The Artist

It may be almost the end of the year, but I feel like my year has just begun.  So to celebrate the new year, I've decided to date outside of my comfort zone.  Thus, comes The Artist.  I've known him for a hot second through a mutual friend.  He is NOTHING like I've ever dated before.  30's, Brooklyn-dweller, tall and burly, a few extra "endearing" pounds, scruffy face, totally Williamsburg vibe.  Rides his bike everywhere.  The Artist likes to wear worn-in fitted jeans, and beat up T-shirts that look tie dyed, but are actually filled with faded spots from its 1000 previous owners.  He looks like he might smell like "vintage store" but surprisingly smells like nothing, which is much to my delight.  And as his name suggests, he is an artist, which is the one thing that really attracts me to him.  You know the problem with a lot of guys is that they have no passions in life, no hobbies, nothing.  So they get caught up in their jobs and become disillusioned by money to the point where they don't really know what their purpose is in society.  The Artist, on the other hand, has a passion for making art.  He thinks about it 24/7, and he knows he's damn good at it.

The Artist and I had a minor flirtation the last time we met and we quickly began a Facebook chat relationship.  One day on Facebook, in his awkward and somewhat retarded way, this conversation took place:

Artist: "So, when are we going to do this?"

Me: "Do what?"

A "Go on a date."

M "Are you asking me out?"

A "Stop fighting it."

M "Fighting what?"

A "Us."

M "I didn't know we had elevated to "us" already."

A "Seriously, what do I have to do to make this happen."

M "You gotta come to me."

So the next day, The Artist rides his bike across the bridge to meet me in my hood at about 11pm.  We decide on a quiet Irish bar.  He compliments me on how I looked earlier (I had run by him to go home to change after getting dinner with my friend), and tells me that he likes my hair down (as opposed to the low pony that I'm sporting).  I keep my hair up.  We talk about a rag tag combination of topics ranging from creepy men to Sean Kingston to eBay.  So random, that I was fascinated by the inner workings of The Artist.  I stop to think if I would make out with him or not.  I don't.  I can't even touch him...like on the knee.  I don't know why.  He's not physically repulsive and definitely better looking than Teapot, but I feel zero sexual chemistry.  

It's 4am and we close down the bar.  He walks me home and I hug him good night.  He comes a little closer and I'm scared and disappointed.  I wish I would want to kiss him, or even better, bang him.  But I don't.  Feeling defeated, I take out my keys to unlock the front door.  

Oh well, this tigress needs her rest anyway.  No pouncing today.