Here's the thing about me: Call me pretty, and I love you a little bit already.
Seriously, knowing that my natural chemical make-up and a degree of effort (depending on my mood) gives you pleasure, and I'm practically floating on Cloud Nine!
Here's another thing about me: I am a pretty bad flirt, but a fascinating conversationalist.
Therein lies the story:
Going to a bar is great fun. Pua, Seana, and I all went to Varsity, and we just sat and chilllllled out. Girls' night are so fun. They're so easy. Regardless of how comfortable some men can be, they will never, and can never, be a girl. A girl is a girl is a girl, and I love it. So. Girls. Pretty girls. Loving their lives. Sitting in a bar.
No surprise, pretty soon, David sits down.
Now, the Terrified Male is one I have much sympathy for. Imagine this. You are masculine. You are hairy, burly, and big. You and your ape brothers are standing at a high table, hooting it up, downing some pansy Heineken or something, awkwardly making conversation, all just really surveying the landscape for the ladies.
Suddenly, a flurry of motion catches your well-trained eye. Your attention is drawn to a booth, a center booth (wherein, in fact, three very attractive ladies ARE sitting, because the smoking hot bartender from Ireland just pulled them out of the back booth and put them prominently on display in the middle of the establishment,) where you notice a haole red head, talking animatedly, using her hands, a Hawaiian goddess of lavish beauty, luscious lips, lascivious eyes, and a keen, quick-witted brunette. The three are laughing. They're playing. Their drinking "Hop in the Dark," a Black and Tan. They're having a good time.
"Go. Go," your fellow male brethren grunt, poking you in the chest. You go. Stoic, stocky, short he-man that you are, you go, and suddenly, you've squeezed your square hips into their booth and the three of them are staring at you with six doe-eyed wonders. You're lost. What is this?! You've stumbled into a lair! A lair of beauty! Of pretty! Of perfume! There's so much hair! So much curve! Oh no! What is it?!
You gulp.
You breathe in.
You hold your breath.
And you sputter.
"I'm David."
Actually, you are terrified. The Ladies, not so much. After all, they ARE ladies. This just happens. Youth, hope, love--you've got it all, and they have indeed pushed you into wondrous acts of bravado before. After all, we're all just looking for a little connection, right? Right.
Now, meeting a man in a bar holds very little appeal to a woman like me. But if you were indeed that haole animated red-head, and you did, in fact feel quite sexy in that blue minidress from Modcloth.com, you're going to understand his bravado, understand his intention, his bravery, and you have decided to celebrate his risk, his chance, his enjoyment in possibly learning someone new.
You, dear Reader, as that red-head, are going to sit up on your knees, lean diagnally, dramatically across the table, disregarding the sticky spilled beer, and you're going to start asking this Terrified Male about his life. You are demanding answers.
He likes it. He loosens up. He has not failed, in fact. Eventually, his face stops flashing and twitching into signs of panic, and his shoulders loosen and drop down to their normal position. The girl is asking about your work, your job, then your family, your home, your life. The other two just sit, waiting, quiet and content. This one, though! Wow, this one is alive!
Finally, you, oh stoic male, you muster up the courage to pose a question: "Are you ladies interested in meeting some guys?"
The red-head looks to her friends, then back, and shakes her head. "Not really!" she practically chirps. She continues the conversation right where it left off. You're stunned. There are stars in your eyes, Young Terrified Male. This red-head is practically dancing in her seat, look at here there, twitching and moving!
"Do you want to dance?"
Of course, she does, of course, (if you know me at all,) she says yes. So you do. She's good, you tell her so, and she laughs, a deep, lovely, womanly laugh--full of womanhood, wild and wonderful. She flips her hair, slinks her hips. You decide you like her. She's cute.
"You're cute!" you say. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"No, but thank you. I've got work early in the morning."
"You're responsible! I like that."
Then you both laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh because here, here, you have found an honestly nice, compassionate soul. Your life is not changed, your life is not different, but tonight it is indeed sweet; it is indeed pretty, and you're both a little bit of a better person for risking your heart tonight.
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