"She's really nice. We met her this weekend at the picnic. Her brother is on the planning committee with Tim."
I continued to read the e-mail message from my sister, noting the phone number and name, Kristen. Apparently, she had just moved back to Chicago from Baltimore, where she lived for a couple of years.
Every once in a while, I would find one of these notes from my sister in my inbox. It was part of her continuing effort to fix me up, transform me from lonely, single, urban guy. At thirty-six, I suppose the sting of single life grew stronger, making that subtle transformation from freedom to desperation. I shouldn't complain, for I had my share of fun when I was younger, as well as a few opportunities to take a relationship further, as in commitment. But, that was then. Now, it is the occasional fix-up. That was all I got.
I didn't blow off these arrangements; it's just that my attitude was clouded by experience. I would send my sister a thank you note and contact the woman in question. Then there would be a meeting and likely no physical connection and little in the way of rapport.
It's not my sister's fault. She just doesn't know me. I could tell her my type, but that would involve a long, intimate and involved discussion. Something we didn't do and that wasn't in accordance with our relationship.
The subject of what I find sexy. That alone could be nettlesome. Perhaps, I should just show my sister the stories I've written for Literotica. Oh yeah, that would work. Hah! I laughed to my self at the absurdity of the thought.
In short, I am open minded, liberal and a curious person. When it comes to sex, you could say I was a bit kinky. Not that I'd had a lot of experiences, but all the women with whom I'd had satisfying relationships were somewhat the same.
The women with whom my sister set me up with usually were boring, conservative, corporate drones. Kind of like my sister. We would meet for a coffee, a polite chat ensued, then we would make vague promises to send e-mail and that was that. Neither party enthralled.
So, there I was at the coffee house, on a warm summer morning in Chicago, waiting for a vaguely defined person. Surely this was she. A woman who looked to be in her early thirties, just above the shoulder blonde hair and WASPY good looks (think soccer mom in the suburbs) approached me.
"Andrew?"
I smiled and stood up.
"Yet, but please call me Andy. You must be Kristen."
I extended my hand, noting her long, slender fingers.
Sure enough, a pleasant conversation followed. I would like to say that it was markedly different from the dialogue of other blind dates, but it wasn't. She spoke of her childhood in Indiana and despite her being an accountant she told few tales from the controller's office.
But, there was a notable exception. Actually, a few. First, her eyes lingered on mine just a little longer and she seemed in no hurry to go somewhere else. Also, she had very nice legs - long, well shaped, with slim ankles. This last part was noteworthy, for with the other women with whom I was fixed up, I never had the inkling of sexual thoughts. That alone can tell you something about the stilted, awkward nature of my recent experiences.
Yet, while I admired her legs, that was as far as it went. She spoke of her undergrad years at the University of Indiana and not the barest hint of a wild streak crept out. She was nice and friendly, though. Not hardened and bitter as far as I could tell. We spent the day engaged in chitchat while we walked all over Lincoln Park and Lakeview.
In the next few weeks, we would meet for lunch or a drink every few days. Our meetings remained pleasant, but always slightly awkward. Mostly, because she spoke so little of herself and of her recent past, while I babbled on about anything, volunteering information about myself since she asked so few questions of me. I inferred she was politically conservative, and all that implies, since her dad was in the military and she was raised in Indiana, a mostly Republican state.
The less she spoke of herself, the more curious I became. It was striking how blatantly she avoided certain topics. For instance, I asked her why she had moved to Baltimore (never mind why she returned - that didn't seem likely to get a response). She said her mother had family in Maryland and "that was the past, now I'm here. Oh, look at how the weather has changed." Just like that. I almost chuckled, but noting her earnest demeanor, I didn't push it.
Her attire didn't give me much in the way of clues, either. Usually Polo blouses with Bermuda shorts, basic, faded jeans and sensible shoes. Pretty much clothing she could still wear when she was fifty.
I did fish around a bit during conversations. For instance, on the subject of Halloween, I asked her about costumes she had worn. She said she had once gone as a flapper to a party in Baltimore. I was hoping she would elaborate. Did this include a long, cigarette holder? But, she changed the subject quickly, saying only she had forgotten other costumes and that the guy who invited her was a jerk.
