(Cole):

me:  “I don’t know what to write about this week.  Why did the Giant have to be such a freak?”

Marge:  “That’s what you write about.  The fact that the Giant is a freak…”

     So I mulled it over for a while.  Why not write about that?  But the longer I thought about it, the more I began to think that maybe it wasn’t the Giant who was the freak, it was me…

I can’t deny that it seemed a little wrong for me to write him off so quickly.  A wonderfully adept man wanted to rescue me from a life of pain and physical labor because he said I was too “sexy” for that kind of work.  He wanted to “save” me from a life of labor because he thought I was better than that.  I understand that that should flatter me, but it also insults me.  I don’t think there is anything wrong in liking what I do for a living.  Am I more intelligent for what I do?  Probably, but that doesn’t change the fact that I enjoy it.    I was, and continue to be, flattered that such a seemingly amazing man would want to come and rescue me, take care of me, marry me, and make me the mother of his third child.  I get it.  I totally do, and I’m not trying to mock it.  Most people want that kind of life, but I am not most people. 

Sadly enough, a part of me almost wishes I could be that girl.  How easy life would be if I just surrendered, laid down my vast arsenal of weapons, stopped fighting, and allowed a man to take care of me.  Wouldn’t that be great?  Sit my ass down on a fluffy white pillow, flip through Martha Stewart Living, and focus only on making a great fucking quiche.  The thing is, I like making a great fucking quiche.  I like making homemade pasta and hollandaise, and pesto, and lemon curd.  But I also love smashing down walls, pulling out windows, and mastering the fine art of destroying things.  I am a completely incongruous and self-contradictory person that just wants another incongruous and self-contradictory person to share a few beers with, fuck, laugh with, and enjoy life with.  I want someone who also thinks that white picket fences and choreographed Christmas cards are a ridiculously pompous waste of time and a middle finger to others that is meant to say “fuck you, my life is better than yours,” but only really shows how insecure and miserable a person is.  Trying to cram your own happiness down someone’s throat is the equivalent to shitting on someone’s front lawn, or else disposing of a dead possum in someone’s garbage…

The Giant is perfect for me.  He really is, aside from the whole “we are going to get married and make a baby” part.  He still hasn’t seemed to fully grasp the concept that I don’t want to get remarried or have a kid.  Aside from that, pretty damn perfect.

He cleaned up his act since the last time I saw him (this will make sense if you go back and read my previous post).  I guess he understood what I was trying to say, and he is tenacious!  I never thought I would see him again, but he kept trying.  Not forcibly.  He wasn’t pushy, in fact, we didn’t even text all that much.  He gave me the space that I needed and then swooped in right when I was ready and asked me out to a nice dinner.  No trying to get into my pants, no asking me to stay over.  It was to be strictly a nice, numerous course dinner and lovely conversation. 

I agreed, even though it was a work night, and anyone who knows me knows how anal and OCD I can be.  Going out on a work night is practically a sin in my book!  I’ll do it, on occasion, but I would prefer not to.  I like to get my eight hours of sleep in, plus I’m weird about my morning routine.  I can’t skimp on anything, or I’ll spend the rest of the day feeling half naked or something.  Anyway, I needed the distraction (story for another time, perhaps), so I agreed.  My bosses said they were fine with me starting work an hour later the next day and just staying an hour later, so that was nice.  That way I could still get in my eight hours of sleep, have my morning routine, not skimp on work, and therefore not have to feel guilty about anything.

     Did I say he had cleaned up his act?  He showed up right on time, well, technically he was early, but had texted me asking if I was ready yet because I told him if he showed up early I would kill him.  We had planned on seven.  At ten ‘til he asked if I was ready.  I said ‘yes, where are you?’ and he texted back ‘it’s ten ‘til!’  I asked if he was still in Morro Bay.  He said no.  I asked him what that meant, and not two minutes later he knocked on the door.

     He came with a dozen long stemmed red roses,



and a delicious bottle of Syrah for me to drink to myself whenever I felt like it. 



He was wearing a suit, and I was wearing a dress, Christian Dior python pumps (that are illegal in California and I had to buy them online, have then shipped to my aunt in Colorado, and have her “smuggle” them in to me a few years ago, back when I was materialistic and money actually mattered to me.  Thank God I grew out of that phase!), and a garter belt with nude colored nylons with the gorgeous black seem going up the back, mostly to hide the numerous bruises on my legs from what I do for a living, and a string of Chanel pearls.  Sort of 1920’s flapper style.
 


