daily preciousness

Thursday, July 11, 2002

generous george

It's Sushi Taro, the great little Japanese place on P Street. It's 7:15 and it's a gorgeous summer day. I'm just about to cross the street and I catch his eye. He's a little older than I thought. No, he's not 88 like his profile indicated, but he's probably in his late 30s. But what a handsome smile he has!

The awkward stumble of our first face-to-face conversation quickly evaporates to an easy, funny flow of thought. It takes about a minute before the transfer rate is smooth and steady. And he's so polite. (His Japanese Mom would be proud.)

We both like agedashi dofu. After my second thimbleful of sake, I have the Irish confidence necessary to perform (and explain) the wavy, hula-like motions of the dried bonito flake dance. (Bonito flakes are the little slightly crunchy bits of fish that they sprinkle atop the fried tofu. They move about like they're still alive, undulating from the heat of the tofu.)

My usual bravado lands on appreciative ears, but I notice a distinct unwillingness to "play along" with some of the central tenants of the Jeffreyverse. "It's not all about you," he actually has the gall to suggest during one of my more obnoxious monologues. I am shocked beyond words.

It's obvious that he won't budge an inch. He daringly feigns obliviousness to my veiled suggestions and threats. All smiles, he allows his silence to speak volumes -- all at my expense. It's maddening, tortuous and wildly erotic. I am Mattie and he is Dave. We are in the midst of a Moonlighting episode. The little Obaachan (old Japanese lady) taking our order is the goofy secretary. She brings me more sake and I am silent, in stunned amazement that George still doesn't humor me to the full extent necessary for me to save face.

Aaaah! I realize that he is enjoying this exquisite torture almost as much as I am loathing it. I don't know whether to storm out of the restaurant before the main course or just suck up to him so that the conversation can veer in another (less painful) direction.

But he's a sexy one. Very self-confident. Warm in small amounts and playful enough not to give into my conversational threats. Altogether, a pleasing partner for dinner. Delightful, in fact. And I don't want our dinner to end.

So we retire to the South metro exit Cosi. (There's a Cosi cafe on either side of the Dupont Metro. The one on the South side is more straight and a lot more sprawling. There's more often a nice place to sit at that one.)

More sparkling, electric convo. A few genuinely gentlemanly gestures. Several dozen more warm, intimate glances. And those chocolate brown eyes and expressive lips just taunt me.

A quick goodbye at the metro escalator opens up the opportunity for a simple, but sensuous, series of kisses. Those thick, powerful lips are silent for a moment as they delicately brush mine. I readjust my boxers as subtly as possible and head down the escalator.

It's been nearly a year since I've been on a date like that. I smile at my luck. My eyes calibrate to the curious, cold metro lights. A little breeze plays with my hair as I sink down, subterrain style. And I think to myself, "I could fall for this guy."

Of course, I don't mention my initial association with his name. There's a place in Alexandria, called "Generous George's." It's a t-t-tacky Chunky Cheezy Wanna-be. (I don't know what's more sad, that it wants to be like chunky cheeze or that it doesn't actually stand a chance at competing with that place!)

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