There she stands in the reasonably-crowded fast food restaurant, off to the side of front counter in her tight, ripped and faded jeans, black hair wound up the backside of her head, mad strands falling down upon her soft, smooth-looking skin, her dark eyes poking out of those thick geek glasses as a dark-blue and black, sleeveless shirt hugs the upper half of her body. She licks her ice cream another moment before turning to see the tall, baby-faced man studying her from a few feet away, sipping through the straw of his extra-large drink.
"What?" She says, nervously darting her eyes around.
"Oh, nothing," he tells her, slurping his tea through the straw. "Just looking."
"You're staring," she corrects, and with emphasis. "I mean, you got anything better to do? Geez. Take a picture, it'll last longer."
He shrugs, brings the cup down, the straw away from his lips, and she watches as he takes out his cell phone, flips it open, holds it up towards her and takes a photo. Then he brings it down, nodding, smiling as he gazes at the screen. He goes back to sucking his tea through his straw.
Her eyes widen, held back from bulging out of her head by the confused, angry, scowl her thin eyebrows quickly twist into, and she barks, "What the fuck are you doing?"
"I took a photo," he says in what seems to her to be mock innocence, looking up, shrugging again. "You told me to take a photo."
She looks at him like he's retarded, barking, "I wasn't serious."
Laughing, he says, "Well, how am I supposed to tell? Give a guy a sign."
"People say that. People say, 'Take a picture, it'll last longer.' They don't fucking mean it, dipshit. So what now? Now what are you gonna do? Go home and fucking jack off to that picture?"
He shrugs, nodding. "Probably."
She then lounges towards him, her thin fingers hungry for the phone. "Give me that."
"Get your nips off," he says as she leans towards him, holding both his hands to the side of his head, behind his shoulder, then turning his back.
Admitting defeat, she shakes her head at him, gritting her teeth. "Pervert," she says bitterly.
"What?"
"I heard you, I saw you," she says accusingly. "You looked at my breasts when you said 'nips.'"
"I meant your hands. Hands off."
"You said nips."
"Yeah," he says a-matter-of-factly. "It probably had something to do with the fact that I was looking at your breasts at the time. But I didn't mean to say nips; it was a Freudian slip. What's your problem?"
"My problem is you're looking at me."
"Staring," he corrects, taking a finger away from his cell phone to point at her.
"Okay, staring. Why?"
"You're attractive."
"So?"
"So its instinctual and socially acceptable to gaze at a good-looking woman. It's not like I bent you over the counter and mounted you in Discovery Channel fashion against your will. Anyway, its a compliment. I'm sorry for appreciating you."
"Appreciating me? Fuck you. You wouldn't look at me if I was... "
"If you weren't attractive?" He finishes, cutting her off, noticing she seemed embarrassed, no doubt due to the fact that she almost referred to herself as attractive and didn't want to come across as arrogant. "Not true at all. If you were butt ugly, I'd likely be staring, too. Butt ugly people seem to draw my attention in a similar fashion, but for a completely different reason."
"What a compliment. So if I were ugly, you'd still be staring at me in this way, too?"
"No, not in this way, but I'd still be staring. Like slowing down to a glimpse a car wreck on the highway, you know? I mean, if you were dressed like a bag lady and wore dirt on your face and smelled like a heap of four-month-old dirty laundry that the cat just took a big watery dump on, yeah, I'd be eying you like you were a tanning salon in the heart of death valley. Like you were selling snow cones in Antarctica. Like -- "
"Yeah, yeah, I get your point," she says. "Just stop looking at me."
"Stop being attractive. Stop wearing cloths that accentuate your naturally-alluring features and cover up or draw attention away from your less-alluring ones."
Face reddening, she snaps back, "I dress like this because I'm comfortable, not to attract pigs."
"I hear that a lot, and excuse me for saying so, but I really think it's a hunk of shit. I think you dress that way because it makes you feel comfortable, sure, but I think it makes you feel comfortable because it attracts the attention of men."
