I am looking in the mirror, now, as I was this morning. My shave is keen, my face moisturized, my hair immaculate. Green eyes are what she likes, so my colored contacts are in.
I'm not a bad looking guy, even without all this primping. Hell, I never have problems meeting women, or convincing them to come home with me. People that say you need to be funny or a great dancer are full of shit. You have to look at them right, nod your head at the right parts of the conversation, and smile winningly, and they'll melt for you. Panties in my pocket, with at least a 75% success rate.
Why, then, am I unable to get Connie to look my way?
Jesse's my best friend from way back. We went to elementary school and high school together, and even stayed in touch through college when he moved away to Chicago. He was highly cool, but more of a brain with the books than the ladies, you know? He helped me out with getting motivated enough to pass high school instead of dropping out, and I tried to help him come out of his shell a little bit.
He got back in town last month-- a new job, and he's moved into my house here, and he seems to be staying. Which is great; we hang out and go to the clubs and talk about old times and play computer games. And shoot baskets, though he kinda could use some work. I'm giving him pointers.
But lately things aren't going so well between us. He's the same as ever, but I picked a fight with him yesterday for no reason.
Well, no good reason. The reason is not his suck-ass jump-shots and lay-ups, the reason is his girlfriend.
I didn't even like her when I first met her. I'm for the athletic look, or barring that someone who at least has a nice big pair of hoots. Connie isn't like that, not at all; she is at most a B-cup, and what my dad used to call "pleasantly plump". I wouldn't call her fat, though. Certainly not anymore.
I don't know why my opinion of her changed; she went from "huh, nothing special" to "must have this woman!" in a matter of hours for me. One day Jesse and her were heading off to a movie or something, and I was bitching inwardly because he was so pussy-whipped he was cancelling our fantasy hockey tournament. The next day, as she left his room, headed for the front door, she had the sexiest look in her eyes I think I have ever seen, and I spent the next several minutes jerking it into the toilet while I thought about her perfume. That doesn't compare to the "self-abuse" I engaged in when I found an actual blouse she'd left on Jesse's floor. But I digress.
It kills me to know he's having her only sixty feet away from me. In my own house! I listened outside his door to her little moans and cries and spurted come all over the floor. And this isn't tile or hard wood (no pun intended), this is luxury Berber carpeting. I cleaned it up as best I could, but I hope he doesn't notice the stain. And they were too engrossed in each other to hear my grunts.
The bastard. The lucky, lucky bastard.
Yesterday I did something I feel very guilty about. I made a pass at my best friend's girlfriend. I couldn't help it-- I was weak, and he was out buying lunch for them both. She sat in front of the television in a gorgeous tee shirt and sweatpants combination, watching some Discovery channel bullshit, and I just couldn't stop looking at her. She noticed, eventually, and smiled at me and wondered what was wrong. I replied that I just liked looking at art and other objects of beauty. She blushed a bit, and gave me a hint of a smile, and thanked me.
I think I almost had her then. We started talking about how her and Jesse had met, and how she liked him. But things went all wrong when I "accidentally" let slip some rather embarrassing information about Jesse's past. She giggled at some, and seemed interested in me. Or at least in what I was saying. I told her that he'd only had like three girlfriends before her, serious girlfriends anyway, and how he said he'd had sex with two of them but that I thought he might be lying, and that it was only one. Or perhaps none. Sure he was a nice guy-- that's why I was friends with him. I just hoped she was getting the loving she deserved out of the relationship, since he was kind of ... inexperienced.
That didn't go over so well, and she looked displeased-- which broke my heart. As she excused herself to go send an email in Jesse's room, I mentally punched myself in the face for insulting her in some way. And for dissing my best friend in front of his girlfriend, too, but I'd be lying if I said that the latter was more important to me.
I peered under the door at her and saw that she wasn't, in fact, lying on the bed waiting for me to take some kind of hint she'd laid for me, but was booting the PC like she'd said she was. Damn damn damn.
I didn't know if I could stand it much longer. I needed to have her, needed to have her love me.
Why didn't she? Why Jesse? Why him and not me?
So now, as I put on a nice-looking polo shirt and a pair of Dockers, and my favorite club shoes, and a cologne I think she'll like, I'm wondering if he'll be gone all day like he said he would. Trust Jesse to do a diligent job at work, though the suspicious part of me says that he might sneak out and meet with her because he knows what I am going to do.
See, I found out where she lives. And I'm going to go over there this afternoon and confess my love for her. If she refuses me, I think I will die.
I'm in my car now, headed to her parents' place, where she lives. Her late parents' place, actually, if you want to be technical. Her mom and dad had died in a car wreck years before, and now she lives with her aunt in the old house, which is owned free and clear with part of the life insurance money. At least, that's what the private investigator I hired was able to find out. I park a couple of blocks away, so as not to arouse any suspicions.
I needn't have bothered. The place is a fucking madhouse.
Picture this: a 2000 square foot home, in a chain-link-fenced yard not exceeding another 3000 or so square feet. Nice place, nothing extravagant. Suburban squalor. Not a lot of room in the back yard for more than a garden and some decorative rocks.
And about fifteen or so people, trying desperately to be silent as they elbow each other out of the way in an effort to get at, and peer into, a side window. Her window. Instead of going to the front door as I'd intended, I join the throng, to find out what it's all about.