Flexing the flirt muscles
Boy, am I out of practice. There's a really nice man I've been having some long lunches with recently. He's brilliant. A professor for many years. Attractive. Funny. Loves the same old movies I do (Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, To Kill a Mockingbird, Spartacus, Casablanca, The Apartment) and can discuss vintage Twilight Zone in intense detail. He knows which episodes were written by Rod Serling and which were written by Buck Houghton. You have no idea the effect that this has on a TV-head. To me it's foreplay.
He's age-appropriate, warm, witty. He opens doors like a gentleman. His politics are right--meaning way, way left. Where it counts, he's the right stuff through and through.
And I'm like a blind pig who's suddenly found an acorn. Men like this are so rare that it scares me that I actually know one. I keep waiting for him to say, "Can you drop me off at my girlfriend's house?" or "Would you like to see my collection of Japanese enema porn?" or any of those other killer phrases that men seem to utter at the exact moment you've decided he's a good guy.
I don't care what age you are, it's nerve-jangling. In this man's company, I feel 17. OK, in my head, I feel 17. My lower back still feels 95.
He seems to be tolerating my various and numerous quirks, like my tendency to blather nervously while driving (I almost turned the wrong way on a one-way street yesterday...Jeez). He puts me at ease and asks me interesting questions that nobody ever has before. And then he listens to the answers. I find him endlessly fascinating. And he keeps asking me out to lunch (we did dinner once, but our schedules make afternoon assignations much better to manage).
Girls, you know what I'm talking about. Guys, listen and learn.
Be gentle with us and we're putty. Seem interested, be attentive, kind, generous and open-hearted--we'll be your purring kittens. Niceness goes a long way.
It's been a long time since I've flexed my flirt muscles. I thought they'd atrophied altogether, like the flabby stuff under my arms. In this writing life, I spend a lot of time solo, just staring at the screen, waiting for the right words to appear. Except for going to the theater (my other job) and writing at Starbucks (where the baristas know me so well, they tell me when I'm having a good hair day and ask me to read their blogs), I don't get out a whole lot. And by getting out I mean putting on a skirt that reveals some leg, slapping on some mascara and acting like a girly girl.
There's nothing quite so nice as lunch in a neighborhood cafe on a winter afternoon, sitting across from a lovely man in a cozy booth, thinking, "This is gooooood."
I'm a little giddy perhaps. The humble acorn is an aphrodisiac.