SAYING GOODBYE TO POSSIBILITY

Today I saw the last of someone I’ve grown very fond of at my job. A coworker who came here only for a year, snuck under my radar, got close, and made this place bearable. Now she’s gone, I’m alone, and I can’t stop thinking about all the lost opportunities where I could have spent more time with her, outside the office, and made a connection.

No, “connection” doesn’t refer to anything romantic or sexual.

Let’s call her “JG.”

It’s not often you meet a female who can make men like myself feel comfortable. Most of the time, men are too busy projecting a false macho image that’s complete bullshit. Everything we do is according to some unwritten rulebook on how to “bag a babe” and we follow it word for word. But there are those few women whose beauty is so comforting we drop our charade and let the real person come out. The first time I met one was eleven years ago when a short Korean girl showed up at my front door after I answered a personals ad. Years later, I married her and she’s still the only woman with whom I feel completely comfortable.

When I was first told we were getting a new CRC at the hospital, I was happy. Happy because their arrival meant my transfer to a new role I was looking forward to. Ironically, now that she’s gone, I’m right back where I started. I was a little nervous because someone new was entering my environment just as I was beginning to adapt to my surroundings. I worried that her arrival would unleash a backlash of reprisals from my boss when she discovered all the mistakes I was sure I’d made in my paperwork. But what did I care, I was leaving. And hopefully, I’d never have to deal with those patients, those studies, and those doctors again.

I don’t remember who talked to whom first, but I think it was pretty standard stuff. She’d ask questions about protocols and I’d try my best to answer them without revealing my big secret: that I have no idea what I’m doing. I knew JG was a medical student, and felt at ease that she’d understand everything better than I did. When she started asking me questions, I freaked a little. But luckily, another coworker who I’ll call “Know It All” took charge and before long he handled all her questions with me feigning interest in the background.

Somewhere along the way things got personal. If memory serves, my then boss came in and mentioned that I was a writer. That, or maybe she mentioned my tattoos or that I’m an “artist type”. Either way, the new addition to the crew learned my secret, that I was a writer posing as a clinical researcher. But something about that really sparked JG’s interest. We started talking nonstop and next I knew we were conversing daily. I would send her new pages from Lazarus, let her read from the script, show her color samples, and when I started this blog page she was the first one online to read the posts and became a fan of my work. We’d spend time after work ragging on our peers and talking about life in general. We both were pissed when Bush Jr. was re-elected and we’d ask each other if we heard Howard's latest escapades. But, she wasn’t bound to the hospital like the rest of us and would take time off for interviews and what not. It was then, on her first day out, that I realized how much I relied on her. For that entire day the office was silent. It had been silent before, but this was the eerie quiet of three people stuck in a room who shared nothing in common. When she’d leave, I couldn’t wait for her return and soon I forgot that she was going to med school and was only here for a year.

The more JG read my blog, the more she learned about me. And knowing she read my entries challenged me to keep her entertained. The more she liked my introspection and honesty, the deeper I delved and dared myself to reveal things. But I am a man, and soon I began using some of my entries as subtle flirtations, writing about my lack of sex and so forth. See, unlike most women who inspire boastful flirtations of sexual prowess, JG pushed me towards honesty. Or maybe I was testing the waters to see what her responses would be? Much as I saw my wife years ago, I saw JG as someone who looked at me and wept. So I wasn’t about to come off all macho. Plus, I wasn’t going to disparage my image as the loving husband. Oh, I am the loving husband, but I’m also a hot-blooded Creole.

One night, a friend and I were talking about how marriage has made us more aware of the opposite sex. I told him that it’s a classic case of not wanting something until someone says you can’t have it. Once the ring goes on and the mind says: “No more looking at women in lust.” The first thing you notice is how the girl walking down the street has a sexier walk than your wife. I remember hating black women when I was younger. They all reminded me of my mother and were symbolic of my succumbing to a racial stereotype. I was convinced dating a black woman would lead to an apartment in the ghetto, becoming a Baptist, and sitting on a milk crate in front of my apartment when I’m fifty. Then I suddenly found myself attracted to them after I married. I’d always liked blondes and brunettes and figured Asians of any kind would never get with a “brotha”, even a mixed one like myself. But, when I married a Korean woman, all kinds of possibilities were opened to me. When you’re married, that’s what your attraction to women is about, the possibilities of what might happen.

