An Indecent Proposal
After friends gave Chuck my number, he called me on a Monday, and we agreed to meet on Thursday for drinks. But at 6pm on Thursday, Chuck hadn’t called to confirm plans, and I was pissed. At 9 pm Chuck called asking to meet. I should have told him to fuck off (and buy a watch), but fueled by curiosity, I agreed to meet him at a local wine bar. I arrived first and snagged a seat outside. It was a beautiful summer night, perfect for Riesling and hand-holding. Five minutes later, up walked Chuck, wearing a T-shirt, jeans and scuffed Sambas. He reminded me of Ethan Hawke circa Reality Bites, but grungier.
Suddenly, a drunk guy approached us. “Chuuuuuuckkkkkkkk! Dude, is that you?”
Behold Dave, a college friend of Chuck’s whom he hadn’t seen in 10 years. There I sat, sipping my wine, while Chuck and Dave back-slapped and high-fived. As if this show of fraternization wasn’t enough, Chuck invited Dave to join us. Now, I may have entertained the idea of a threesome, but this is not what I had in mind. Dave was with two work colleagues so we joined them inside. He proceeded to tell me what a good guy Chuck was and that I better “hold on to him.” I should’ve been thankful someone was talking to me, since I spent the next 15 minutes listening to Chuck and Dave wax poetic about their college days.
After 15 more minutes of being ignored (unless you count Chuck trying to fondle me under the table as attention) I excused myself. Chuck followed me outside and whispered in my ear, “How much do I have to pay you for a kiss?”
Horrified and curious, I asked him how much I was worth.
“I rescind the question,” Chuck balked. “That’s not a fair question.”
“No, Chuck, you asking me if I’d put out for money wasn’t a fair question, but me asking my value at current exchange rate was perfectly justified,” I said.
“I’ll give you $500,” he said.
Now, I excel at making out, which is why my kiss not being worth a Fendi Spy Bag put me in an even fouler mood. Chuck then asked me to go with him to another bar. I demurred.
“Why won’t you come with me? Does your pussy hurt?”
I stopped dead in my tracks. “What did you say?” I asked.
Chuck blinked. “Does your pussy hurt? It’s what my friends say when I don’t want to do something. You know, don’t be a pussy.”
I stood there, mouth agape. So I did what I should’ve done all along: slapped Chuck and walked home.
It was time to put my pain-free pussy to bed.