"That's a pretty rash assumption. What idiotic train of logic brought you to that conclusion?"
"Odds."
"Odds?"
"Odds. Considering the innumerable cloths available in modern society and the virtually limitless possible combinations, what are the chances that the clothing that just happens to make you feel comfortable would be precisely the kind of clothing most likely to attract the attention of the highest percentage of males? I don't know, sounds pretty suspicious to me."
"You're insane."
"But I'm right. You're boner bait, and, be it conscious or not, the intent is there. And its successful. And then, of course, there's the ice cream cone."
"What about it?"
"You're sucking on the tip of that soft-served coil of frozen and flavored tit-juice there like it's your sole means of life support, sliding your tongue along the sides and top of it with such a creative, passionate, graceful armory of techniques it ranks right up there with sculpting and dancing as an art form. You really think for a second that any guy watching you working on that chilled dairy dookie on your waffle cone there could do so without imagining you doing that to their cock? Give me a break, you're clearly not stupid, and certainly not that stupid."
"Fuck you."
He laughs. "I'm sorry, but the way you look and the way you dress in tandem with the way you mouth-massage your scoop of Ben & Jerry is downright insatiable. If you knelt down to pick up a quarter and happened to look up at me while feasting on that cone there'd be a Hiroshima in my Haynes, get me? The LEVI levee would burst and leave us all drowning in a flood of my own milky-white pud goo. Hell, the sight of that could turn the most stubbornly limp, dangling-like-a-sand-filled-gym-sock cock into a high-pressurized lava-launching mountain of quivering meat in record fucking time, cross my heart and hope to hump you."
"Bending down to get a quarter? What the fuck are you -- "
"Blowjob eyes. You know, like all those MySpace photos out there where the girls lift the camera high above their heads and keep their brow downward but look up at you with wide, sparkling, innocent, hungry eyes? Like they don't know what they're doing. It's a marketing technique. And again, highly effective."
"You don't get laid often, do you?"
He shook his head. "No, that's why I hang out in fast food restaurants during the summer watching hot women deep-throat soft-serve. You're the very best, though. I watched you at the ice cream shop downtown last Tuesday, too. You, my dear, are, quite literally, the Dairy Queen."
With that, she smashed the ice cream cone in his face.
"What?" She says, nervously darting her eyes around.
"Oh, nothing," he tells her, slurping his tea through the straw. "Just looking."
"You're staring," she corrects, and with emphasis. "I mean, you got anything better to do? Geez. Take a picture, it'll last longer."
He shrugs, brings the cup down, the straw away from his lips, and she watches as he takes out his cell phone, flips it open, holds it up towards her and takes a photo. Then he brings it down, nodding, smiling as he gazes at the screen. He goes back to sucking his tea through his straw.
Her eyes widen, held back from bulging out of her head by the confused, angry, scowl her thin eyebrows quickly twist into, and she barks, "What the fuck are you doing?"
"I took a photo," he says in what seems to her to be mock innocence, looking up, shrugging again. "You told me to take a photo."
She looks at him like he's retarded, barking, "I wasn't serious."
Laughing, he says, "Well, how am I supposed to tell? Give a guy a sign."
"People say that. People say, 'Take a picture, it'll last longer.' They don't fucking mean it, dipshit. So what now? Now what are you gonna do? Go home and fucking jack off to that picture?"
He shrugs, nodding. "Probably."
She then lounges towards him, her thin fingers hungry for the phone. "Give me that."
"Get your nips off," he says as she leans towards him, holding both his hands to the side of his head, behind his shoulder, then turning his back.
Admitting defeat, she shakes her head at him, gritting her teeth. "Pervert," she says bitterly.
"What?"
"I heard you, I saw you," she says accusingly. "You looked at my breasts when you said 'nips.'"
"I meant your hands. Hands off."
"You said nips."
"Yeah," he says a-matter-of-factly. "It probably had something to do with the fact that I was looking at your breasts at the time. But I didn't mean to say nips; it was a Freudian slip. What's your problem?"
