On Dating Mark Darcy / Edward Cullen / Captain Shy

I like that Diana King “Shy Guy” song as a song. I’ve never much liked it in reality. I guess as Lester Long says in Clay Pigeons, maybe there’s a whole lot of stuff out there I never gave myself the chance to like. LOL. Who knows. It’s certainly a different experience. I had lunch with a friend today who told me it took him six months of dating before he kissed the woman he married. That made me feel better. Two dates with Arsey Darcy and no kiss yet is better than six entire months of dating. I don’t think I could hold out that long. I’d have to assume no interest and/or the Friend Zone and roll on. Good things come to those who wait, yes, but there is a difference between slow and glacial. Women at least want to think that you find them so irresistible that waiting six months for a smooch would be biologically impossible, regardless of how sans testicles you may be. (“Sans Testicles” said in best Carter Pewterschmidt voice.) I keep smiling thinking about Arsey Darcy wanting to hold my hand in the theater. It was like watching a snake thinking about striking a mouse but deciding against it. Do I strike now? No, better not. Maybe now? Nope, still not ready. All of that is cute and endearing right now but that’s my dilemma: it’s cute right now. It will cease to be cute and endearing before much longer. Another couple of dates and I’ll be like, “Really? Really, dude, really?” And forget about drinking too much and/or the wrong kind of booze. Oh goodness. A Quagmire on wine is not a good thing for a eunuch to be trapped with. I remember one time I was at friend’s house in college and I nursed a bottle of white wine for most of the night. Towards the end of the bottle, I was in love with the world. You know that episode where Peter takes X and is rubbing the couch and rubbing Brian’s ears? I was like that. I was hugging one of her throw pillows and rubbing the couch upholstery talking about my love of life and my love of love, LOL. Hand to God. So . . . yeah. I don’t want to get white wine drunk in front of Darcy and start rubbing my face on his body like a cat marking its love territory. Bloody hell. I was talking with P and her husband about it and P was trying to tell me to put my head on Darcy’s shoulder. But she had a Freudian slip, apparently, and typed, “Put your head on his knee.” And I was like, “Um, that’s a prelude to a blow job. That’s not subtle!” She goes, “No, I didn’t mean knee, I meant shoulder.” We laughed and laughed about that. I hope it doesn’t turn out that he has a Ken doll bump downstairs. The jury is still a little out in my mind.