Don't Order Lobster (Chapter Twelve)

When a man takes a woman for a ‘dinner date’ on a first date - that's a bad sign. Means he wants her to be a trophy girl. Look good, wear heels and sport that clutch handbag. Potentially it also means it’s a one off - just a bit of time passing. A flurry into self-indulgence.

Taking her to the cinema means she’s boring – he doesn’t want to hear her voice or hear her talk about mundane things; such as the contents of her shoulder bag or, worse still, her wardrobe. After the film has finished you can both talk about how good the film was or alternatively how bad it was. It’s a damn sight more interesting than her.

Finally, a guy can take a lady out for a hot drink, museum or similar. Both are reserved for that woman with deeper thoughts and conversational skills that are worthy of such an esteemed locale. These gals are the ones you place in the ‘potentials’ list!

I took the accountant out for dinner. Breaking the rule of thumb as previously discussed - I saw her as potential....or maybe she was just fun?
Judging by the way she dressed - the clutch bag, dazzling dress, high heels - it was hard to say...

"This place is amazing." She said taking it all in.
It WAS an startling little Thai place with an indoor pond and fake palm trees.
"It sure is. I'm gonna get you to write it up for me as an expenses bill. ‘Entertaining client'."
"Oh yeah that was the real purpose of this encounter."
"Encounter...I was gonna call my book Midnight Encounters."
"Sexy Utopia?"
"That's the one! Well remembered."
"How could I forget? You've mentioned it 100 times."
"Have I? Oops. I'll never do so again."
"Nah - keep doing so. It’s cute."
"Cute? I haven't been called cute in about 23 years!"
"23? How accurate. I've noticed you're always so precise. Do you have OCD?"
"Probably. It’s better than turrets right?"
"Yeah it’s much better I think...SHIT BALLS...sorry that was my turrets."
I laugh nervously, "You're kidding me right?!"
She laughs wildly.
"Calm down - you can't handle my humour can you?"
"I can handle many things. Including accountants with zany personalities - don't you worry your numerical mind about that. What's with the swift jokes anyway? Accountants are meant to be boring."
"Yeah, I don't know, I think I was brought up on a diet of Ritalin."
“I was brought up on a diet of stockpiled food. That's why I'm so neurotic. I have an inherit fear there's gonna be a nuclear war at any minute."
She laughs wildly.
"It’s not funny. My parents used buy food in bulk. Why? I don't know. How? I don't know. My dad worked in a bag factory and my mum as a nurse. Where did they get the money to buy in bulk?"
"Is that question directed at me? I'm an accountant not a psychiatrist. You might want to not reveal so much about yourself on a first meeting...IF you want to make a good impression."
"I don't. I don't care about impressions. That's for the recipient to deal with me. Not me! I'm at an age where making an impression is like audio tape cassette - obsolete."
A small female waiter walks over enquiring if we want to order, we both look at each other with a cheeky glare - we hadn't even picked up the menus yet!
"Can you give us 5 minutes?" She says to the tiny female waiter. As the waiter walks away I watch her - measuring her height with guestimation work...
"How tall do you reckon she is?" I ask.
"What kind of question is that?" She laughs, "As tall as she needs to be."
"She’s abnormally small - like 4ft 10 or something."
"Is that an abnormal height? 4ft 10?"
"Anything beneath 5ft is abnormal. Anything beneath that height and you can start parking in the disabled bays at supermarkets."
"Mr Politically correct aren't you? I happen to think she was cute...Regardless of her height."
"Her height is a contentious issue for you huh?"
She laughs, "It’s not"
"You're very defensive of her. How tall are you?"
"I don't know - 5ft 6 or something."
"With 7 inch heels?"
"I'll put my 7 inch heels in your arse in a minute."
"Really? Foreplay before dinner? Kinky aren't you?"
She laughs wildly - and hides her face in the menu.
"Shall we order...?" The beautiful accountant asks trying to bring some normality to the table.
"When are you inserting the heel? I just wanna assume the position beforehand."
She holds up the menu, "Shall we order maybe?"
We both look at our menus - giggling away.
"3 inch heels by the way." She mumbles to me from beyond the menu.
I retort with a similar mumble, "That'll do the trick. Size isn't everything."
We both laugh - as she cheekily hides her face back in the menu I realise that she could be a keeper. A woman who not only encourages but also compliments my neurotic manners and lack of subtly. Perfect. And just then, as I began visions of her teaching our kids how to use sarcasm as a weapon like their parents, my leg vibrated. More accurately, my pocket. Even more succinctly, my phone - I took a sneak peak at it.

