{ 11 06 2009 }

Plan C: Sexy (and a little bit stabby)

Last night after work, I craved cheese. Rather than go to the grocery store just to buy cheese, I decided to stop by my new favorite fancy liquor store that also sells gourmet food. And happens to be the place where I hit on Wine Guy on Monday. Who had not called in the three days since then.

Not that I’m a stalker.

Really. I didn’t even enter through the liquor door, I entered through the OTHER door, the one that leads directly to the fancy food, all the way on the other side of the store from where I had met Wine Guy. Which means I was genuinely startled when I saw him walking toward me with a dolly full of boxes.

“Heeey, look who’s back!” Wine Guy said with a big smile.

“Oh, hi, um, I thought you only worked the liquor part of the store?” I said, completely thrown.

“Yeah I do, but the stock area is over there,” he said, motioning backward with his head. He stopped the dolly in the middle of the aisle and propped his leg up on one of the boxes. “So what’s going on?”

“Um. Cheese.” I’m glad I look hot today, because I don’t think my personality is working out too well at the moment.

“Cheese?” Wine Guy asked, amused.

“Cheese. I craved cheese. Smoked gouda, to be exact. It’s my favorite. So even though I have a fridge full of food, I had to stop on my way home to buy some good cheese.” Then I nodded a tiny bit, urging him to validate my quest for cheese. And not him. Really. Mostly.

“Well you can’t go wrong with that. Gouda is one of my favorites too.”

Really? We should get together and take off our pants sometime.

I grunted out something that I hoped sounded affirmative. It can be so hard to hold a normal conversation when my pussy is holding my brain hostage.

“Okay, so I need to go unload and stock all this stuff,” he said, thumping the stack of boxes on his dolly. “But keep talking while I work.”

I followed him through the aisles as we continued chatting. Fortunately I was able to keep my urge to squeal to myself, for all the signs from Wine Guy had been positive so far. Excited to see me, wanted to keep talking, and very smiley and talkative. All good, right?

Plus I think Wine Guy was struggling not to check me out while we talked.

That may sound weird, but it was something Tex explained to me when we first started dating: when a guy is talking to a girl he’s really interested in, he has to concentrate all his energy on not staring at her tits. The first time I talked to Tex, I sat on his desk and crossed my legs, making the most of the skirt I was wearing. I remember while we talked that it felt like his eyes were a fucking laser beam to my face, because he looked nowhere else, not even left or right or up or down.

After we started dating, I had accused Tex of how rude he was that first day when he refused to check me out. A girl wants to be checked out, just a little, when she’s interested in a guy.

Let this be a lesson to the male readers out there: IF a girl likes you, she wants you to check her out. The trick is that we don’t want to catch you blatantly staring at us like a creep or a pervert–difficult, I understand–which means the way to play it is like this: you have to purposely let the girl catch you checking her out, just for a second. Just enough so that we know you would die to see us naked. IS THAT SO FLIPPING HARD. GOD.

As I talked to Wine Guy, he opened boxes of wine and put them on shelves. Meanwhile I wondered if he had even thought of me naked yet or if he is one of those rare guys who a slammin’ ass is completely wasted on.

When he bent down to tear open another box, he looked sideways at my bare legs. “Is that what you wear to work?” he asked suddenly.

“This? Yeah, pretty much.” I looked down. Nice collared top, tight black pencil skirt, and my favorite pair of stilettos: tall, black, with a peep-toe. The workplace equivalent of the fuck-me boots that college girls wear to parties.

He stood up to survey me. I straightened up. Even in my heels, Wine Guy stood taller than me. His face showed no indication of attraction or disinterest. I had no reading on him. WHAT THE DEUCE. I’M SMOKIN’ HOT IN THIS OUTFIT. ACKNOWLEDGE.

Then he carried on the conversation without missing a beat. Damnit. A minute or so later, Wine Guy offered an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go bring in another load from the back….”

“Oh, that’s cool, I still have to go pick out my cheese anyway,” I answered, wondering if he was trying to brush me off.

“But come back and talk to me in a little bit, okay? I’ll be around here somewhere.” He smiled.

“Sure thing,” I answered. YES. All good signs.

Normally it would take me only three minutes to find the cheese, pay for it, and leave, but since I was working the sexy angle on my latest eye candy, I took my sweet-ass time.

I picked up every single wedge of smoked gouda to find the perfect one. I examined every other type of cheese they had, studying each as if I knew what I was looking at. Next I moved on the cracker section. My goodness, what an impressive selection of crackers!

After about fifteen minutes, I decided it had been long enough and I went lto find Wine Guy. He asked me about my quest for cheese. I would much rather have discussed my quest for cock.

We kept chatting. It came out that he has only recently graduated college. Great. I hoped he wasn’t another youngin’ who wouldn’t be able to locate the g-spot.

Meanwhile I was getting impatient. And hungry, as my stomach repeatedly (and loudly) reminded me.

“Okay, I really need to get going, but um….” I stalled. Stupid me, I was hoping that Wine Guy would jump in to ask me out on a proper date, or at the very least, a promise to call me before my patience ran out.

He didn’t get it. Wine Guy looked at me, clueless. DUDE. STOP BEING A DUMBFUCK.

“So I realized after I gave you my card that it only has my work number on it, not my cell phone number….” I’m not going to beg. In or out, buddy. Here’s a hint: IT FEELS BETTER IN.

“Oh right, why don’t you give it to me then?” Wine Guy said, pulling out his phone. He punched in the numbers as I said them.

Now normally the protocol is for whoever just received the number to call that number so his is in turn saved in the giver’s phone. Right? He didn’t. Fine. Maybe he’s had a run-in with a stalker girl who texted every ten minutes “WHY HAVEN’T YOU ANSWERED MY LAST SEVEN TEXTS????? IT’S BEEN TWELVE MINUTES!!!!!!!”

I did not look to see if he actually saved my number, a move which people sometimes do when they have no intention of calling but want to be polite and accept the offer of a phone number. It was getting harder to tell which guy he was going to be.

“Thanks. So, yeah, maybe I’ll give you a call or maybe we can hang out sometime….” he said.

Oh I am getting way too old for this “maybe” shit.

“Yeah, maaaaaybe we can hang out sometime at, like, a restaurant,” I teased. I raised an eyebrow. I will call his bluff.

Wine Guy laughed. “Okay, cool. See ya.”

Vague. Chickenshit.

I went to check out with my wedge of cheese, wishing I had a knife so I could take my stabbiness out on it immediately. As I walked out the door, I caught Wine Guy’s eye from across the room. I waved, then he waved.

Vague. Was he just being nice? Was he schmoozing me to make a bigger sale for the store? Was he another polite and flirtatious Southern guy? I DON’T KNOW AND IT’S INFURIATING.

I’ve done more than my part to give the guy detailed directions for how to find the way inside my pants. It’s up to him to make it happen; I’m done. And kind of stabby.

Posted by Over Educated Nympho on Friday, November 6th, 2009, at 8:22 am, and filed under dating, dumbasses, douchebags, and fuckwits.

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