Literary Pick-ups.

I am absolutely exhausted. In a way I particularly love, but nothing of the sexual sort, unfortunately.

I was browsing through the Perfectly Serious Section of the magazine rack, contemplating the forty-two fucking bucks I wanted to spend on a business journal when my wallet decided to feel itchy out of its own accord, and I found myself queuing in front of the monthly bestsellers, while scrutinizing the titles on display.

That was when I saw this insanely (and I really do mean insanely) tall guy in a suit, with the most sensual lips I’d ever seen, in a dress shirt unbuttoned just a little too much, carrying a perfectly stylish brief-case. And he was looking straight at me. It made me do a double-take, and I looked away wondering what the hell was I supposed to do. There was just something about the way he looked at me that was simply incredibly intense.

Perfectly out of its own accord, the flirt mechanism came on, and it was almost intrinsic when I started trying to get him to pick me up. I spent some time loitering around the shelves he was also coincidentally pretending to scrutinize, and it did seem like he was noticing me, butit got tedious after awhile, (and awhile is always a really long while when you’re waiting to get picked up) So I though, fuck this. He’s never going to come up to talk to me. I’m going for another coffee.

Of course I strolled back, hoping he’d follow. Surprisingly, he did. I made a turn into the café though, and he lost me. I saw him trying to look for me among the Graphic Design, and asking a sales girl something. What the hey, I thought, and went out of the café to walk past him when it looked like he’d given up. He still didn’t say anything to me!

I give up and went back to my coffee and my reading. Ten minutes later, he comes into the café and sits directly across me. My heart must have skipped many, many beats because I stopped drinking mid-way, with the coffee cup placed between my lips. Then he started talking to me (finally! Despite the pick-up line being rather lame, although substantially effective.) and I laughed while offering him the seat across mine.

Apparently he did some anthropological work, and he’d done some research under Umberto Eco. Of course this turned me on incredibly much, despite his opinion on Eco being terribly negative.

There is, of course, a million questions I can’t wait to ask him, but we’ll save that for when I’m not so wasted. He’s invited me for breakfast tomorrow, and told me I was absolutely free to help myself to his literature while he wrote something for his book.

We talked about a number of things, which were altogether terribly insightful, but most of which I would probably only remember subconsciously and draw out only when the occasion calls for it. There were drinks, some light kisses on the cheek, and hot chocolate when he thought I looked rather sick and that it would do me some good. I personally thought he was simply lovely, and exceedingly considerate.

He said he found himself incredibly attracted to me because I had muscular legs (I replied saying how that had just won him a 100 brownie points he could exchange in return for sexual favors someday) and that I had an immaculate literary taste (But it was only the Harvard Business Review! And I was only reading it because I needed it for an essay).

He told me it wasn’t particularly easy to meet someone he’d like around these parts. Sure, there were a lot of girls to screw, which was always a good thing. But a lot of them saw him as a fat wallet, just like all the other fat wallets, and that was annoying.

Of course that doesn't matter a great deal to me, the fact that he strikes me as an incredibly intelligent individual with so much I could make him teach me is a huge incentive in itself. But that he constanly asks to pay for stuff really does make things all the more peachy.

He wished me good night, texted me something sweet, along the lines of, 'Oh you are wonderful, and very sexy too... I hope to see you tomorrow.'

xoxox