It was HER. My muse.

After 2 weeks of no contact whatsoever - she decides to call me just as I'm getting to know a person infinitely better (for my sanity). Suddenly my dream -like a montage sequence, involving the perfect accountant and me, became my new writers block. It was like your computer when it gets stuck whilst you're watching an illegally downloaded film - it was stuck on the same frame. In my twisted mind, I walked out of the frame and into another film - a film full of more montage shots - this time of me and HER, my muse, and the good times we had previously. No contact in 2 weeks and she contacts me now?

The accountant looks beyond the menu at my face – my face, similar to that of a man who’s seen a ghost, shows no emotion.
“I’ve decided what I’m ordering.”
I answer back – at 25% of the enthusiasm I had all but 3 minutes ago – “oh yeah? What?”
“The lobster and the salad. The salad because I’m a woman. The lobster because I want to see how rich you really are.” She says with THAT smile on her face. Suddenly that smile isn’t as special as it was. Her voice not as soft – it was like within 3 minutes I had sobered up and found out that this beautiful princess was actually just a queen past her sell by date – the queen of England. If you will.
“You okay?”
“Yeah fine.” I reply. Pause. “Just deciding what to order.”
“Okay. Seemed like you were narrating to yourself in your head there for a second.”
“You can hear my narration?” I ask jokingly, trying to act as normal as possible.
“Yeah, I prefer the director’s commentary though. How do I put that on?”
I laugh, but not very genuinely. Suddenly she’s not as funny as well.
“Let’s order.” I say hurriedly. She gives me a look of confusion. She’s realised what’s happened. She realised that this thing we had, although short lived, is over.

I hope she was joking about the lobster - they're expensive.

Prevent People You Know From Wearing The Same Clothes As you (Chapter Eleven)

“What's with the suit?” My agent asks as I walk into his office space – he rises to his feet to take a better look at its magnificence.
“You like it?”
“Yeah it’s a nice suit.”
I give him a catwalk twirl.
“All right calm down -- what's with it? You got a job interview?”
“What? No. I can't wear a suit?”
He chuckles, “Quite frankly, no. You don't wear suits. That's not your style!!”
“My style?”
Interrupting, he changes the subject, “Hey, you done with the book?”
So do I, “Speaking of books...what did you write in my journals I gave you?”
“Nothing. Don't worry. It’s a good book slash journal. We might as well submit this for publishing instead of the poetry thing.” He says, whilst reaching for the journal.
“Ahhh, no. I don't wanna publish it. The book's nearly finished.”
“It is?”
“No.”
“Ahhh for pat's sake! Finish it!” he demands handing me my journal back.
“Why don't the characters have names?
“I don't want them to. I want them to be ambiguous.”
“And do you actually do that shit at dinner parties?” he says laughing and shaking his head. I laugh back nodding yes. While I laugh he takes another brisk view of my suit.
“Wait a minute is this the same suit that the guy was wearing the other day? The one you wrote about in your journal?”
“Yeah.” I say, giving another twirl, “It’s nice right?”
“Yeah. Love it. I might get one.”
I grimace, “You can't get one.”
“Why not?” he asks forcefully.
“Because I got one. We can't both get the same suit?!”
“What are you? A woman???”
“Don't buy the suit. End of story.” I take a seat and put my feet on his desk – as if I had brought the leasehold to his office. I then continue, “Hey, do you know a girl on the 1st floor? An accountant?”
“I know a few accountants - why?” he replies whilst staring at my feet on his desk.
“I'm seeing one from downstairs in a couple of days.”
“Really? That’s great! It’s about time you got some lovin' - nice ass?”
“What does that matter?”
“It matters. So does she?”
“It’s okay.”
“I knew it! A guy’s gotta look right?” I don’t answer.
“How did you meet her?”
“Women’s toilet?”
“What?”
“Long story.”
He looks at me with contempt. I continue, “You ever been in the women’s toilet? They got nice gadgets in there.”
“They do?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah – they got like these sanitary towel bags for getting rid of...”
He interrupts, “You know what I don’t wanna know.”
I continue, “I wish I had a womb then I could make use of such contraptions.”
“You wish you had a womb? What are you on about?” Disgust upon his face carries on talking, “Seriously man some woman action might help this writers block. By the way, whose this girl in your journal you keep writing about? She seems like a problem.”
“She's just a friend.”
“A friend? Then why do you keep talking about her? Over and over? My advice - give her a miss. She's a problem. She'll make you go cuckoo.”
“She's like my muse - she inspires my work.”
“All you do is write about HER. It’s boring. Find a new muse that helps you finish the book. This accountant sounds promising.”
“Sounds promising? I haven't told you anything about her.”
“Finish the book.” He snaps.
“I will.”
“Finish it.” He knocks my feet off his desk, “And don't come round here uninvited. This isn't a social club. We're not frienda. This is a client stroke management scenario.”
“Stroke?” I say laughing, “You keep using the word 'stroke' - You might want to calm down, you’ll have a stroke in a minute.”
“I'm not joking!” He replies chuckling but trying to hide it, “And also the stuff I wrote in the journal you can't use any of it. Its personal stuff. It was like therapy for me.”
I stand up all ready to leave, “Okay.”
“And, seriously, what's with the womb thing?? You’re worrying me!”

