This Skirt Gets Me Dates

Instance Three

I ride into the University 7-11 on the moped (affectionately referred to as "Scootie,") and she's running like a charm, all silk and butter, especially after the 2-2 Birthday tale. I pull in to the pump, park, and notice another bike already parked and waiting at the pump. It's not my turn. I slide off Scootie and wait. A man walks over. He's 33. I don't know this yet.

"Hey, you're exquisite. How are you?"

It's obviously a line, but I'd like to think that it's not. He's not so great, a bit creepazoid. Short, bald, shaved head, and a studded black lip ring. Fit, though.

"Very fine, thank you," I say. All business and stuffing, as usual. I'm not gonna lie--people, men in general, just take me by surprise. It doesn't take much to catch me off guard, and I believe in the human race so much that I always assume everyone has the best intentions when it comes to me and my welfare. Nay, this is not the case, and yay, I am slowly learning it sufficiently.

He starts pumping his gas, and I go back to my life in my head. I take my shoes off, and spin around. The skirt flies out from me, twirling and twirling, and yes, Jacin and Seana, I am wearing a slip underneath so don't worry about him seeing my underwear. The concrete feels warm and good under my feet. They ache so much now that I'm standing all day at Sunglass the Hut. I stick my arms out, tilt my head back, and calm myself down from the day, spinning and twirling in bliss.

"Hey," he says. "That's pretty. You look about as good as I feel. Why the pirouettes?"

"I like it. The skirt's good for it. See?"

I spin for him.

Of course he comes closer, starts talking. "Where you from?" he asks, and when I answer, "Texas," he whistles low and shakes his head. He lika da western woman. We compare notes, and it comes out that I'm leaving in a week. He's apparently got two full-time jobs, no lady, and is living by himself in paradise.

"Look, I ain't got time for games, but your smile is exquisite, and that sweet twang is music to my ears."

He's abrupt, quick, fast-paced. He's talked me up in a storm the past four minutes, and by this point, my head is swirling and I'm about ready to start giggling. He's gone before I get the chance. He heads inside, pays for my gas, hands me his numbers, and drives away.

"The ball's in your court, Lady."

Instance Two

I'm working at Sunglass the Hut, having a pretty boring time, but making up little games about what kind of person would want to wear the different sunglasses, and still enjoying my life. I start humming a bit, and then, this incredibly stunning bevy of blonde boyhood walks by. Oh my sweet Jesus, boyhood be damned, he's older than me, I absolutely know it. He's tan, blonde, and sweet, sweet piercing blue eyes.

Let's just be clear here for a moment--I NEVER expect the cute ones to be interested. I've been told, quite unfortunately, that my girlish figure is long gone, which I absolutely refuse to believe. All that being said, it IS true that my curves are quite advanced for a woman of my age, and I just don't get the appreciation from the cutie patooties in early to mid-twenties, that I do from "mature" men near their thirties on up.

Blue Eyes Heart Attack shuffles up to the display case, and ambles around a little bit. I size him up, and decide once and for all that he's definitely not interested. He's way, way too cute. So I flip around and go back to my business on the other side of the kiosk.

Here's the thing: I do indeed have a favorite brother, and said Favorite Brother's coloring happens to be blonde, blue-eyed, rosy cheeks. And while I have ABSOLUTELY NO SEXUAL ATTRACTION to said favorite brother, I cannot help but see a parallel between my comfort with this brother, and my general pattern of fondness for anyone who looks remotely like him. Thank goodness, this guy, Andrew (as I soon learn,) looks better.

So, of course, I'm wearing the skirt. I finally turn around to talk to Andrew, who has been standing there long enough for me to know he means sunglass business, and we start chatting. He needs glasses. He is indecisive. AAAAAHHHHHH. The big one, the big answer, that explains a lot of things to come: Andrew is shy. He stays at the kiosk, and it's slow, so we start trying on pairs and pairs of sunglasses. He truly cannot make up his mind, which is never a problem for me, because I absolutely adore telling people what to do. Twenty minutes pass. I make for another customer, expecting Andrew to walk away, and to my surprise, he absolutely does not. In fact, he repeats the entire "trying on" process one. more. time. from. the. beginning. with. feeling. my. dear. I get back to him, and he's still there, ready for another round, and another string of questions.

We talk about his glasses, his needs, his family, his life. He answers all, loosens up, and I'm really just being nice, as anyone would, at this point (I like gumption.) He finally decides to take down the information of a brown lens Maui Jim, and I suspect it's precisely so that he can have a good reason to come back to Sunglass the Hut, soon. "I'm Andrew," he says. "You're an excellent conversationalist, and you're beautiful when you spin. Can I see you again?"


Instance One

His name is Jacin, and we've been together all day, pretty much. He doesn't offer up much, emotionally, doesn't hand me any risks or openings, and I'm pretty bored. He met me at rehearsal, and let me choose whatever I wanted. I, of course, chose a walk, because I LOVE WALKS. So we're at a creek, no shoes, and then, now, we're late for dinner, which he invited me to, and he's calling his hanai parents to tell them we're on our way.

I'm still bored, but, I absolutely was thrilled to agree to go, and for reasons unknown, I've got a lot of faith in this Jacin fellow. Dinner is delightful, and, in fact, his hanai mother invites me to go snorkeling the next morning with them at the North Shore.

So, now, Jacin and I are up at his house, and I'm spending the night (I carry my toothbrush and bathing suit with me already.)

"You make me nervous," Jacin says. He's grateful for the companionship, but not really tripping over himself to get to know me, (which could, indeed, be my own fault.)

"You make me nervous," I type again, getting back to the point.

"Why?"

He pretends not to hear me, and I take a subtle note that he thinks pretending not to hear me is sufficient for avoiding well-articulated questions. Jacin heads across the room and pops open a bottle of Crios.

Five glasses and whatever was left that I drank out of the bottle later (oh--this is between the two of us, by the way :P,) the statement surfaces again.

"You make me nervous."

This time I wonder if it's an apology.

"Why?"

Jacin walks to the bathroom, flicks on a light there, flicks it off, and comes back out, swishing his hips the way I eventually come to recognize and love as a sign of confident capability. I refuse to let the question drop this time.

"What about me makes you nervous?"

"Well, for one thing, your skirt."

Jacin's still "playing it cool," still "keeping it suave," but I detect a solid honesty in this response, and my heart thrills. Here is some open-ness. Here is a bit of a risk. Here is what I absolutely call communication. I laugh, delightedly, absolutely glad that I stuck around for this heart, stand up, twirl, and curtsy gracefully onto the floor, leaning against the fridge.

"Why do you want to know?" Jacin sends back.

I answer, truthfully, "Because if I could find out what about me is specifically setting you off, setting you against, then I could change it. And if you could be more comfortable, and I could facilitate that.....well.......(and Dear Reader, here, I truly am at a loss for explanation)....well, really, what more could I want?"

Jacin breathes in, deep, and laughs out loud. He tilts his chair back, his head back, and "Wow," he says. He looks my way, and moves a little closer to me.