at her as calmly as if she'd said it was supposed to rain later.
"Oh really?" I said. "Could you excuse me?" I walked to the restroom and looked in the mirror, wondering if it would be appropriate to just leave and stiff her with the bill. Certainly I had every reason to do so. But would that just show her that I had stooped to her level? I decided to return to the table, pay the check, and tell her tactfully that I thought she was a cockteasing cunt.
When I returned to the table there was no sign of her.
Assuming she was in the bathroom, I ordered another scotch and paid the check. Soon I reached the bottom of the glass. I smiled as I stood and began the hideous walk through the dining room and the bar to the front door at a restaurant where the entire staff had greeted Shop Girl by her first name. With ten feet to go before freedom, the bartender stopped me.
"She bolted on you?"
I looked at him. "She does this a lot, doesn't she?"
The barman, whom Shop Girl and called Marshall, was an older gentleman with a certain worn dignity about him. He nodded, then leaned in close. "There's a boyfriend. He doesn't pay enough attention to her. So she's become - "
"A dinner whore." I finished his sentence for him.
He tried to suppress a guffaw, not quite successful at keeping his expression neutral. "Yes, sir, I think you could say that is accurate."
I put a twenty on the bar. "Goodnight, Marshall."
"Goodnight, sir. Safe journey."
When I emerged from the front door onto the porch, a foggy drizzle had begun, the porch lights making cones of mist in the parking lot.
I've decided I'm not going to fuck you.
I smiled. At least she'd been direct about it. Another female would keep me jumping for the bait for weeks. At least she would have in the old days. There's a reason we males go for the pussy by date two. It proves the female is genuine.
Because dinner whores never fuck.
I walked up the steep steps to my truck and drove off.
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