Nothing is more enticing or intoxicating than possibility. For loyal married men, that’s all we have. The question of what could happen...

Does she find me attractive?

Could she?

Would she?

How would she?

Nothing is more powerful than fantasying about being seduced by women. Having a female find you so attractive she’d jump from her passive submissive role and become the aggressor – it’s every man’s fantasy and it never gets old. Porn is so successful and addictive for men because it’s full of those situations. Either the women chase the men or they totally submit to their lust and let themselves be taken.

As my acquaintance with JG became a friendship, the more she exposed herself. She still kept much of her life private. It took me by surprise when I realized she knew way more about me than I did about her. But she did release a little here and there. Things that, to a normal person, would mean nothing, but lead to all kinds of possibilities to a fat married nerd with low self-esteem. Things that would never happen, could never happen, but still – What if?

Oh, I had fantasies. But the more I felt my attraction grow, the more my inadequacies became apparent to me. Why would an attractive twenty-something half Korean mix female with a bright and wealthy future find me attractive? I’ve been told that married men are more attractive to women, but that hasn’t been the case for me. I seem to debunk that rule every day.

Digression…

Crazy Cracker Bitches -

I will state this for myself: I do attract crazy white trash.

In high school, this white-trash girl that I performed with in a play, who thought herself a witch, liked Led Zepplin – who I had no knowledge of at the time – and started calling me at home, became obsessed with making me a werewolf. A teenage fantasy I desperately wanted until Doc brought me to my senses.

Then, when I was engaged, a coworker’s girlfriend befriended me out of the blue. Almost immediately she started revealing all sorts of personal details about her life, her divorce to an abusive southern husband and how he “stole” her kids. She would call me for help, asking for rides or someone to talk to. Her boyfriend picked up on things faster than I did and pulled me aside one day. Out of nowhere, he took me to the back and whispered: “I could take you down and fuck your ass.” I thought he was just a pervert at first, another gay guy who wanted me. But, he scared the shit out of me nonetheless. Our friendship ended after I got married and she asked me to have an affair. I quickly told my wife and that was the end of that.

I would lie if I wrote that I have no attraction for filthy white women. Maybe it’s just because they’re white. Or, perhaps I’ve seen too many porn movies and magazines from the 70’s when they were all the rage. Women like Kay Parker and Ginger Lynn are permanently bonded to me and influence this, I’m sure.

So, I’m not without admirers.

…End of Digression.

I guess it’s only natural that I began feeling attracted to JG, and immediately did and said things to reaffirm my ugliness. I think she took it as an ass-backwards way of fishing for compliments. But it wasn’t. Every shitty thing I said about myself I believe to be true. All the while fantasizing that my inadequacy would, in some freakish way, make me more appealing.

It didn’t, and I still have my dreams.

If anything, I think my self-deprecation made her feel sorry for me. Or, maybe it made her want to reach out to me and prove me wrong or something. Nevertheless, for that reason, or because she genuinely liked my company, she asked me out for drinks and/or dinner. Not as a date or anything, as friends, but I refused out of fear. One of these invitations was to a party at Bill Maher’s house. Amazingly, after scoring tickets to his show, she discovered where he goes afterwards, approached him, spent time, and won an invite. Because she knew I was a fan, she asked me to go with her and I refused. I still can’t believe I did that. But it was for the best. The last place a married man needs to be is a party with hot stoned and drunk chicks so wasted even I could get into their thongs. But truth be told, those possibilities were not what scared me into declining. I was too afraid of what I would do outside the work place. I was too afraid of what I would say if I got enough alcohol in me. Or worse, I was afraid of Clyde coming out and ruining JG’s impression of me.

There have been very few times in my life I’ve succeeded at anything; especially women, and all of them are things I wish I could forget. Things that, despite the tremendous amount of information I’ve revealed here, I dare not write about. But, they were eventful. Things my friends are still in awe over – and not in a good way. So, I’m not totally without skills. And I did successfully woo my wife. To this day, I’m still the best sex she’s ever had, or so she claims, despite my running time slowing from an hour to five minutes (she says ten, but I’m the one with the watch).

Another Digression…

Crossing the Border -

I had to take a bathroom break, so I did what I usually do and went all the way to the first floor bathroom. I work on the 6th floor, but never do I use those facilities because I’d be too embarrassed if seen coming or going by any of the coworkers in my department.