I’ve always thought I was born in the wrong era…

He opened every door from me, stood up when I left for the lady’s room, let me order every course, and enjoyed watching me linger over my single espresso with a lemon twist and Sambucca with two coffee beans floating in it for “dessert”.  The conversation was incredible, and then after dinner we went for a walk in the park and each smoked a cigarette. 

     It was a perfect date, and he was a perfect gentlemen, and when I started kissing him and my hands started to wander ever-so-slightly he stopped kissing me, looked at me, and said “that’s all you, sweetie”.  I smiled, stood up, lit another cigarette, and we walked back to the car.  He opened my car door for me, walked me to the door, and gave me a kiss goodnight.  Perfect gentleman...

     Since then, we have continued to text back and forth quite a bit.  I have softened a little, but I’m still going to make him work and put in his time.  I’m not a prude!  Far from it, actually, I’m just not sure I’m ready to go down the relationship road with anyone quite yet.  I guess I’m just confused.  Aren’t we all?  One minute I think that I’m still in love rapist and I want to detonate that bomb again.  I mean, I could if I wanted to, but what is the point?  I need a little more than what he is willing to give me.  The next minute, I think that the giant is perfect for me, that I never want to speak to rapist again, and that the giant and I could actually have an incredible, functional, and somewhat “normal” relationship. 

     Just the other day I asked the giant what varietal of wine I would be.  I told him to forget the country and the vintage, because that would make things too complicated, just what grape, basically, to make which wine.  He said ‘Syrah for sure’!

When I asked why, this is how he replied:

“Primarily because you initially exude deeply perfumed aromatics, unleashing into a dark, ripe, sensual core… Punctuated with sweet, succulent, juicy and fruit driven characteristics!  Finishing strong with bright acidity, firm and creamy, yet laced with a slightly peppery finish, subtle earth elements, finesse, complexity, and absolute balance, all colliding to create my perfect pairing!”

And then:

“You will marry me!”

Me (jokingly): Black diamond?

The giant: Haha!  Yes!  My dark queen!

     A man who can talk about wine and food the way he does makes me swoon!  I am, and always have been a “foodie”.  I love being able to sit across the table from someone and discuss and dissect the food preparation process, someone who gets just as excited about food and wine as I do.  It’s incredibly erotic to me, and really turns me on, especially when, not only does a man know what he’s talking about, he knows even more than I do, and blows my knowledge of food and wine out of the water! 

I love sitting across the table from a man who knows his food and wine, but I also love sitting across the table from a man who’s clothes I want to rip off and almost want to skip dessert, because he will be my dessert and I can’t wait to get him naked and get down, dirty, and wrestle with him!  The thing is, I’m not sure he’s that guy yet.  I mean, how can I know until I have sex with him? 

I’m not ready for sex with him yet, but I think I’m not ready for sex with him yet because the physical part of me is still hung up on rapist.  Do I have to choose between a culinary connection and a physical one?  Can it not be both?  I do find them both intellectually interesting, find them both attractive, funny, and amusing.  Rapist would be my first pick if it came to the bedroom, and the giant would be my first pick if it came to the table.  Rapist wants to keep me in “the closet”, and the giant wants to parade me around like a trophy.  So the decision should be easy, right?  But how do you choose between a man who can give you everything you need in the bedroom, and a man who can talk about food like this?:

“I found the greatest little cucina!  I had an amazing sandwich con prosciutto di parma alla caprese!  Loaded with buffalo mozzarella, organic basil, pesto, and cold and first pressed extra virgin olive oil…  Sprinkled with crunchy sea salt and house baked fresh baguette!  Garnished with organic summer baby greens, touched with a sweet mustard, horseradish and pineapple vinaigrette!  Are you salivating yet?  I won’t even tell you what I had for breakfast and dinner!”

I guess I just need to pull my head out of my ass and make a decision.  I’m no longer willing to sit around and wait for rapist to make up his mind, so I suppose that means I stop being so apprehensive and see where things lead with the giant.  It may not end well, but I’m pretty sure it will be a pleasant ride, whatever the final destination…