Construction

Another creative writing assignment. It got 49% from memory, and I still hold a grudge.

I had met her on Friday. It was of those group settings where mutual friends had none too subtly attempted to subvert the courting process and shove us begrudgingly into each other’s calculations. I hadn’t, though, reckoned with how attracted to her I would be. Nor had I taken into consideration exactly how long it had been since I’d attempted to talk to a woman as a single man.

It had been awful. Speaking to her, I seemed to lose all use of vowels. My words came out in clusters, inarticulate and grating. I attempted to adopt a softer, flirty intonation and instead sounded like I’d been anaesthetised. Our chemistry hadn’t been so much Shakespearean as the kind that allows manure and petrol to form a potent explosive. Our conversation had adopted a bizarre staccato rhythm wherein we interrupted, spoke over, blushed, excused ourselves and insisted the other continue with such regularity that we would have completed perhaps only a dozen sentences between us. Any predatory instincts I may once of possessed had been blunted by a nine month relationship. My ability to discuss anything even remotely engaging with a woman I was attracted to had been usurped by an encyclopaedic knowledge of Sex and the City. I had seen a documentary recently where a lioness had taught her young to hunt by letting them hone their skills on a decrepit wildebeest. In another of those instances where human behaviour mirrors that displayed in nature, I could see the parallels as I broke her resistance with several hundred cub-sized bites. I would have called the whole thing off if not for the fact that she was the most alluring decrepit wildebeest in the pub. It was seduction by attrition and it was not pleasant.

Remarkably, she had agreed to have dinner with me the following Monday. I’m still yet to ascertain exactly what she found attractive about me. Perhaps my stuttered attempts at conversation had a certain befuddled charm. Perhaps she took pity on what she assumed were my severe personality impairments. In any case, it is now an hour until she arrives and I am busy at work constructing myself.

Let me elaborate on this. I like to think we’re all multifaceted people with a broad spectrum of interests, personality quirks and predispositions. However, not all of our idiosyncrasies are fit for exposure in any social setting. People need to be judicious in what they divulge about themselves, and must always take into consideration the context in which they do so, even if they deem a certain aspect of their personality to be an impressive trait. For example, when applying for a job an applicant wouldn’t list “Ability to surreptitiously siphon company funds into personal account with minimal chance of detection” as one of their strengths, despite the high degree of competence required to do so. Similarly, one would be best advised not to mention their keen interest in snuff films at a wake, or, to apply an example from my own personal experience, allow a Bob Seger album to remain on my shelf in full view of a woman I have every intention of bedding.

I bear this in mind as I sift through my CD stack, removing potentially embarrassing items and replacing them with albums that serve to highlight my musical acumen. Dark Side of the Moon replaces BacDaFucUp, Al Green replaces Robert Palmer and Wendy Matthews in unceremoniously flung out the window. I’ve decided to construct myself as someone whose taste is hip, yet not so esoteric as to be threatening. I settle on Portishead as the music to accompany dinner, a mature yet suitably cool selection which could prompt further discussion, which could lead to my playing an Andy Smith Document album, which in turn could lead to me vicariously taking credit for the music taste of someone immeasurably more credentialed than myself. I decide to plant one kitsch album in amongst the collection – Hall and Oates’ Gold – so that she might find it and tease me while I feign shock that she hasn’t a copy of her own and smile sheepishly. She’ll then realise that despite my suave exterior, I’m not above laughing at myself and we’ll dance in the living room to “Out of Touch,” fall into each other’s arms and make adroit, middle-class love on the couch.

A common fallacy propagated by both sexes is that in order to impress people, you need just ‘show the real you’ and ‘be yourself.’ I vehemently disagree with this. The ‘real me’ can quote, verbatim, the entire Days of Thunder script. The ‘real me’ is known on occasion to watch children’s game shows to hurl derision at contestants who can’t identify former Prime Ministers. I’m pretty sure Pol Pot was just ‘being himself.’ There must always be a degree of poetic license applied when constructing yourself, and cultivating an image is of greater importance than the illusory concept of ‘the real you.’ Once someone is suitably comfortable in your presence, less desirable traits such as condescension towards children and a penchant for genocide can be revealed. It is because of my eagerness to present a desirable representation of myself that I am panicked in deciding on an outfit for the evening.

My initial thought was to dress as casually as possible and present an image of detached cool and in turn make her more receptive to being open with me. I’m unsure why, but it seems to be the style of the times to wear vintage t-shirts with the name of fictitious Japanese sports teams emblazoned on them. In accordance with this, I lay out my “Abashiri Fishing Village All-Stars est. 1973” shirt next to a pair of jeans. However, I’m worried that she may wear something more sophisticated, and I run the risk of alienating her and making her feel overdressed. I reconsider my choice of outfit and prepare an alternative with a black dress shirt replacing the vintage tee. I read once that a woman can tell all she needs to know about a man by a cursory glance at his shoes. I search my wardrobe for a pair that radiate “sensitive yet virile male who will fulfil your every carnal desire and then write a sonnet on the subject afterwards.” I cannot find any, so settle instead for brown moccasins. I decide to defer on making a judgement on the shirt and opt to remain topless until five minutes before she arrives.


I set the table and tidy away any fast food containers or Segal movies that might betray my slovenly bachelor lifestyle. Apparently warm environments are more conducive to feelings of wellbeing and openness, so I opt not to turn the air conditioning on, despite the fact that it’s twenty four degrees outside.

Having prepared the dining area, I go to my room and make the bed. Should the evening be a success, I’ve got a packet of condoms stashed in my top drawer. Selecting the right variety and texture had been a challenge in itself. I had to negotiate the difficult task of buying a model that was neither too explicitly kinky nor unimaginatively dull. I had flirted with the idea of buying the extra large variety, but such puerile bravado would come undone should I be required to use them, and images of parking a Fiat in an aircraft hangar plagued me. Ultimately, I decided that in case oral sex were to enter the equation, it would be remiss of me not to get the flavoured assortment: nothing but the tastiest latex for my baby. However, this led to another dilemma as I questioned whether or not the kind of woman who would dispense oral pleasure so early in the piece would be the kind of partner I’d want for a committed relationship. What if we were to end up together and, upon our break-up, she was to completely disregard the roughly month-long fellatio armistice expected of exes? Fuck her! Although I guess that was the object of the exercise.

I stop speculating about such frankly insane sexual folly and realise that the condom packet is still in pristine condition. Herein lies a problem; I need to remove enough condoms to display that yes, I have had sexual relationships with a woman or women before her, but not so many as to make her think me a womaniser. From the packet of twenty- four, I decide nine is an acceptable number to remove after having deliberated on taking an even half, then erring on the side of caution. To give the box a more weathered look, I crush the corners and put it in the clothes dryer for ten minutes.

I’m in no way prepared when the doorbell rings, and, shirtless and trying to figure out how long cardboard can safely be left to tumble dry, I race to my room and throw on the first thing that comes to hand. My attempt at debonair cool has been compromised and I’m going to have to think on my feet.

As it transpires, the dinner goes near seamlessly. I’m able to converse at a level above that of a gibbon and even voluntarily show her the Hall and Oates CD. We don’t make love on the couch, but we do discuss how the advent of hairspray in the eighties doubtless brought global warming forward several centuries. I manage to make her laugh, usually intentionally, and she seems to genuinely enjoy my company. At the end of the night I get a kiss goodnight and she tells me to call her. I feel a sudden giddiness and a hot flush goes across my brow, which is quite possibly the result of heatstroke, but which I believe to be symptomatic of something more profound. I’m currently debating whether or not to call her tomorrow and invite her over to watch It’s Academic.