It all started in high school: I’d made some boastful claims that, because I’m Creole, I’m immune to the ill effects of any spicy foods or peppers. So, one smart-ass dared me to eat an entire jar of jalapeño peppers. With nowhere to run and respect at stake, I ate the entire jar and drank the juice. But, after eating the fifth pepper I knew I was in trouble. So, instead of chewing, I swallowed them whole, stem and all.

By the afternoon, I was on the toilet with a burning rectum and jalapeños pouring out of me. Our stalls in the boy’s restrooms had no doors, so anyone could see what anyone was doing. I’d gone to the last stall in the back and only in my world would my friend, one of those who witnessed my challenge, follow the same path and bump into me in the middle of business. Of course he told everyone in our little click what happened, and since then I’m deathly afraid of running into people I know in the bathroom.

So, I’m on the first floor... I’ve washed the toilet seat with hot water and soap, and I’ve settled down, taken my first pass and courtesy flushed when a little Hispanic boy came in. I know he was Hispanic because, seeing my stall door closed, he crawled under the door. I’d said “Occupied” three times and he was halfway inside before he noticed I was there and crawled back out.

That’s the kind of shit that makes people not like children.

…End of Digression.

So, what if lightening struck? What if all the stars were aligned, I looked just right, said all the right things and she was just plastered enough to lower her standards of morality and physical attraction to try something? As much as possibilities are exciting, they can also be frightening, dangerous, and worse of all, disappointing. Working up to a moment between a man and a woman is like building a fantasy. In that time, everything is perfect. But when the lips meet or the clothes come off, harsh reality steps in. And after being with one woman for so long, I know any attempt at infidelity would result in losing something more important than money, love, trust, or anything else that comes with marriage. I’d lose my image.

You’re asking: How could someone who thinks so lowly of himself have an image and want to protect it? Simple, take Artie Lang from the Howard Stern show. Artie is a fat bastard. He’s a successful, funny as hell fat bastard, but he’s a fat bastard. He drinks and gambles way too much and I wouldn’t be surprised it’s all an act. Look at the two possibilities: Either it’s an act or he’s really that way, but worse. Think about those two possibilities. If Artie is truly a drunk, it’s one thing to make fun of on the radio and stage, but something different to watch. Do you think people would think it funny to see Artie in the grips of an alcohol bender? Or, coming off one? Is it funny to watch a junky puke their lungs out when they try to get straight? Now, look at the opposite. If he were not really that way, then how unfunny would it be to discover it’s all an act? In both cases, Artie is successful because we don’t and can’t see the truth. Either he’s a fraud. Or, he’s a talented comedian with a serious problem that may not live long enough to truly make use of his ability. His image, while not positive, is carefully maintained. Just like Howard’s.

I have a shitty self-image, but I’m comfortable with it and it’s done me well. At times it keeps me out of trouble. Other times, it gets me into serious predicaments. And, in some rare cases it actually attracts women, such as my wife.

What is my image?

I’m a depressed artist who’s devoted to his wife and thinks poorly of himself despite having many talents. My honesty is cruel, but attractive. My physical appearance, while not terrible, is made better by my extreme claims of obesity and ugliness. I’m an admitted pervert who would dance around the opportunity of adultery while not actually committing adultery, making me safe to flirt with no expectation of follow through – basically, you could tell me: “If you took your pants off right now, I’d give you a blow.” Thinking that I wouldn’t actually take my pants off because I’m married. My quirkiness makes me pathetic, but cute, and that makes me loveable. And, amidst all that negativity, self-loathing and doubt is a strain of confident sarcasm that will hit you right between the eyes when you least expect it.

Having an image isn’t a fraud. It just a facet of who you really are inside. The Artie and Howard on radio are only pieces of the real people. My image is one I project in public to protect myself. It’s something I’ve done for so long I have no control over it. That person is only a piece of me and isn’t as powerful when I’m with friends and family. But, it is who I am. And, as horrible as it may seem, there are worse images to have. Like being impotent.

