Sunday, June 29, 2008
THERE WAS NO F*ckING way we were going to be just friends.
Number one, my dick didn't get hard when I text my friends. Number two, my dick didn't get hard when I simply thought about texts with my friends. Number three, I rarely asked my friends for naked pictures. Especially when they were in a relationship.
Me: Just one?
Honeybee: You're out of your goddamned mind!
Me: LOL You're right.
Me: If you're going to send one, then you might as well send two. What was I thinking? I'm a silly man.
Honeybee: I'm not sending you a picture of my underwear drawer.
Me: Prude. I bet it's so organized. You're a freak aren't you?
Honeybee: If preferring perfect rows for my G-string, satin thongs makes me a freak then...
Okay. Our texts had escalated.
She was so funny. Seriously, the weirdest person I'd ever had the pleasure of meeting, but I couldn't get enough. She ate mustard on her tacos. She didn't like her look. Her term was geek-chic. She couldn't sleep with socks on. Actually, she'd prefer to never wear them. She never remembered to charge her damn phone. She had both terrible and also a generous amount of self-esteem, it just depended on the subject. On the flip side, she was more competitive than any man I'd ever met and was convinced that she could beat anyone at anything. She was a walking, talking contradiction.
Me: That wasn't fair. We were texting about your tidiness. Don't change the subject. Your brain is always in the gutter.
Me: Am I gonna have to block you?
Oh, and she wound up like a clock. She was stubborn and her temper was fascinating. The strangest things got her feathers ruffled.
We were texting about ketchup and she swore and pulled the “I'm a trained f*cking chef card” when she argued that it had to be refrigerated. I think she almost blocked me for real when I made her send me a picture of where it said that it needed to be refrigerated after opening. She couldn't and she was pissed about it. I had to remind her that I didn't invent ketchup and that she needed to contact them. In reality, some ketchup said it and some didn't.
But she would back down eventually. That was my favorite part.
Honeybee: I have to go to sleep. I'm going into the office tomorrow. It's my first day. I want to be coherent. I'm not staying up late texting with you again tonight. Don't you sleep?
Me: You don't have to text. I told you. Send me pictures.
Me: Or call.
I'd asked her to call me almost every night, but she never would. She said that friends didn't talk in bed. I had to, of course, remind her of the friendly things we'd already done in a bed and that talking on the telephone was a much lesser offense.
She got mad. Went radio silent. Then text me the next day that her phone had died. It was quite predictable.
Honeybee: Goodnight, Casey.
Me: It was. Anything else?
The incoming picture was of her underwear drawer. It wasn't exactly as neat as I'd thought, and there weren't as many satin, G-string thongs as she’d said, but I did see one pair I'd like to see more of in person. Or in a perfect world, they would be lying next to a bed she was naked in.
I quickly went to my dresser and snapped a picture of mine and sent it. Turnabout was fair play. At least that was a courtesy I hoped to implement. You send me one. I'll send you one. Sure, at the moment, it was underwear drawers, but I'd hoped it wouldn't be long before it was a lot more personal.
Honeybee: A man who likes variety.
Me: Maybe, I just haven't found the right underwear yet. I like to keep my options open. Thank you very much.
Me: Go to bed.
Honeybee: Ok. Bossy.
I wouldn’t want to admit how much time we’d spend sending messages and random, nonsensical things. But it was a lot. It started to feel like a new hobby.
I'd been home for a week, and I spent some time with Cory and our sisters. It'd been nice. Mom was on me about that damn shed, but then Marc needed me at work, so I'd put some hours in on the floor in the brewery. It was nothing to complain about. I'd much rather make beer than paint a shed any day.
Blake and I had texted every day, sometimes all day. She was really excited about her new job and the opportunity to travel. I knew she had a trip coming up, but I didn't know where.
I was leaving in a few days, too. Unfortunately, I didn't get to take our friend Troy with me since it wasn't a trade show situation, which he sometimes came along for to help with. It was much more fun when he came. Instead, Aly was coming along. Her dad, Marc, wanted her to get a feel for talking to customers, or at least potential ones. He wanted her to listen to the questions I asked and how I answered theirs.
I'm not arrogant, but I'm smart and I work hard. Plus, I know everything there is to know about her company. It was no wonder Aly's dad wanted her to know how and what I did. I think deep down he wanted her to be out there doing it, too. In the past few months since I'd been out on the road we'd got a lot more attention and that had meant dollars for her and her old man. I guessed me, too.
I wasn't looking forward to being on the road with Aly. She was a cool girl and all, but she didn’t do it for me. She felt differently, but I knew how to be professional. I hoped she did, too.
Tuesday, July 1st, 2008
Aly and I flew from San Francisco to Austin that week. They loved our beer, but the distributor was lax. He might call, then again he might not. They liked our product, our packaging and our business model. All good things. They didn't like it when Aly said no thank you to her own beer because she was full after lunch. And when they told us they'd call she asked, “When?”
Aly wasn't cut out for sales. She didn't have that easy-going, everybody's friend thing that sales people needed. She was more of a numbers girl.
