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I’m Trying to Impress A Woman

I really can’t think of any better way to explain why I write. Nor can I think of a better reason. Not that I’d need one. It all started as an attempt to impress a girl who considered herself some kind of poet or something equally silly. She wasn’t very good at writing poems, but she was cute, and I figured I could probably just throw something together that would make her want me. This was in those dark days before Google and thinking back, I probably could have forged something but I didn’t. Words were pouring out of me effortlessly, it was the first time I’d let them. I had no trouble at all putting my feelings down on paper and my attraction to this girl was all the inspiration I seemed to need. I was on fire. To a girl who claimed nothing moved her like the power of the written word, I thought I would be irresistible!

I was wrong, of course, terribly, terribly wrong, but the experience had an unexpected outcome. The good looking guy she hooked up with instead of me got to read all these letters I’d written her, letters I hadn’t realized she and her friends had been laughing about behind my back for the better part of a month. And whereas the girl and her friends didn’t appreciate my humble offerings of words, phrases, and ability to correctly spell and punctuate, this new boyfriend of hers did. And he was a decent enough guy to let me know, (later on, of course, after they’d already had sex.) Funny enough, he actually wanted to be a writer, aspired to it, and told me he was jealous of my natural ability. It was a compliment I have never forgotten. (I’ve also never forgotten that he got to have sex with her and I didn’t.)

I was as surprised as anyone to find out I had a natural ability to do anything except maybe breath and masturbate. Later, I honed my skills at various office jobs which always included the two things I desperately needed to fire my imagination and perfect my craft — a computer and women. Offices are always filled with women, now more than ever, what with women finally being recognized as far better workers than men will ever be unless the work involves moving heavy things from place to place or doing things badly. I would secure a position as an office manager or mailroom clerk, anything that would require a desk, a keyboard, and the need to mingle with co-workers, and there I’d sit and churn out volumes of ridiculous essays about anything that came to mind. Sometimes, I’d even be so bold as to include the names or proportions of actual women I worked with in my missives, just to flatter and ideally attract. For years, every girl I dated was a girl I worked with or used to work with — an administrative assistant, legal secretary, or paralegal, or both. There were even times I roamed into dangerous territory pursuing a member of human resources or an executive assistant. Those can get you fired. I won’t say it was my ability to write that inspired these women to grace me with their presence but it sure as hell wasn’t my body or my face.

I nearly married one of those girls, she was a legal secretary, just like my mom used to be, a long time ago, and she was a paralegal to boot. I won’t use her name, but she was beautiful, still is, though now we’re just friends who rarely talk, never see each other, and…well, she probably doesn’t remember things like the one I’m about to lay on you. I loved her very much for a long time and the best thing I probably could have done for her was crawling into a bottle and disappearing for five years or so, which I did. Because I loved her. But that part doesn’t belong here, it’s a story you can read in my book, Addict Behavior by Daniel Beyfuss, available on Amazon for eight bucks.

She was married when we met, and maybe religious, but I’m not sure how devout; probably not very. What struck me immediately, knowing her religious convictions, was the way she wore her hair. It was long and dyed raven-black, and she had bangs like Betty Page. In my mind that was a real contradiction. After all, Betty Page was in bondage films. The idea that this beautiful, young, religious girl, pure as the driven snow, (whatever the hell that means,) who kicked off her shoes under her desk, typed a hundred and fifty words a minute, and might possibly like being tied up, thrilled me! I mean, it really thrilled me. Even now, thinking back, …I’m thrilled.

Long-story-short, we finally got an evening to be together like a real couple, with no prying eyes or fear of being found out by her enormous husband. I took her to a restaurant near my apartment called Brunos. She ordered red wine and I had a Dark and Stormy with Gosling’s Rum. I’d never seen her without her glasses and didn’t realize how enormous and blue eyes could be. There was heat between us, most of it coming from the curve of her neck as it gently melted into her shoulder. I don’t really remember ordering but we must have because when the waitress came back to our table I was busy sucking on that neck, but stopped just to ask the waitress if we could have our order to go, to which the waitress said, “Sure,” smiled, and with a wink, did the finger-gun thing at me. In less than a paragraph, more like a few sentences, I have just described one of the greatest nights of my entire life so far, with the most beautiful girl ever to let me suck on her neck, (so far, maybe ever.) I’ll never be that young again but I’m hoping one day to again be that fortunate. Hence, this essay.

I’m writing this one, this essay, story, whatever, for two reasons, one of which is to keep a steady stream of content in rotation on Medium, the other, well, it’s in the title. She is as beautiful as anyone I have ever seen and if it weren’t for a completely random series of coincidences, including the one that dictates any woman having any interest in me must live at least two states away, I would never have believed spending time with her would be possible. So far, I have humiliated myself the requisite number of times, both with her and with her sister, just for good measure. I have carefully explained my lack of physical beauty as only a former alcoholic/drug addict/wannabe writer, can do — eloquently, but with enough vanity to keep things interesting. Age, admittedly makes things easier, as I’m not the smitten-kitten of my youth, falling deeply and desperately for any girl who smiled at me for more than the few seconds polite society demands. I’ll be forty-four in a month and though I’m just as clumsy and corny as I’ve always been when it comes to the practice of pitching woo, (like anyone says “pitching woo” anymore,) I’m well accustomed to rejection and failure, and know the cure for either is about four dollars and eighty-six cents depending on which liquor store you frequent. However, I like this woman and I hope the impression I have made and will try to make when I see her in person, is the kind I will remember when I’m old and grey and trying to put the moves on some shapely caregiver attending to my personal needs when I’m no longer able to attend to them myself.

She looks as though she’s just stepped off a mountain in Greece, or climbed out of the foam on a beach on the island of Cypress. She is all over the color of sin and lustful desire — a phrase I made up a little while ago. Her validation kept me from murdering myself, keeps me from hating myself entirely, and inspires me to sacrifice my right arm typing on an improvised desk, with a shaky leg, and a chair that should be at least three inches taller. If I get lifts for my shoes, she’ll be the reason. If I buy Just For Men Touch of Gray for my beard, she’ll be the reason. And if I die in a plane crash an hour south of Connecticut, somewhere over New Jersey or maybe the wilds of Pennsylvania, she’ll be the reason. I won’t blame her, of course, but she’ll be the reason. I’ve made it clear enough that she is beautiful and coming from one of the guys down at the local 777 Pipe-fitters Union, that would just be a word used to describe the way the light bounces off her. I’m not a member of the local 777 and would hope that any and all reading this, even though I am still just a wanna-be, still just an amateur with high hopes of discovery, success, and an end to this nagging poverty which has haunted me most of my years, will realize that beautiful is a word I use to spare her having to read all those adjectives I hope to use in person, so they’ll be fresh and I won’t sound redundant.