"The things we do for limerance" (or, "Sometimes, I'm such a 13-year-old girl")
I made another one of my four-times-weekly pilgimages to see Mr. TenRen today. (What IS his name, dammit!? I'm going to write corporate and insist that all staff wear nametags.) Fortunately, I caught him alone, or as alone as was possible with his boss/supervisor/hot sister still visible in the side/back room, but with her back to us.
"Herro," I swore he said as I came through the entrance. Damn, I love that. Typical customer greeting though-- no gleam of recognition in his face.
Oh, how I clam up. There's this fine line between trying to act cool, nonchalant and all not-desperate-like, and trying to not blow this rare opportunity by saying too little.
"Hey, how ya doing?" Business as usual. "Uh, today it's number two."
"Number two." He turned his back to make the Milk Tea Boba. I turned my eyes up and down to take in that slightly pudgy yet strong six-foot frame. Sigh.
He was done quickly. "Two ninety-nine."
"No tax?"
"Yes."
Say something.
I held out my hand for his penny, eyeing the wide-ish diameter of his fingers, his clean nails sorta long-ish. (3-4 mm, I'd say.) I wanted his hand to touch mine. He placed the penny in my palm, without that touch. I'd have settled for a scrape from one of those fingernails.
He stamped my Ten Ren's Tea Frequent Drinker's Card (say that three times fast) as I sampled the drink. All this milk and refined carbs four times a week is making me fat. (Yes, I called. He works only Friday through Monday. Plus, I can't make it obvious that I'm only there to see him, so I end up buying some food item I really don't need beforehand at the 99 Market. The sacrifices we make.) I smiled in approval, making sure he saw. It was good. I swear, he makes those drinks better than his boss/supervisor/hot sister in the back room.
Say something idiot.
"You working tomorrow?" Of course he was. His mind left elsewhere and diverted to me. Either he didn't understand, or I mumbled as usual. "You'll be here Saturday?"
He nodded either in the affirmative or in the lack of understanding. "Cool, I'll see you then."
Eh, it's a start. I turned and walked out, stopping for five seconds near the door, pretending to be interested in some freeze-dried, green tea flavored tofu on display, before strutting away. (Yea, I 'strutted'. Dweeb. Caught myself, toned it down about halfway out of his field of vision, just in case he really was watching me.)
So either he's really shy, or really fobby. Probably fobby. Either is hot. Sigh.
Probably fobby.
Probably fobby.
Probably fobby.
There's your master's thesis for you: The effect of culture on gaydar. Is whatever particular behavior I'm picking up from him simply an accepted norm in Farawaylandwhereeveryonesnamesoundslikeaeuphemismforsex? There's a certain way he walks and carries himself that blips my 'dar-- am I just playing into the stereotypes, is it a false echo? He's gotta be. Assuming he is, why is his not sounding off me by now? How obvious must I be?
[I think it's obvious how obvious you need to be.-Ed.]
It was a hot day in that part of Richmond that isn't really Richmond, nor El Cerrito, nor Albany. In the car, I cradled the cup and took a long hard sip off of the wide-ish diameter of his boba straw; a gulp of his milk tea and several tapioca pearls rushed into my mouth. I slowly chewed up the boba to impart them with a mushy and even more sticky consistency, and held them under my tongue to warm them up. I closed my eyes and longingly swallowed, pretending. I imagined myself getting fat off of Mr. TenRen's pearls.
"Herro," I swore he said as I came through the entrance. Damn, I love that. Typical customer greeting though-- no gleam of recognition in his face.
Oh, how I clam up. There's this fine line between trying to act cool, nonchalant and all not-desperate-like, and trying to not blow this rare opportunity by saying too little.
"Hey, how ya doing?" Business as usual. "Uh, today it's number two."
"Number two." He turned his back to make the Milk Tea Boba. I turned my eyes up and down to take in that slightly pudgy yet strong six-foot frame. Sigh.
He was done quickly. "Two ninety-nine."
"No tax?"
"Yes."
Say something.
I held out my hand for his penny, eyeing the wide-ish diameter of his fingers, his clean nails sorta long-ish. (3-4 mm, I'd say.) I wanted his hand to touch mine. He placed the penny in my palm, without that touch. I'd have settled for a scrape from one of those fingernails.
He stamped my Ten Ren's Tea Frequent Drinker's Card (say that three times fast) as I sampled the drink. All this milk and refined carbs four times a week is making me fat. (Yes, I called. He works only Friday through Monday. Plus, I can't make it obvious that I'm only there to see him, so I end up buying some food item I really don't need beforehand at the 99 Market. The sacrifices we make.) I smiled in approval, making sure he saw. It was good. I swear, he makes those drinks better than his boss/supervisor/hot sister in the back room.
Say something idiot.
"You working tomorrow?" Of course he was. His mind left elsewhere and diverted to me. Either he didn't understand, or I mumbled as usual. "You'll be here Saturday?"
He nodded either in the affirmative or in the lack of understanding. "Cool, I'll see you then."
Eh, it's a start. I turned and walked out, stopping for five seconds near the door, pretending to be interested in some freeze-dried, green tea flavored tofu on display, before strutting away. (Yea, I 'strutted'. Dweeb. Caught myself, toned it down about halfway out of his field of vision, just in case he really was watching me.)
So either he's really shy, or really fobby. Probably fobby. Either is hot. Sigh.
Probably fobby.
Probably fobby.
Probably fobby.
There's your master's thesis for you: The effect of culture on gaydar. Is whatever particular behavior I'm picking up from him simply an accepted norm in Farawaylandwhereeveryonesnamesoundslikeaeuphemismforsex? There's a certain way he walks and carries himself that blips my 'dar-- am I just playing into the stereotypes, is it a false echo? He's gotta be. Assuming he is, why is his not sounding off me by now? How obvious must I be?
[I think it's obvious how obvious you need to be.-Ed.]
It was a hot day in that part of Richmond that isn't really Richmond, nor El Cerrito, nor Albany. In the car, I cradled the cup and took a long hard sip off of the wide-ish diameter of his boba straw; a gulp of his milk tea and several tapioca pearls rushed into my mouth. I slowly chewed up the boba to impart them with a mushy and even more sticky consistency, and held them under my tongue to warm them up. I closed my eyes and longingly swallowed, pretending. I imagined myself getting fat off of Mr. TenRen's pearls.