I’ve been with the same women for so long I’m incapable of being physically aroused by another female. That’s a fact. I’ve had strippers grind my lap into oblivion and still remain flaccid. Yet, my wife can touch my shoulder and I’m like a sixteen year old looking at National Geographic. Now, imagine if I were to enter into a liaison with another woman? After all the build up of possibility, there I am lying limp. The harsh reality sets in. I’m a loser. A cripple. And everything I say I am that most women and friends think is bullshit is absolutely true. Just like the tragic imagery of a fat Elvis dead on his toilet, or John Belushi in the middle of a drug overdose, the image is cool as long as you don’t have to see the truth.

Digression #3…

Designed for Porn -

Before I leave work, I have to take some dick pics on my new cell phone. It started as a goof; I took a picture of a penis with my mother’s Father’s Day gift, a new Motorola cell phone with a built-in camera. I showed them to my wife and now she’s making requests. Cell pics are like fluorescent lights, they make everything look bad. I saw my penis, this blown up purple and brown thing with a red crown and was horrified. Now I have to keep repeating the atrocity hoping to unlock my wife’s sexual perversion, praying that it leads to something. Unfortunately, there’s only so much you can do with a Motorola. I don’t think they had pornography in mind when they designed it. But what if they did? With my luck, the janitor will catch me with my pants around my ankles. I wonder what possibilities will come from that…. Too bad it’s a he.

…End of Digression.

And the truth hurts like a motherfucker. It’s cool to smoke, but who wants to look at dingy teeth or taste smoker’s breath? All these possibilities would dance through my head just like all the others that I think about daily. Like, if a car hit me, how would I avoid being killed? Or, if my house caught on fire, how would I get my family out safely and go back for my comics? JG has never seen me in the midst of a social anxiety breakdown where I sweat uncontrollably and spit white bullets from cottonmouth. But worse, what if she responded? What if I got so drunk I lost my inhibitions and she responded because she was into me – or most likely drunk off her ass? What would I do? And how could I facer her or my wife afterwards? Those questions kept me at a distance, so I rejected her invites despite my interest.

Asking those questions and again wondering about the possibilities became so overbearing that I got a bright idea: I’d introduce her to my friend Actor who I live vicariously through and find out what she’s like on a date. But that plan backfired because she wasn’t into him. That endeared her to me even more because it showed she has scruples. That, or she knew he would report back to me. Of course, you can never be too sure. They could have been together and I’d never know it – Fuck you, Actor, if that were the case.

Digression…

Ignorance is Bliss –

I was dating this coworker once, when I worked at a comic book store in Santa Monica. Now, this girl, Lori, had already hooked up with another coworker, John, who fathered her child and she was eight months pregnant when I met her. Then Lori dated John’s friend, Lewis, turning the two against one another. And as I watched this drama unfold, I told myself I would never get involved in something so stupid. Then, Lori told me I had a nice ass.

I was sexually confused at the time and told people I was bisexual. This lead to an interesting evening when Lori and John asked me to participate in a three-way and I declined for two reasons: 1) I was too nervous and self-conscious. And 2) She was still nine months pregnant. So, I opted to watch instead. Afterwards, when Lori drove me home, despite just having sex with John, she began badmouthing him and devised a revenge plan by having me pretend to be her new boyfriend. I was desperate and the bisexual thing was turning into heterosexuality, so I went along hoping to get laid. But before our plan could begin, she went into labor. I was one of the only people to visit her in the hospital and was shocked when she called me later that day. She didn’t want to speak to her newborn’s father. She wanted to talk to me.

That call turned into a string of calls that lasted for a week and became very suggestive. She asked what kind of boyfriend I was or how I kissed. We began tempting one another about what we would do when or if we saw each other. Well, sure enough, as soon as she was off the bed, she drove to my place without an invite. Caught off guard, I did not look my best. The visit was short, but we did kiss and next I knew she was calling herself my girlfriend. The relationship lasted a month, maybe two. We’d kiss, but she wanted more and I couldn’t perform because after seeing John’s pecker I felt inadequate. But she became very insistent because, in her mind, a good kisser equaled a good lover and she thought I was a damn good kisser.

We tried twice, both times ended miserably. I kept trying not to picture her ex’s penis – it was huge – but I couldn’t and the comparison made mine shrink in humiliation. That led to her cheating on me with John. When she told me, I tried to dump her, but she wasn’t having it. I think she said she loved me, but I remember she wanted us to stay together. And I was getting off on a female desiring me so much, so I stayed with her when I should have bolted. Her cheating did affect me though, and I went to work the next day, asking her John to be a man and step back. I confirmed that I wasn’t after his kid, didn’t want to be some baby’s daddy, and to just chill while I see if this thing was going anywhere. Meanwhile, Lewis was now with someone else and looking at me like a fool for getting involved as he had. After thinking and telling him he was a fool for getting with Lori, now I was in his place and he was calling me an idiot.

