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Blonde Sidekick
"The purpose of relationships is not happiness, but transformation."
-- Andrew Schneider

I crawled out of bed well after noon. I did so under protest, having been up late the night before working on my sordid little novel. I had a rare groove going after weeks of struggle while trying to find the right 'voice' for the narrative. And I never argue with the groove when it deigns to offer me a twirl about the room. It's better to dance with it until the inspiration dies out.

I had a few meetings on my calendar, one with a smoking hot woman. So, I suffered the burning of my eyes and ignored the siren call of my deliciously escapist dreams. I stumbled out into the living room, fumbling with my RAZR to be sure it was on vibrate before sticking it in the pocket of my robe for an anticipated call. I had an hour to myself before my first appointment.

I was in a mood when ivy_blue and I walked into Starbucks for meeting number one. I nearly asked the kid behind the register to list 'fuck you' as the name on my hazelnut latte. It just felt appropriate. I mentioned it vaguely to test the waters. My humor wasn't appreciated. I don't much care. I wasn't out to make friends.

Being out in public with ivy_blue is the closest thing to being invisible I've ever experienced. People watch her. I don't blame them. She's intoxicatingly beautiful. Men can't help themselves around her at all. They'll come up with all manner of silliness to just speak to her. While I've been on the other end of that sort of thing myself, it isn't nearly as consistent. But you can set your watch with Swiss precision to the action that will invariably occur around her. I'm not used to being the homely sidekick in any equation. In my already surly mood, I had to pointedly ignore my undesirable role for the afternoon. She's going to kick me for writing this. (Come and get it, woman. I'm just down the street. Bring the baby oil.)

We must have been every guy's wet dream come true. Our discussion was far from a G rating. When you put a couple of fetish models with experience in the lighter end of adult glamour entertainment together in a room, the conversation is already going to be Playboy television fare. Normally, I don't care about censoring my discourse but I was painfully aware of the fact that we were completely surrounded by men. I was also more than a little conscious of the fact that I had essentially rolled out of bed, only doing the bare minimal ten minute ritual to look vaguely human before tossing on black clothes and dashing out. More than once I caught the sidelong glances and shifting of weight in chairs as well as words stumbled over mid sentence when something particularly racy passed out of our mouths. I've come to the conclusion that coffee shops are not the place for a couple of dangerous vixens to conspire. It's far too public. I had a hard time focusing and one really does want to be entirely focused to enjoy the marvelous ivy_blue.

So, the wicked machinations betwixt us continue. Our meeting was quite productive, in spite of the distracting voyeurs.

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For some reason, when I'm bumming, that's when men hit on me. I can go to the grocery store in my yoga clothes, no makeup, greasy hair up in a ratty knot, and that's when they follow me around the store.

If I dress up? It's like they're scared to even look at me. I don't get it. When I wanna look hot that's when they disappear. heh!

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Thank you for this; it's always good to get a man's perspective!

I'm never in the mood to be treated like a conquest.

Sounds like a modern-female-hollywood "My Dinner with Andre" :-)

I would have stopped what I was doing to listen in too.

I was rather impressed with the guy who managed to listen over the sound of his music thumping in his earphones jacked into his laptop. That took some work.

I was in a mood when ivy_blue and I walked into Starbucks for meeting number one. I nearly asked the kid behind the register to list 'fuck you' as the name on my hazelnut latte.

I hate it when they ask my name. It's so fucking ridiculous, and one of the reasons I can't stand going there. I just lie and give them a fake name, since it's totally pointless. But last time I was in there I was in a good mood, so I gave them "McLovin". The girl who took my name was totally stone-faced as I spelled it out for her; but when they called my name after it was done, all the people in line laughed. Apparently, working at Starbucks cripples your sense of humor.

I have a perverse thing about getting all-American corporations with clean images to do dirty things. I have had a year's long love affair with getting sexually suggestive words carved into Tiffany jewelry.


Yeah, I imagine it'd be funny to see how far you could go before they refused.

Could you, for instance, get "choad" but not "cock"? ...What if you raised roosters?

I have a little silver heart that says "Bad Kitty." They refused to put anything that involved "pussy" on it, even when it was rather innocently phrased.

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