"My problem is you're looking at me."
"Staring," he corrects, taking a finger away from his cell phone to point at her.
"Okay, staring. Why?"
"You're attractive."
"So?"
"So its instinctual and socially acceptable to gaze at a good-looking woman. It's not like I bent you over the counter and mounted you in Discovery Channel fashion against your will. Anyway, its a compliment. I'm sorry for appreciating you."
"Appreciating me? Fuck you. You wouldn't look at me if I was... "
"If you weren't attractive?" He finishes, cutting her off, noticing she seemed embarrassed, no doubt due to the fact that she almost referred to herself as attractive and didn't want to come across as arrogant. "Not true at all. If you were butt ugly, I'd likely be staring, too. Butt ugly people seem to draw my attention in a similar fashion, but for a completely different reason."
"What a compliment. So if I were ugly, you'd still be staring at me in this way, too?"
"No, not in this way, but I'd still be staring. Like slowing down to a glimpse a car wreck on the highway, you know? I mean, if you were dressed like a bag lady and wore dirt on your face and smelled like a heap of four-month-old dirty laundry that the cat just took a big watery dump on, yeah, I'd be eying you like you were a tanning salon in the heart of death valley. Like you were selling snow cones in Antarctica. Like -- "
"Yeah, yeah, I get your point," she says. "Just stop looking at me."
"Stop being attractive. Stop wearing cloths that accentuate your naturally-alluring features and cover up or draw attention away from your less-alluring ones."
Face reddening, she snaps back, "I dress like this because I'm comfortable, not to attract pigs."
"I hear that a lot, and excuse me for saying so, but I really think it's a hunk of shit. I think you dress that way because it makes you feel comfortable, sure, but I think it makes you feel comfortable because it attracts the attention of men."
"That's a pretty rash assumption. What idiotic train of logic brought you to that conclusion?"
"Odds."
"Odds?"
"Odds. Considering the innumerable cloths available in modern society and the virtually limitless possible combinations, what are the chances that the clothing that just happens to make you feel comfortable would be precisely the kind of clothing most likely to attract the attention of the highest percentage of males? I don't know, sounds pretty suspicious to me."
"You're insane."
"But I'm right. You're boner bait, and, be it conscious or not, the intent is there. And its successful. And then, of course, there's the ice cream cone."
"What about it?"
"You're sucking on the tip of that soft-served coil of frozen and flavored tit-juice there like it's your sole means of life support, sliding your tongue along the sides and top of it with such a creative, passionate, graceful armory of techniques it ranks right up there with sculpting and dancing as an art form. You really think for a second that any guy watching you working on that chilled dairy dookie on your waffle cone there could do so without imagining you doing that to their cock? Give me a break, you're clearly not stupid, and certainly not that stupid."
"Fuck you."
He laughs. "I'm sorry, but the way you look and the way you dress in tandem with the way you mouth-massage your scoop of Ben & Jerry is downright insatiable. If you knelt down to pick up a quarter and happened to look up at me while feasting on that cone there'd be a Hiroshima in my Haynes, get me? The LEVI levee would burst and leave us all drowning in a flood of my own milky-white pud goo. Hell, the sight of that could turn the most stubbornly limp, dangling-like-a-sand-filled-gym-sock cock into a high-pressurized lava-launching mountain of quivering meat in record fucking time, cross my heart and hope to hump you."
"Bending down to get a quarter? What the fuck are you -- "
"Blowjob eyes. You know, like all those MySpace photos out there where the girls lift the camera high above their heads and keep their brow downward but look up at you with wide, sparkling, innocent, hungry eyes? Like they don't know what they're doing. It's a marketing technique. And again, highly effective."
"You don't get laid often, do you?"
He shook his head. "No, that's why I hang out in fast food restaurants during the summer watching hot women deep-throat soft-serve. You're the very best, though. I watched you at the ice cream shop downtown last Tuesday, too. You, my dear, are, quite literally, the Dairy Queen."
With that, she smashed the ice cream cone in his face.