Women's Toilets = Paradise (Chapter Ten)

The toilet experience is important to me. It’s an experience to behold. My own personal home toilet has a brilliant feng shui about it - minimalistic and flush white. No pun intended. The rug I rest my feet on when seated on the laboratory is thick in richness, so that my feet are accommodated for whilst the process is taking place. There can be no better experience than releasing after you were dying to for 10-30 minutes. They are quite simply ‘experiences’. Pure and enjoyable.
    On a slightly more emotional note, my public toilet ‘experiences’ counter balances this.
        Public toilets, no matter where, are never ideal. Actually ideal is not the word. The word is hygienic. Firstly, I refuse to use the public urinals or bowls or whatever they are called. These are like an open competition of manhood - a competition I'd probably finish as a ‘competitor’ in, rather on the podium. Most guys chose to stand half a mile from the bowl in order to display their 'asset'. Coupled with seeing how straight they can piss from long distance - it’s like watching the British team Javelin in the Olympic. Hit or miss. Bronze medals all around. No Gold – but well played anyway. No pun intended. This game is not for me. My masculinity is normally set at semi-automatic (in gear 2). My testosterone levels are low. My doctor told me that my mother probably drank too much white wine when I was feasting on her internals. All of this means that I HAVE to use the cubicles. It’s like your own personal toilet space. Minus the comfort and hygiene. When using other people’s home toilets at social gatherings I turn on the tap to drown out the sound of my own waste being dispensed. This again is comfort.

In this instance, on my way to get this journal back from my agent in my new suit – much like the weird gentleman’s from a few days previous – I feel the sudden urge to...release. After much deliberation, I use the public toilet on the ground floor of my agents building. 1pm. Lunch break. Prime time for toilet usage. All cubicles are full. I push each door gently – maybe one is actually free...!?

They’re not.

2 bowls are free. 2 are not. One is occupied by what’s looks like the worlds fittest man...and the other by a dude so cocky his manhood must have been nominated for an Pulitzer prize. I squeeze in between them both desperate to let go off the pent up discharge...surrounded by these two self-appointed Adonis’ I feel pressured to perform – everything seems smaller. The bowl. The room. EVERYTHING. Everything apart from them.

1 minute later – I have still not released.

