GIRL 121 ~ TREASURE CHEST REALTOR GIRL
It was the spring but I barely noticed since I was frantically busy at my new job. I’d left the first engineer-procure-construct EPC company I’d worked for in five years after my gig as a consultant. I missed being a consultant. Consulting had been cool. I was an expert by definition. I worked ten hours a week and made twice the money I’d had as a construction manager with a power generation company. It had given me week-long blocks of down-time that I’d used to write the Hundred Girls Project blog. But the money wasn’t steady. In year one of consulting, the funds had just blasted in, and then there was that incident where I had it out with the attorney who gave us most of our work, during the time of Girl 93, Israeli Air Force Girl, when my traitorous penis attempted to kill me by taking over my personality and letting that sonofabitch attorney have it. Free advice – never let your penis do the talking in business. It’s fine occasionally on a date, but never in business. He’s all macho and unyielding and can cause tons of trouble. The attorney’s ire left me with no assignments, and I almost starved to death, so I’d had to go to work for the EPC company I’d hated, that I’d sued when I was in the job before the consulting gig.
And that firm was a dark dungeon of unhappy people. I had hated it. But I’d gotten a phone call from a company whose COO I’d hammered on as a client, offering me a job at their boutique engineering and construction management firm. I laughed on the phone to the human resources recruiter, saying he’d better check with the COO, who probably would kill him if he knew I was being recruited in. The HR guy laughed and said, it’s the COO who wants you aboard. I was stunned – my, what a kind forgiving soul that guy was. He was revered and feared across the industry. Was I ever wrong. It was all about payback.
But at the time I was new to the job and putting all my waking hours’ effort into it. But I’d gotten a hit on my dating site, and a local realtor wanted to see me. We didn’t talk, text or email much. She just wanted to meet for a drink at a Mexican joint up by her place. It was a Tuesday night and quiet in the restaurant when I got there and waited for her. She said she was going to be a half hour late, so I ordered an appetizer. Taquitos or something made of rolled up corn. As I bit into the first one, I started thinking about dick-shaped food. Hot dogs, sausages, burritos. I loved them all. Did that make me light in the loafers?
Just then she walked in, at the exact moment that a taquito was stuffed half way into my mouth. I had to stand, wipe a hand on a napkin and choke down the taquito all at once, my voice muffled by half-chewed food. I could feel the redness on my face.
And it wasn’t just embarrassment. It was her. She looked like her picture from the neck up. But below her neck was the biggest pair of tits I’d ever taken on a date. And her shirt was so low cut, that her boobs were just thrust into my face.
Women complain about how men just stare at their tits, and they want to say, hey, I’m up here. Such women should have caught sight of this blouse.
From her boobs down she was amazing as well. Body like a brick shithouse. It made me wonder if she were selling houses right and left with that body.
I never got to ask. This would be one of those dates where the female opened her mouth and never shut it. I finished my taquitos and two beers before I even got a word in, and then the only thing I could get out was to ask if she wanted another beer. She’d been talking so non-stop that she hadn’t even taken a sip of her first beer. She looked at me as if I were stupid – as if to say, can’t you see I haven’t had any of my first drink? – but I returned her glance with a hard edge, as if to reply, can’t you shut your pie hole long enough to get a drink in?
And the subject of the conversation was ridiculous. She told me in excruciating detail about how she’d only seen two penises in her life, and how she’d cheated on her first husband to find the second penis, but it REALLY WASN’T HER FAULT because she was completely virtuous and she would never cheat and he did this and he did that and she went to church a lot and blah blah fuckin' blah.
Normally I’d be tempted to shatter her little universe of narcissism and point out that, yes, she DID in fact cheat on her first husband. But as fun as that would have been, I still couldn’t get her to shut up long enough to allow me a sentence, so I closed out the check and took her by the arm and walked her to her Jeep.
Now was the moment when I would find out if she’d just been nervous and could be forgiven. It came down to the kiss. If it were good, the kiss and those tits would get a second date, minimal number of penises and the cheating notwithstanding. But if the kiss weren’t good, she’d get nothing further. It was like a field goal attempt in double overtime, I thought. So I pulled her to me and planted my lips on hers, and her lips tensed together. Ignoring it, considering the fact that even with two penises, she’d cheated on one and was therefore a cheating whore, slithered my tongue between her lips and touched her tongue.
She pushed me away and drew back as if I’d had a forked snake tongue in her.
What are you doing? She asked in fury.
I wiped my mouth. Kissing you, I said unapologetically.
Well, why did you slip your TONGUE in?
Because that’s what kissing is, I said reasonably.
Not for me, she said.
Even before she finished talking, I’d spun on my heel and strode over to the Saleen Mustang GT.
