Saturday, July 17, 2004

Meghan 1: The Date

Meghan was a cute little redheaded girl I'd met at New Orleans Cafe sometime late in the fall of 93, I think. She was vivacious, slightly earthy, very flirty, and had boobs too big for her body. She ran with a flock of bright, chattering bohemian birds who were either still living at home or just getting out into their first apartments together--a little wild with freedom, and up for just about anything involving talking to boys.

I noticed Meghan about .5 seconds before she came and plopped herself down in my lap, and introduced herself, to a chorus of whispers and giggles a few tables behind me. She had bright red hair, ultra pale skin that still looked as if it was being cared for by a dermatologist paid for by daddy, and vivid green eyes. And cleavage. Lots of it.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I'm not a breast man. Even back then, I figured that the pool of women who would be interesting enough to date was small enough that I couldn't be too picky about cup size--and although maybe I'll eventually tell you about my experiment deliberately dating an ugly woman, I DID try and look beyond the pretty face and flirtatious eyes.

But when someone -did- come along with a nice pair of breasts, and was so plainly in love with showing them off, it was like sprinkles on ice cream.

[also, upon reflection, it may be that I started paying more attention to minds and social skills after dealing with Meghan--just to keep myself honest here.]

So we set up a date for the following night--a quick bite of Chinese food, then back to my place to watch a movie. John had the courtesy to retire early, so she and I lay on the couch, kissing and touching each other til nearly midnight. She did something no one's ever done to me before or since, incidentally: she spent a lot of quality time kissing and licking the inside of the crook of my arm. I'm not making this up! There was something incredibly arousing about it, and by midnight the wine and this arm-licking had reduced me to this high school monster of a boy who couldn't do anything but mumble the equivalent of "take yer clothes off" and "oh baby." Which she didn't seem to mind.

Meghan had told me earlier that she lived with her father, in a house not too far from my house. It was too far for me to walk, of course, but only a few minutes by car. Now, as midnight approached, she began to disengage herself and make whispered apologies about having a curfew. This, as you can imagine, was a disaster...both because she was leaving and because I was seeing a girl that had a curfew, you understand.

Sometime after I muttered my eighth "don't go," she murmured back (while nibbling my earlobe, no less) "why don't you come with me?"

This was something that I hadn't even considered before, and it took me a second to grok the ramifications. "But," I replied intelligently, "don't you live with your dad?" She looked at me with these eyes that just sort of danced with glee at the prospect, and said "yes, but you can sneak in the back door. It's easy! I've done it lots of times before."

"But," I replied, still working on my nuclear physics thesis for Cal Tech, "didn't you say he was a PRISON GUARD?"

"Look," she said, and kissed me a long, slow kiss, "are you coming or not?"

There are times in life when you run up against your own beliefs and goals and what you believe you're all about. Times when you have to put up or shut up--fish or cut bait--defecate or vacate the throne--take your pick. This was one such time. Six years later, I would find myself in the same situation, w/r/t my belief in who I was, with Sketchy Bill, which begins here:

(for some reason most of Blogger's editing features are down this morning, so I'll have to come back and fix this later)

So I kissed her again, then put on my boots and stomped into John's room. I shook him awake, and clipped my pager to his ear. "if this fucking pager goes off--hey, listen to me--if this pager goes off, you'd better call, because it'll be me at some payphone at 7-11, most likely naked, and I'll need a ride home. OK?" "OK," he mumbled, and turned over. Crossing my fingers, I grabbed my keys, and we were off.


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