These are our gross sales for the year. This is our turnaround on orders. These are the awards we've won for excellent brewing. And how many cases would you like monthly?
But she tried.
She was quiet on our flight that day to Chicago. I let her think about it. When she was ready, she would ask. If she didn't, then I'd simply tell Marc he needed to hire another sales person. When we touched down at O'Hare and we were allowed to turn our devices back on, I was stoked to see an influx of texts from Blake.
Honeybee: What was that band you were talking about the other day?
Honeybee: Oh, never mind. I'll scroll up.
Honeybee: They're pretty good. You said they're from San Francisco?
Honeybee: Mayday Maggie. I like that band name. What are you doing?
Honeybee: Are you ignoring me? Is this about the steak? I said I'd eat it rare, but only if I cooked it.
Honeybee: I wish you'd text me back.
I couldn't contain my smile. In fact, the damn thing stayed with me all the way off the plane, through baggage claim and out the doors into a cab.
“I don't know why you think this is so funny. I suck at this.” Aly admonished when she climbed into the seat next to me in the taxi. She thought I was laughing at her. I wasn’t.
I was smiling because the girl who I wanted was showing signs of wanting me back. And it had nothing to do with our physical chemistry, which we had in spades.
I thought about texting her and letting her off the hook, but I sort of wanted her to dangle there a little longer. On my hook. Waiting for me.
It felt amazing.
“I'm not making fun of you. I got a funny text. That’s all,” I finally admitted to Aly on the ride to the hotel. She only rolled her eyes not believing me.
The next day we were meeting with the owner of a string of restaurants in the Metro-Chicago area. It was a pretty big deal. We were going to need our A-game. And by A-game, I meant Aly should probably sit this one out.
“Hey, you don't have to go tomorrow if you don't want to. I can go. Then tomorrow night you can meet up with us for dinner,” I said after we were checked into the hotel and walking toward the elevators. “You'll get the hang of it.”
“Okay, you do the meeting part and then I'll catch up with you, but I need to learn how you do this. You need to tell me what I'm doing wrong.” She huffed as she wielded her luggage into the elevator car. “Let me have it.”
I looked at her and thought that if it were Blake telling me to let her have it, I'd give it to her right here in the elevator. Instead, I just looked at Aly like...like a friend. Or a cousin, although that was gross considering I'd already slept with her. The feeling of attraction, that I sort of got when she first started coming around, wasn't there.
She was still pretty, with her long, blonde, wavy hair and green eyes, and she was fun to be around. She had an amazing body and took very good care of herself, but I didn't crave her.
I craved Blake. I snapped myself out of my thoughts and bucked up. If she wanted the truth—no bullshit—then I was going to let her have it.
“You're stiff in front of people you don't know. You need to act like you've been friends with them for years. You know, like you relate to your friends or me. Just be yourself. I can see you're only trying to be professional and that's great. But, Aly, no one is going to listen to you rattle on about numbers and spreadsheets if they don't already like you. That's sales.”
I watched her take it all in. A crinkle across her brow told me that she was deciding whether or not I'd insulted her.
So I added, “You just have to sell yourself first and then sell the beer second. I swear. That's it.”
The door dinged as we arrived on our floor. Our rooms were next to each other. She wanted to share last week when we were making arrangements, but I shut that down quickly. I wasn't about to toy with her, even if it would have been as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.
We stopped at 811 and 813, and she held both of the cards. Handing me one, she asked, “Do you want to get dinner in a little bit? I'm hungry, but I think I'm going to take a nap first.”
“Sure. Knock when you're ready.”
“Okay,” she said as she lugged her bags inside her room.
The room was nice. The customary king-sized bed, a nice wet bar, and a sitting area. That was more than what I needed, but I was happy to have a little space. Staying in hotels night after night was great, but sometimes they felt a little tight.
The beds were sometimes too close to the walls. The showers were often too short for my body. I’m not a giant, but six-foot-two guy like me should be able to fit under the showerhead. I’ve got a lot of hair. It’s a pain in the ass to get the soap out.
I don't mind living out of a suitcase, but I liked my space, too.
After I took out my clothes for the next day and hung them in the closet, and made the hotel room my home for the next forty-eight hours, I found myself on the couch looking at my phone. Reading and rereading the messages Blake sent. I wondered what she was doing. I did the math. What time zone was she in? What time zone was I in? This was becoming commonplace. This new me versus Blake time equation. Should I make her wait? Should I see if she'd give up or if she'd keep messaging me?
Then my mind would go somewhere else. It would wander to a place where she was with her boyfriend and they were happy. My conscience would tell me, “Drop it. She’s already taken.” But the biggest part of me said, “You want her. Make her yours.”
Was that an alpha male thing to think? I didn't think of myself like an alpha male. Pissing on everything I liked. Claiming everything that I conquered as my own. But when it came to her, my instincts told me to act. To claim. To take.
That part of me said, get her.
Then, like I did almost every day, I sent her a message because I couldn't wait to see what she'd say back.