I did wonder about smoking. Seeing a woman with a long white cigarette is such a turn-on when it's held a certain way, a certain look is evoked. Red lipstick staining a white filter. You get the picture. It seemed miles away from her, though. I just knew if I asked her directly if she smoked I would probably get some evasive answer. She never smelled of smoke and neither did her car. Somehow the subject of cigarette smoking came up when we were in a smoky bar. She gave the curious, corporate answer that those who smoke surely know of the risks since warnings have been on labels for so long. We didn't go into it.
Then, trying to do the impossible, I turned the conversation to sexy clothing. You may wonder why I fished around? Well, it was this sense that something was being hidden from me. Oh, something was, but I just had this impression and couldn't put my finger on where it led. We went to the movies and during the coming attractions we saw a preview of Halle Berry as Catwoman in her fetishistic suit. After the film, she asked me my favorite actresses. Among other names, I said Halle Berry was not my favorite, but that I certainly liked her outfit for Catwoman. She simply gave me a bemused look and talked about some other actress. It didn't matter, for I was still puzzling over what transpired during the film.
After we were seated and the previews rolled, she kept looking at me. Staring at my profile. When I turned and asked her "what," she simply turned back to the screen. Later, when a lone, attractive woman entered the theater, she turned her head to look at her. She continued to cast looks at the woman every once in a while. Her behavior was right at that edge where she could either be attending to the woman out of boredom with the film or a more than casual interest. I looked over at the woman, noting her long, lean appeal, her blonde hair and striking features. The woman left the theater early and I soon forgot about it as Kristen's head didn't seem to turn at her leaving.
The dinner following the film was a struggle for conversation. It wasn't that we had no rapport, but that what was not being said made the air between us pregnant with suspicion. So much so that it was hard to dredge up a topic. She tried. After favorite actresses, it was favorite actors. Then, what she should do with her free time before her new job started. Stuff like that.
At the end of the evening, I leaned in for a kiss. Actually, I didn't lean in now that I think about it. She sort of paused as I was getting my seat belt off and then we kissed. It was our usual chaste meeting of lips. I tried for more, but she had pulled back and smiled, thanking me for the nice evening. Again, for some reason I didn't sense the slightest opportunity to go for more. She was so nice and polite, but reserved. I thought we might as well be shaking hands.
I'm a curious guy, as I might have said. Also, when something doesn't seem right, my head won't let it go. My brain was trying to put together pieces. I hatched a plan. It was time to do some investigating. Without seeming obvious, or like a stalker, I'd find a way to be in her neighborhood. She knew I was a long distance runner, training for a marathon. If I happened to be going through her area it wouldn't be that odd should I be discovered. It was sort of on my way to Evanston, my turnaround point.
I was moving along, crossing the streets on a quite and cool Sunday afternoon, heading through the business district around the corner from where she lived when I started to feel creepy. This really was kind of like stalking and I was disheartened. Sighing, I changed course to head home. I passed by a coffee house and glanced automatically in the windows. Among other folks inside, my eyes couldn't miss a striking blonde woman. It was her attire that made me stare a moment longer and almost collide with an old man. She had on tight jeans with the legs cuffed up towards the knee, in the style of the moment, to reveal the tight, black shafts of gleaming leather boots. The heels were very high it seemed and came down long and straight in a stiletto. My pulse raced and I smiled to myself. The whole impression lasted a few seconds, but it is glimpses like that which can set off a whole chain reaction of thoughts. After deftly dodging the old man, I righted my course and headed back towards the lakefront. My mind played over what I had seen. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. The woman. She was familiar. It couldn't be. Kristen? This woman's eyes were heavily made up, her hair was sort of different like her whole style. No, no, I'm just fantasizing for sure. How could it be? Kristen didn't dress like that or wear much in the way of makeup. I tried to convince myself of this, but found myself turning around. I strode quickly back towards the coffee house and from an angle, so as not to be seen, I glanced inside. There was no sign of the woman. I looked up and down the street, expecting to see her walking along the sidewalk. I shook my head and laughed. Surely, my lack of feminine companionship was making my mind play tricks on me. Fantasy life was intruding.
