Griddle of Anus

I just got home from a date. Everything happened so quickly; the chatting, the scheduling, the texting, the meeting. I was tired and considered not seeing her, but something inside me said to press on. The buses weren't coming so I walked from Market all the way up Haight Street. It only took three blocks to realize something was wrong. There were way too many people on the streets, most of them young, with slow eyes and foggy feet. They drifted along like tired ghosts looking for a place to haunt. The sweet smell of pot perfumed the air like psychedelic potpourri, and then I knew. It was 4/20. What a terrible mistake I'd made by asking her to meet me on Haight Street. My reckless thoughtlessness would certainly prove damning once she tried to push herself through hordes of stoners and hippies reeking of reefer and patchouli. At times, it was hard, even for me, to brave the streets amidst the teeming throng.

Soon I was at Alembic, where I texted her a warning: 4/20, bring help! Within moments she arrived; beautiful blue eyes, hair up and pretty, a naturally angelic complexion. She sat down and read my palms. I remarked at the powerful symbolism of her holding my bare, upturned hands in hers. She pointed out my life and love lines, a girdle of Venus, and my "brilliance" lines before I asked if anything looked unusual. No, she said. Is there a penis line, I asked? Too quickly I followed up with: is it short? Too long she paused. I knew it - my cock had spent too much time with the palm of my hand for it to tell a lie. It was a young George Washington confronted about hacking away the cherry tree. What a ripe euphemism. Not long after this I found myself chatting about the subtleties of anal and vaginal sex, arguing strongly for the latter. On dates I specialize in making poor jokes and choices.

Her interest was waning. I could tell as her eyes wavered and then drifted, snagged by a pocket of empty air in the far corner of the room. Halfway through her drink she said she would go, to meet a friend in the Mission. Ok, I said, and we chatted for a minute or two longer. Then she put on her coat. I asked whether this meant she was cold or she wanted to leave.

I'll let you guess.