Jessica Rabbit wants me to call her

So apologies for the late night blog, but I can't pin this one on insomnia. What happened is that I got very restless last night and decided to take a walk through Astoria. It was a freezing cold night and somehow, I made it to a crowded avenue and found a bar there which seemed warm and friendly. I went in an ordered a beer.

The clientele was distinctly downscale. Old Greek men and ghetto latino boys drinking cheap beer, playing pool and bopping to a jukebox with tunes out of 1983. I was dressed up in a blazer, a shirt and an expensive pair of jeans so I looked all Manhattan to their Queens. Which is so not me; I usually look Bronx to anyone's Greenwich, but that's another story.

In the distance, a brunette woman was joking around with some of the customers. Upon seeing me, she came and sat next to the tight-lipped fellow next to me and, based on his tight-lippedenss, turned her attention to me. She was wearing an impossibly short skirt, a ridiculously low cut top and was the kind of girl that married/ engaged/ involved woman's worst nightmare. Someone who's sexuality was so unbridled, it was climbing all over the patrons like..something that climbs all over patrons.

Bear with me; my bill read as follows:

9 heinekins
2 tanquerey and tonics
1 vodka and red bull
1 glass of wine
3 shots of tequila rose

I have a hollow leg so, while I felt the effects of said drinks, I was nowhere close to being drunk.

So this girl approaches me, having given up on the tight of lip (and ass) among the patrons of the public house and starts chatting with me. It becomes evident to me that she's employed by said establishment to encourage the punters to buy drinks. She's charming and she's sexy and I've been stood up by two women this weekend. I let down my guard and start demonstrating why I'm the antithesis of the tight-lipped fellow to my left, without dominating the conversation.

She appears to like what I have to say (but mostly what I have to listen) and she remains glued to the seat next to me; in time, she extends her leg and puts it over mine and holds my hand in hers. I'm not sure when, but at a certain point, my hand is carressing her ass.

I'm still cognescent of the fact that this girl is there to make me buy (both her and myself) drinks, which I did. But surely. being glued to one customer and encouraging him to feel her up isn't good for business, when all the other customers are eyeing you with envy and futility. She doesn't seem to care as our conversation becomes more engrossing and involved. She tells me she's Romanian, was married off at 13 and has had six kids, 4 of whom are dead. Maybe this bout of realism can be used to explain my perfect sobriety, but I doubt it; I drank enough alcohol to kill a small horse. Now, those who drink will know that men who are resistant to the intoxication of a vast amount of liquor are regarded among the shallow as possessing of special powers, and this girl clearly held me in that regard. After a while, I began to get the unmistakable impression that she was totally into me. We continued to talk and I began to wonder how it could be that someone who could not possibly be interested in me, was sitting in my lap and urging me to place my hand on her breasts.

Now granted the other people in the bar were not prize examples of the male gender, but I am not used to being lusted after or focused on so intently by women of her irrefutable hotness. I've been with hot women but usually in bar situations, I can never establish my strengths enough to sway the hottest women to pay any attention to me. The way I operate is pretend not to be interested, chat innocuously, find a common ground, give them my number to follow up on said common ground and then win them, many moons later, over countless coffees and daytime meetings. It's slow, meticulous, laborious work...but I'm no head-turner and you go with what works.

This girl was different. I've heard that women know if they're going to sleep with someone, five minutes after meeting the, and everything she put out confirmed that this was what was on her mind. I kept my shit together and did what any man would do; hedged my bets, kept my dialogue simple and uncomplicated and ensured that I didn't lose any ground, rather than try and dominate the proceedings. It worked.

By the end of the night, she was hanging off my neck, rubbing herself against me, most suggestively, sharing her innermost feelings with me and insisting I call her tomorrow, after we'd both slept it off. Even after the place had closed, around 4pm, she used her pull to keep me inside, while she mauled me like a mountain lion. Eventually, I took off and promised to call her tomorrow.

And therein lies my dilema, boys and girls: I'm still convinced that there's no way someone like her could have anything for me and that her only motive was to hustle drinks off of me (I spent around $15 on her). But then why give me her cell phone number?

The answer to this will become apparent after 15:00 hours tomorrow, but I still feel compelled to blog about this at 6:04 am today, because despite, apparently, bagging one of the hottest chicks in Astoria, my first impulse is to blog about it.

The perverse side of my personality, the one which is fed up with women who pay me no mind (I don't know if I mentioned this...but I got stood up by two women this weekend) is urging me NOT to call tomorrow. the reasoning being, you can't get disappointed if you don't call her and the memory of me being THE MAN can continue to abide. The other part of my personality (a tiny enclave that knows absolutely, undoubtedly, without a shred of reticence that I am the man) wants me to call her and follow this through.

She's loud, she's vocal, she's sexual and she would horrify everyone from my friends (Ham, Carmen, Ramo and so on) to my very easily-shocked family...so what would a real man do?

Please help me. I don't know if I mentioned this but I am a gigantic idiot and I do need any help I can get. Should I call?