Me: I just got off a plane and into a hotel. What are you doing?
Was she with him? What did she tell him when she got messages from me when he was around? Maybe she hid it. Maybe she just didn't answer her phone. There were so many things that I didn't know.
Sure. We'd had a one-night stand, but we didn't really mention it. For the most part our messages were strictly on the friendly side. Not that there wasn't flirting. There was and it was quickly becoming not enough for me.
Still, I'd played it cool. I sent her the reply and then decided to flick through the channels and find something on TV. I turned up the volume and drowned out my crazy mind with the Food Network.
That was also becoming a habit.
I watched mindlessly as the chefs battled it out for some top prize if they could make whatever the hell food out of these random ingredients. I both hated it and was hooked at the same time.
Honeybee: Just got back home.
When she would finally answer I always thought I should try to ignore her, but I never could.
Me: I thought you were ignoring me. LOL
Honeybee: You're not funny.
Me: How was your day? So you like Mayday Maggie?
Honeybee: My mother is driving me nuts, but other than that it was good. Yeah. That band is really good.
Me: We should go see them sometime.
Delete.
Me: I think I'm going to go see them. Cory and our friend Troy know their bassist.
Honeybee: Small world. How was your day?
It was six in Chicago, so it was four in Seattle. This time of the night was usually radio silent from her end. It made me curious.
Me: Good. Traveled most the day. Lost a few hours in the process. I've got a meeting in the morning. I'll probably call it a night early. You know. Beauty sleep. LOL.
Honeybee: You need it. From what little I remember of you, you look pretty haggard in general.
That was how she flirted. She insulted me. It was her way. She was becoming easy to read. If she thought things one way, then she'd admit to the complete opposite. It was her tell. At least via text. The other night when I told her I was going to brush my teeth and go to bed she told me she could still smell my dragon breath and that I better floss and rinse while I was at it. Since I'd already caught on to her exaggerations, I interpreted this as she thought about my mouth and liked it.
Me: Haggard by way of ruggedly handsome? I agree.
Honeybee: Something like that.
We bantered back and forth for over an hour. We covered random topics, it was becoming a ritual for me.
Eating. Drinking. Breathing. Blake.
I acquired the ability to time how long it would take her to be my Blake—well the Blake I knew anyway—through our messages. They would typically start in a very platonic tone, but before the end of the night, I'd get her flirting back with me and it was like I was chatting with the fun girl in the coffee shop, the girl she called Betty. I could almost hear her reading her text messages to me with that ridiculous pretend Southern accent.
She was my Blake a little quicker than normal that night. I regretted having to go to dinner with Aly, but I also knew I should. The better she got at this travel thing, the better for the brewery. The better the brewery did, the more money I'd make.
The more money I made, the better chances I had at showing up this guy who was fast becoming my arch nemesis. I really had nothing too negative to dwell on about him though. We didn't talk about him. Ever. Sometimes because I didn't want to bring him up and turn her back into his Blake and in part because for some reason, she didn't seem keen on bringing him up either.
But in my mind, I was the good guy and he was the bad guy. However, my mind wasn't really the picture of reality. He was her boyfriend and I was a guy trying to steal her attention and…and what? Make her my girlfriend? Did I want a girlfriend? I might have if it were her.
But hell, what did I really have to offer her? I was working damn hard to get ahead in my career. Would I even have time to be the kind of boyfriend she deserved? Not that anything in my made-up scenario was close to likely.
What if? What if? What the f*ck if?
For now, it was flirty text messages and hopefully crossing paths in a hotel again sometime.
Oh, we were going to cross paths. I'd make sure of it.
But that night, I just wanted to come while I listened to her voice, or at least while I was imagining her voice while she sent me dirty pictures.
I had a big to-do list for my plans later on.
Keep my Blake chatting.
Get some much-needed visuals in the form of another picture. The ball game one was great, but I wanted to see more of her.
Possibly call her on the phone.
Then have phone sex.
It was a tall order, but I aimed high.
So while she was still being playful and sweet, I needed to solidify my pseudo-date for later.
Me: You're fun.
Honeybee: I know.
Me: You're pretty.
Honeybee: You are, too.
I wasn't expecting that. She was really sweet that afternoon.
Me: I'm going to get a shower and go get something to eat. Will you be up later?
I'm going to take a shower and cum all over the wall like it's your mouth and then go to dinner with a woman who isn't fun like you.
Honeybee: What time?
Me: I don't know 10 here, 8 there?
Honeybee: Okay. Let me text you first.
Let me text you first, I learned, was code for I'm going to be with him. I hated let me text you first. It hated every second of waiting for her, as minutes ballooned into twice their actual span of time waiting for Blake to text me first.
Me: I'll wait. You could call.
Honeybee: I might.
Me: All right. Later, then.
I thought about turning my phone off, but I couldn't. I threw it on the bed, stripped down to my boxers, and walked into the bathroom for a shower.
The water was hot. My hand was slow. My eyes were screwed shut. My mind was with her.