What we won’t do…

Near the end of the summer, Lori told me she was going on a religious retreat. Her parents were Baptist, so I didn’t see anything weird about them trying to straighten out their slutty daughter. She told me she’d be gone for three weeks. But I got suspicious after a month went by with no word, and her parents were obviously covering for her. But I still believed she was my girlfriend that cared for me and was on retreat, no matter how funny things were getting.

Two more weeks went by before Lewis called to chastise me for being such an idiot over a girl who was nothing more than a whore. When I asked what he was talking about, he told me he’d seen my “girlfriend” with her baby’s daddy. She’d been with him all the time and both were talking shit about me and how stupid I was for believing she was on retreat. I was devastated. Despite only being with her for the sex - that wasn’t happening - somewhere I developed feelings for her. Or, maybe I was just insulted that I was rejected like some loser that wouldn’t go away. But I never forgot the lesson I learned: Women lie, and men will lie for them.

…End of Digression.

So, even though she told me she wasn’t attracted to Actor, I still wondered if they were seeing each other, talking about me, or fucking and Actor wasn’t giving me the information. And again: Fuck you, Actor, if you held out on me.

Time passed slowly at my job and possibilities began to fade. It became more apparent that JG wasn’t or couldn’t be into me, if for nothing else, because I was too short. So I just began enjoying my time with her without any one-sided sexual tension that I usually throw into my relations with the opposite sex. But, there were times when it would creep up again. JG would wear these tight shirts that ended just above her waist, giving me just a peek at her panties when she bent over or sat in her chair and I'd wonder if they were thongs - Even a pair of grandma panties can look sexy on the right woman. And when she walked away, the shirts would rise up, revealing the small of her back and had me wishing she had a tattoo. No matter how gay clothing designers may be, there's got to be a straight guy or lesbian somewhere in production who plans for that shit to happen. There were days she’d let her hair down. She has great hair. And when it’s down, you can really see her exotic features. My being black meant I couldn’t avoid looking at her rump whenever she walked away. A small waist with nice curves are hypnotizing, and I’d find myself looking in her direction minutes after she was out of view. And those days where we were the last two people in the office and she’d swear – it was like she just flashed me her tits. I’d go wide eyed and I’d hear her voice in my head saying, “Fuck” or Bullshit” in a continuous loop.

JG was hot. Real hot. The kind of woman that makes a married man pray his wife would cheat just so he’d have an excuse to pursue his infatuation.

And then it was time for her to go.

The closest I ever came to chasing one possibility was finally succumbing to one of her invitations. She’d heard Actor and I in the car one day laughing it up and asked us out for burgers and beer. I backed out originally, but curiosity – and lust – got the better of me and I accepted. But, as luck would have it, she bailed because of family commitments.

On her last day at the hospital, everyone made a big deal about her departure. Rightfully so, she was cool and a great employee who did her job better than her predecessor. But, I didn’t go to any parties. That’s just not my thing. So, before she left, we were in the office, alone, just as usual. We said our goodbyes, and I tried to say something emotional without slipping into something romantic.

Final Digression…

Automatic –

95% of all my relations with women have been romantic. I’ve never had a real female friend. So I have no knowledge of how to be a woman’s friend without being intimate. Being platonic doesn’t come easy for me, I’ve had to work at it and I succeed by just avoiding female friends at all costs. And for that reason, I believed men and women couldn’t be friends without sexual attraction getting in the way. Even if there were none, sex would find a way to creep in. Either, because there’s a mutual attraction, or because the woman’s drunk, horny, or depressed and there’s no one else around.

I often figured meeting the woman of my dreams would happen like in When Harry Met Sally. We’d become friends, she see through the bullshit, fall in love with the real me and we’d live happily ever after. So, if a woman liked me as a friend, that immediately made her a target. I would find a way to convert her fondness into something more. Ironically, my wife and I were never friends until after we moved in together. I think it fair to write that we may not have even liked one another for a while. Our friendship appeared out of the blue. I woke up one day and realized she is the closest friend I have. And that’s the way it should be.

