Do you have anything in a red?
For me, the term "first impression" is a bit of a misnomer. Too often, the first encounter with someone is unworthy of committal to memory. For example, with jr_red, that literal first impression would be the manner in which he quietly materialized from the garage (as both D. and I were staring expectantly at the front door) and greeted us from a safe distance (four to six feet) with neither fanfare nor any apparent emotion. This, however, is not how I choose to remember him. Maybe this makes me open-minded in that I wait to form my first impression until some significant amount of time or memorable event has transpired. Or I could just be contrary. Regardless, my lasting "first impression" took place about an hour after we arrived at his (or rather, his friend's) doorstep - the first time I watched jr_red order an alcoholic beverage.
Our waitress at the local TGI Friday's was a reasonably cute number possessed of that hint of Wisconsin accent that jr_red (somewhat disdainfully?) attributed to the upper peninsula of Michigan, though she seemed wholly unaware of this fact (telling me that people have always claimed she talks "funny"). I made a special effort to flirt with her when left alone at the table, not because I am an attention-whore (which I will deny until the glorious, public spectacle that is my dying day) but because I felt the need to do a bit of damage control for our newly-met Michigan boyfriend.
In the three days we spent together, I never once witnessed jr_red order something straight from the menu; instead, his life appears to be perpetually burdened by a desire for that which is always out of reach.
I am sure that there is a metaphor in there somewhere.
The epitome of this, though, was his initial drink order. When the waitress asked what she could get him, he responded by asking what beers they had (not even just the beers on tap, all the beers). Then, as she rambled off a list that numbered at least two dozen, jr_red leaned his head back against the plastic booth, closed his eyes and visibly slumped down a little. It was as though her beer selection exhausted him. Finally, when she was done with the A to Z selection of beers at TGI Friday's, he made his move...
And ordered one she hadn't named.
A big grin started to spread across my face as I thought "well played, sir... ballsy."
Not surprisingly, the beer he requested was not available. What followed was a back and forth, a sort of interrogation as jr_red attempted to drill into just which extant beers were unavailable to him and subsequently order those. The waitress looked like a deer in the headlights, occasionally glancing back over her shoulder towards the bar as though one of the exotic ales he requested would suddenly emerge from the tenebrous gloom, limned in white like the Holy Grail. In the end, he left her with a complicated series of instructions that I like to imagine manifested themselves as a flowchart on her order pad -
"- something in a summer ale, with an English name but of German origin - served in a pint glass - unless the brewery is within twenty or less miles of the southernmost tip of the Black Forest - then it should be served in a stein - but only a wood stein hand-carved from mahogany or birch - the stein handle should be no more than 4.75 inches long and no less than 3.98 - if you don't have a summer ale, I would like an early winter ale - not an autumn ale, mind you - but something not too wintery either - the color should be a deep caramel and the hops should have just a hint of nut - but not hazelnut or walnut - in that case, I'll take a Bud Light - if it's a hint of peanut, I'd like it served in a woman's shoe by a three-foot-tall black dwarf singing the chorus from Carmina Burana-
Oh, and I won't drink anything if the label contains the vowel 'y'... Because it's a consonant, not a vowel."
Later, he attempted to order a sandwich that apparently existed once in a single TGI Friday's somewhere in the wilds of Canada and subsequently special-requested jalapeno poppers on his burger only to return from the bathroom disappointed to find more than four of the deep-fried peppers piled onto his plate. I began spinning fantasies in my head of his accountant-like standards and attention to detail being applied to sexual hook-ups.
"I want you to bob your head on my cock, taking no more than three inches at a time but never any less than 2 centimeters, while spinning your tongue in a counter-clockwise fashion. You should suck, but gently and soundlessly, while rubbing my hole with the tip of your middle finger, and only your middle finger. If your index or ring finger come anywhere near my anus, I will kick you out of here on your ass. The rate of your head motion should approximate that of my pulse divided by pi rounded down, not up, down. I will cuff your ear if you go too fast."
I can only assume none of the food he received that weekend met his stringent expectations because he hardly touched any of it. Then again, I have heard rumors that he somehow exists on a diet of alcohol and alcohol alone. D. did his best to accommodate, adopting his usual role as mixmaster that Sunday only to have one of my personal favorites, the peppermint martini, rejected as being too alcohol-y while the apotheosis of D.'s talents, the perfect penis, was denounced for being too sweet.