Fuck that noise.
It was the spring but I barely noticed since I was frantically busy at my new job. I’d left the first engineer-procure-construct EPC company I’d worked for in five years after my gig as a consultant. I missed being a consultant. Consulting had been cool. I was an expert by definition. I worked ten hours a week and made twice the money I’d had as a construction manager with a power generation company. It had given me week-long blocks of down-time that I’d used to write the Hundred Girls Project blog. But the money wasn’t steady. In year one of consulting, the funds had just blasted in, and then there was that incident where I had it out with the attorney who gave us most of our work, during the time of Girl 93, Israeli Air Force Girl, when my traitorous penis attempted to kill me by taking over my personality and letting that sonofabitch attorney have it. Free advice – never let your penis do the talking in business. It’s fine occasionally on a date, but never in business. He’s all macho and unyielding and can cause tons of trouble. The attorney’s ire left me with no assignments, and I almost starved to death, so I’d had to go to work for the EPC company I’d hated, that I’d sued when I was in the job before the consulting gig.
And that firm was a dark dungeon of unhappy people. I had hated it. But I’d gotten a phone call from a company whose COO I’d hammered on as a client, offering me a job at their boutique engineering and construction management firm. I laughed on the phone to the human resources recruiter, saying he’d better check with the COO, who probably would kill him if he knew I was being recruited in. The HR guy laughed and said, it’s the COO who wants you aboard. I was stunned – my, what a kind forgiving soul that guy was. He was revered and feared across the industry. Was I ever wrong. It was all about payback.
But at the time I was new to the job and putting all my waking hours’ effort into it. But I’d gotten a hit on my dating site, and a local realtor wanted to see me. We didn’t talk, text or email much. She just wanted to meet for a drink at a Mexican joint up by her place. It was a Tuesday night and quiet in the restaurant when I got there and waited for her. She said she was going to be a half hour late, so I ordered an appetizer. Taquitos or something made of rolled up corn. As I bit into the first one, I started thinking about dick-shaped food. Hot dogs, sausages, burritos. I loved them all. Did that make me light in the loafers?
Just then she walked in, at the exact moment that a taquito was stuffed half way into my mouth. I had to stand, wipe a hand on a napkin and choke down the taquito all at once, my voice muffled by half-chewed food. I could feel the redness on my face.
And it wasn’t just embarrassment. It was her. She looked like her picture from the neck up. But below her neck was the biggest pair of tits I’d ever taken on a date. And her shirt was so low cut, that her boobs were just thrust into my face.
Women complain about how men just stare at their tits, and they want to say, hey, I’m up here. Such women should have caught sight of this blouse.
From her boobs down she was amazing as well. Body like a brick shithouse. It made me wonder if she were selling houses right and left with that body.
I never got to ask. This would be one of those dates where the female opened her mouth and never shut it. I finished my taquitos and two beers before I even got a word in, and then the only thing I could get out was to ask if she wanted another beer. She’d been talking so non-stop that she hadn’t even taken a sip of her first beer. She looked at me as if I were stupid – as if to say, can’t you see I haven’t had any of my first drink? – but I returned her glance with a hard edge, as if to reply, can’t you shut your pie hole long enough to get a drink in?
And the subject of the conversation was ridiculous. She told me in excruciating detail about how she’d only seen two penises in her life, and how she’d cheated on her first husband to find the second penis, but it REALLY WASN’T HER FAULT because she was completely virtuous and she would never cheat and he did this and he did that and she went to church a lot and blah blah fuckin' blah.
Normally I’d be tempted to shatter her little universe of narcissism and point out that, yes, she DID in fact cheat on her first husband. But as fun as that would have been, I still couldn’t get her to shut up long enough to allow me a sentence, so I closed out the check and took her by the arm and walked her to her Jeep.
Now was the moment when I would find out if she’d just been nervous and could be forgiven. It came down to the kiss. If it were good, the kiss and those tits would get a second date, minimal number of penises and the cheating notwithstanding. But if the kiss weren’t good, she’d get nothing further. It was like a field goal attempt in double overtime, I thought. So I pulled her to me and planted my lips on hers, and her lips tensed together. Ignoring it, considering the fact that even with two penises, she’d cheated on one and was therefore a cheating whore, slithered my tongue between her lips and touched her tongue.
She pushed me away and drew back as if I’d had a forked snake tongue in her.
What are you doing? She asked in fury.
I wiped my mouth. Kissing you, I said unapologetically.
Well, why did you slip your TONGUE in?
Because that’s what kissing is, I said reasonably.
Not for me, she said.
Even before she finished talking, I’d spun on my heel and strode over to the Saleen Mustang GT.
Fuck that noise.