After years of marriage, you’d think I could have female friends, but I still find myself slipping into autopilot. When trying to converse, I have to put forth effort not to be overtly sexual and flirtatious. I have to try not to butter them up or ask them out on a “friendly date.” If I’m writing a letter, I have to try not to be poetic. And God help me if we’re chatting through IM’s because that just goes immediately into cyber. The last time that happened, I had some fat housewife asking me to visit her in San Fran and my wife cancelled our AOL subscription.

Maybe it has to do with generations and how they’ve changed. My wife and I are only three years apart, but she has this knack for separating sex from gender when it comes to friendships. She can be with the best looking guy, but if he’s only a friend, then that’s it. I don’t have that skill, and to avoid danger I have no female friends. But, with JG, I’d really like to try.

I sent her an email today, just to shoot the shit and let her know what’s up. And I felt myself wanting to slip back into form. It had nothing to do with her; it was reflex. I sat in my chair, wondering what I should write and all these flowery words and synonyms came to mind. Then, I wrote that I missed her and how the office was boring without her, and it felt like that wasn’t enough. Like I should write more. But, there wasn’t anymore. That was it. “I miss you.” That’s enough. But, my brain kept pushing for something else. Something romantic and emotional. Something that would woo her or make her feel good in a way I shouldn’t.

That’s when I realized I had a problem.

I’m JPG, and I’m addicted to romance.

…End of Digression.


When we said goodbye, I wanted to hug her, but feared it was too much physical contact. That, or I could pop a woody – that would be my luck, the only woman to give me an erection in eleven years, she’s not attracted to me, and she’s leaving. I stuck out my hand for her to shake. She took it, and we shared a half-hug. She walked out with me looking at her with puppy eyes, even though I tried not to. Despite my physical attraction, she’s a good girl. I smart woman. Someone who’ll really make something of herself and help a lot of people. She made my job easier every day she was around and I’ll miss that. When she left, I remembered when my wife and I had broken up our first year. She’d started walking to her home and I’d gotten in my dad’s blazer, started the motor, was backing up and I looked to see my then girlfriend standing on the curb. She was looking at me and crying. I stopped the car and went to her. We hugged and made up right there and screwed in the back of the blazer.

As JG left, I thought I saw this look in her eyes, like she was really sad to go, and maybe she was really going to miss me. When the door closed, I wondered if she’d come back weepy eyed and grab me for an embrace. No, she wouldn’t declare her “feelings” for me – but wouldn’t that have been cool. But, she’d be really sad to not have me around.

Then the door opened. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe this was happening. What would I do? What if she tries to kiss me? What if she wants to get busy right there in the office? I’m married. I have a wife. Would I sacrifice my life for one hot chick?

Or, could I get laid at the office and use those pheromones to lay my wife later that night?

Her footsteps came closer to my cubicle. I was ready. I knew what I would do. And then…

She opened the door to the mini-fridge, grabbed her half-eaten lamb burger, said goodbye and left.

Ah, the possibilities…

So, it’s been a week (I started writing this the day she left, and now I’m finishing a week and one day later – boy, you should read the unedited version) and this place is deader than shit. It’s retuned to the same way it was before, and in some ways it’s cool. Know It All and I seem to talk more now that JG is gone – and that’s not a good thing. I was welcomed back to the fold, covering the program I started with and left, until they can find JG’s replacement. I keep showing up for work thinking she’ll be here, but her desk is empty. And I stay late wondering why I’m here now that she’s gone. I could leave, but I stay anyway – must take those dick pics.

I sit at my desk, trying to remember her voice, her face, and the images are already starting to fade. Getting older is like a bitch that keeps taking your shit. I wonder where she is, what she’s doing. Sometimes, I wonder if she misses me, or thinks about that cool guy at her job. Maybe I was the ugly fat guy who was so obviously attracted to her, but never said it. Or, the disgusting married guy who should be ashamed for flirting with a coworker while his wife takes care of his two kids – fucking nigger! Was I the letch she was forced to talk to, who wouldn’t let up and almost had her file a sexual harassment claim? Perhaps I was the pathetic guy who couldn’t write for shit and thought he was cool?

Either would work for me, because at least I made an impression.

And for me, when it comes to women, you take what you can get.

The possibilities never cease.

JPG.