She giggles and covers her mouth not for the first time. She: medium sized, very cute face, dark straight hair separated into two pony tails, legs that are alarmingly large, what some people may call “junk in her trunk.” Her face is lovingly symmetrical, with button eyes and a pug nose. Except for her oversized legs, there’s nothing wrong with her. Not that there is anything wrong with her legs, mind you. I just like my legs a bit smaller, not necessarily chicken or curvy, but, well, not threateningly vice sized.
I see that you’re judging me instead of paying attention to my date. I’m not a horrible person, I’m just picky, and sausage legs, well, sausage legs, she isn’t doing it for me. I think she said something. She’s looking at me. She’s expecting something from me. Maybe she’s waiting for me to say something new. No, it’s worse, she’s waiting for an answer. I shouldn’t have been focusing so much on her legs, but they’re huge! How can I not focus on them? They’re not even visible, they’re under the table. I feel so shallow. This isn’t working. Maybe I should bail. No, she’s Henry’s friend, and Henry would not forgive me if I didn’t at least stay through the date. And maybe, just maybe, if I can get over her tree trunks, I can see her inner beauty. I bet she’s a beautiful person—a beautiful person with a very large—and I’m sure supporting—base. Now that was just cruel, I’ve got to stop.
“What was that,” I say, trying to look abashed, and trying to resist again pretending to tie my shoes to sneak a peek of the forked branches she calls legs. I can’t resist. She’s saying something, and I lean over to tie my shoes for the fifth time that night. I peek under the tablecloth. I truly am dreadful, but there they are. How can such a petite girl have such a humongous lower body? Is it even physiologically possible? Maybe she stuffed pillows under there to test me, see if I’m just another man who goes after looks instead of personality or brains. Yes, she’s playing with me. Her top half is too good. I peek my head further under the table to try and see any obvious pillow-like marks or unnatural bulges along her elephant-sized legs, something to convince me that this is all just a test, and when I get her into bed and peel off her oversized black jeans, that normal-sized legs will wait for me.
“Are you okay down there?” she asks. I bump my head on the way up, rubbing when I finally clear the table. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Putting aside her leg size, I try to figure out if she’s flattered or disgusted. Her face really is cute. A small wrinkle forms between her thinned eyebrows. She doesn’t wear much makeup, and her cheeks are naturally pink, and not in that unflattering splotchy way. She’s looking at me sideways. I consider my repertoire of facial expressions and choose slightly abashed but mostly naughty. It’s the right choice, her disgust transforms into flattered, and she fans her neck, probably without realizing. She has such a thin neck. She wears a plunging neckline that shows her shapely and small breasts, a completely normal-sized chest, I should add. Red patches form around her neck. I’m not sure if it’s the heat, the embarrassment, or the pleasure, but it is certainly sexy.
“Damn shoelaces,” I say, the story pouring out before I check for consistency and provability. “I bought a new pair today, and it’s one of those rain-based ones, you know, the ones where you can walk through puddles and feel secure that your shoelaces won’t go undone and you’ll end up tripping over them, which will only soak them further and lead to fraying the fabric—of the shoelaces, I mean. For all the shoelaces’ water resistance, it doesn’t take much for them to fly open. I’ve tried the bunny ears and the wrap around and the reversed knot and the bunny ears and the doubled bunny ears and the bunny ears followed by the doubled reversed knot, and nothing seems to hold the laces in place. In case Henry didn’t tell you, I have a few—well, a few might be an understatement—quirks, and un-tightened shoelaces, well, that’s very high on my list of things that need fixing if I ever wanted to be so called, and here I’ll quote and then unquote, normal.”
She giggles—not as obvious as last time, but definitely a chuckle. She covers her mouth and looks down. When she looks up again, her head is still bowed and her eyes look huge, we’re talking moon-sized whites. How did I ever think she wasn’t sexy? She picks at the lip of her coffee cup, and I stress whether that is a good sign or bad sign. She’s still looking at me, and she’s not tapping her foot (from previous experience, definitely a bad sign), so maybe I still have a chance. Wait, what am I thinking? This is pillar-legged girl, do I even want a chance? How does she sit so straight with those things under the table. They remind me of marshmallows, stored in a tight bag and waiting to burst with the slightest pinch. The vision of her jeans bursting open passes in front of me, with globs of fat and marshmallows flowing out. I can’t imagine the mess it would make.
“Tell me about your childhood,” she asks, breaking my reverie of her marshmallow legs. Many women think that the way to understand a guy is to delve deep back into his childhood—the parts of a man start in his hometown in his first house in his family today. It’s all bullshit, of course, but I’ve seen it too often not to see the pattern or understand how it affects how the date ends. You have to think of dating like a sales call: you have something to sell, yourself, and they’re the ones doing the buying. It’s all about manipulating the bottom line, the product, you. Of course, it is possible that she’s looking for nothing but a good fuck. Some girls do that, you know. Turbo legs, though, she doesn’t look the type. Those looking for a good fuck never seem to care much about how I was brought up.
I wonder if she’s one of those people that can’t stand people like me, slow talkers. You see, I like to think through all the angles before I respond. Many people like to move the conversation along faster, they want me to respond immediately, give them their chance to say something. It’s been said many times before, but in most conversations, the other person is only biding their time until they can say something. We all love to talk, and we put up with the listening just for the opportunity to say something. Me, I like to talk as much as the next person, but I also like to think through what was last said. As I said, I’m a slow talker, and if a person can’t handle it, I see it as a weakness in the other person. I’m methodical, I line up the shots, see where things are going, maneuver in line with where I plan to go, I do all of this before I respond. Maybe she’s pregnant. I haven’t been around many pregnant woman, but perhaps they don’t gain weight in their upper body; instead they gain all of their weight in their lower body. No, that doesn’t make any sense. Mothers carry the baby in their belly, and her belly looked flat. Maybe she’s having one of those strange vaginal pregnancy—I wonder if there is even such a thing.
“Your childhood,” she asks again. She must think me daft. She’s tilting her head toward me and smiling. Maybe I still have a chance.
“I’m sorry. I like to think things through before I jump in, especially when it comes to my childhood—I don’t think anyone has ever had a normal childhood, and I’m certainly on that top of that list of anybodies.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” she says, her head moving a bit to the left and a bit to the right, as if the movement will enhance the veracity of her statement. While maybe not enhancing the statement, it is awfully cute. It’s not as exaggerated as seen on comedy shows, it’s quite slight, actually, like her—except for her legs. Those damnable legs. Why do the gods torture me like this? Why create such a seemingly great girl, and then endow her with such scary jell-o filled limbs? They’re mocking me, they are.
But who am I to be so choosy? I mean, I don’t have huge legs or anything, but I’m not exactly the model of fitness. I guess it’s the guy’s prerogative to be choosey when it comes to physicality. It’s strange: us guys, we expect perfection in our woman, but we’re more than happy to grow a big belly or gain a few or a few hundred pounds. I guess the double standard is alive and well. It might be because a guy is visually stimulated, and a woman is verbally or spiritually stimulated.
Either way, those are huge legs.