Doubtless, it was jr_red's demanding standards when it came to food and beverage that provoked me to spend so much of our weekend (or at least our first night) together badgering him about his near-complete lack thereof when it comes to whom he will fuck. Well, that and I am just a bit of a prick myself. His justifications never quite seemed to satisfy my morbid curiosity. I suppose, though, that the answer was staring me in the face the entire time -
Even though he hated the peppermint martini, unlike his meals, he still finished the entire thing.
Some things you just can't live without.
Our waitress at the local TGI Friday's was a reasonably cute number possessed of that hint of Wisconsin accent that jr_red (somewhat disdainfully?) attributed to the upper peninsula of Michigan, though she seemed wholly unaware of this fact (telling me that people have always claimed she talks "funny"). I made a special effort to flirt with her when left alone at the table, not because I am an attention-whore (which I will deny until the glorious, public spectacle that is my dying day) but because I felt the need to do a bit of damage control for our newly-met Michigan boyfriend.
In the three days we spent together, I never once witnessed jr_red order something straight from the menu; instead, his life appears to be perpetually burdened by a desire for that which is always out of reach.
I am sure that there is a metaphor in there somewhere.
The epitome of this, though, was his initial drink order. When the waitress asked what she could get him, he responded by asking what beers they had (not even just the beers on tap, all the beers). Then, as she rambled off a list that numbered at least two dozen, jr_red leaned his head back against the plastic booth, closed his eyes and visibly slumped down a little. It was as though her beer selection exhausted him. Finally, when she was done with the A to Z selection of beers at TGI Friday's, he made his move...
And ordered one she hadn't named.
A big grin started to spread across my face as I thought "well played, sir... ballsy."
Not surprisingly, the beer he requested was not available. What followed was a back and forth, a sort of interrogation as jr_red attempted to drill into just which extant beers were unavailable to him and subsequently order those. The waitress looked like a deer in the headlights, occasionally glancing back over her shoulder towards the bar as though one of the exotic ales he requested would suddenly emerge from the tenebrous gloom, limned in white like the Holy Grail. In the end, he left her with a complicated series of instructions that I like to imagine manifested themselves as a flowchart on her order pad -
"- something in a summer ale, with an English name but of German origin - served in a pint glass - unless the brewery is within twenty or less miles of the southernmost tip of the Black Forest - then it should be served in a stein - but only a wood stein hand-carved from mahogany or birch - the stein handle should be no more than 4.75 inches long and no less than 3.98 - if you don't have a summer ale, I would like an early winter ale - not an autumn ale, mind you - but something not too wintery either - the color should be a deep caramel and the hops should have just a hint of nut - but not hazelnut or walnut - in that case, I'll take a Bud Light - if it's a hint of peanut, I'd like it served in a woman's shoe by a three-foot-tall black dwarf singing the chorus from Carmina Burana-
Oh, and I won't drink anything if the label contains the vowel 'y'... Because it's a consonant, not a vowel."
Later, he attempted to order a sandwich that apparently existed once in a single TGI Friday's somewhere in the wilds of Canada and subsequently special-requested jalapeno poppers on his burger only to return from the bathroom disappointed to find more than four of the deep-fried peppers piled onto his plate. I began spinning fantasies in my head of his accountant-like standards and attention to detail being applied to sexual hook-ups.
"I want you to bob your head on my cock, taking no more than three inches at a time but never any less than 2 centimeters, while spinning your tongue in a counter-clockwise fashion. You should suck, but gently and soundlessly, while rubbing my hole with the tip of your middle finger, and only your middle finger. If your index or ring finger come anywhere near my anus, I will kick you out of here on your ass. The rate of your head motion should approximate that of my pulse divided by pi rounded down, not up, down. I will cuff your ear if you go too fast."
I can only assume none of the food he received that weekend met his stringent expectations because he hardly touched any of it. Then again, I have heard rumors that he somehow exists on a diet of alcohol and alcohol alone. D. did his best to accommodate, adopting his usual role as mixmaster that Sunday only to have one of my personal favorites, the peppermint martini, rejected as being too alcohol-y while the apotheosis of D.'s talents, the perfect penis, was denounced for being too sweet.
Doubtless, it was jr_red's demanding standards when it came to food and beverage that provoked me to spend so much of our weekend (or at least our first night) together badgering him about his near-complete lack thereof when it comes to whom he will fuck. Well, that and I am just a bit of a prick myself. His justifications never quite seemed to satisfy my morbid curiosity. I suppose, though, that the answer was staring me in the face the entire time -
Even though he hated the peppermint martini, unlike his meals, he still finished the entire thing.
Some things you just can't live without.