They don’t seem to move – I’ve been there 3mins. They been there before me and they won’t stop pissing. One guy, the fittest man in the world, is doing loops with his piss. Impressive, I think. I watch for a brief second. He gives me an acknowledging smile...and does more.  This guy is my hero.

I look slowly to the other guy to see what tricks he’s performing...none. But he does, however, take exception at my brief glance. He gives me the look of a man about to damage my outer shell. I zip up and leave in a hurry.

Still desperate for both the release and privacy I enter the women’s toilets....but slowly...looking to see if it’s empty. Which after an intensive inspection, I find it is.

    Women’s toilets are so refreshing. They smell good. Why don’t men get treated to automated air fresheners that dispense a dose of candy scented goodness every 60 seconds?

The sanitary towel bags in the cubicles made me yearn for a womb. I wished I could have periods just so that I could make use of these fancy sanitary towel bags.

Women’s toilets have condom machines. Men’s don’t. Doesn’t that make sense?
    Also the tap water is softer in women’s toilets. It’s like little plush raindrops of joy hitting your hands. I wish I had a womb.

On my way out of the toilet I bump into an attractive lady about to walk in. I think fast to avoid any embarrassment...
“Is this the women’s toilets?” I ask innocently.
“You see that sign on the door...?” She replies with a cheeky smile on her face.
I look up and point at the WC sign with the stick lady placed on it, “That one?”
“Yes, the one with the woman on it...” she replies, still smiling. Her smile gives me Goosebumps. It’s special like turning on the radio and hearing an old Al Green song.
“Is that a woman? I always thought it was a man dressed a woman. It’s hard to tell nowadays. Political correctness has gone crazy.”
She laughs. Seems like I’m charming her without trying.
    Note to self: awkward situations are wonderful for attracting the opposite sex.
“You’re the type of guy who wears frilly pink underwear and pees sitting down right?”
“That’s a scurrilous remark and I take offence.” I reply.
“Ah, the word scurrilous...I don’t hear that word anymore.”
“You don’t hear the word scurrilous anymore? What are you? 150 years old? No one uses that word anymore. I was merely being nostalgic”
She laughs, “Nostalgic?” and continues, “You’re full of divine words aren’t you? Like a walking thesaurus. When you masturbate do you say ‘oh deity, oh deity’ instead of ‘Oh god’?”
“Firstly, who said I masturbate...?” She laughs, I continue, “Secondly, if I was to masturbate I would do it in silence. The sound of my own voice would be a turn-off. I mean it is making love to someone you really love. But that’s taking it too far.”
“Why are we talking about masturbation?” She asks comically.
“You brought it up. You tell me.”
“This is proper ‘LOL’ moment isn’t it?”
“A ‘LOL moment’?” I laugh, “Let me ask you something do you write ‘LOL’ or ‘HA’?”
A cheeky smile hits her face, “I generally don’t take a tally on my wordplay when interacting via computers.”
“You’re very well spoken...you’re very scurrilous.”
“That does even make sense? Let me guess you’re a writer huh?”
“How’d you guess?”
“There’s a literary agency upstairs and you’re full of...”
“Myself?”
“That as well – I was going to say long words.”
“Oh. That’s disappointing.”
We laugh. She continues, “I’ve always wanted to write a book.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“Boring old accountant, huh?”
“Boring old accountant.”
“Well ‘boring old accountant’ I happen to need someone to help count the money in my wallet when I buy you a meal – do you think maybe you could help out with that?”
“Original line...” she says whilst shaking her head in amusing disgust, “Not good, but original.” 
“I know I’m a writer – we plagiarise everything. All creative ideas are stolen from someplace. Nothing is original.”
“Did you plagiarise that line from a 14 year old boy?”
I laugh. She’s pretty swift.
She continues, “Listen I gotta go and use the loo before I flood this hallway. However I work in the office down the hall come in and get my number before you leave and I might do some ad-hoc accountancy for you.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing you flood the hallway actually. I could write about it.”
She playfully pushes her way past me to the women’s toilet. I smile to myself thinking that I must use women’s toilets more often.

And oh yeah, I need a womb.