By: Jennifer McGuire
‘So is there anything else you’re looking for in a girl? Any deal-breakers I should know about before we move forward?’
‘Well…’ He leans forward across his strawberry-banana smoothie and I know what he is going to say. I know it so much that I want to close my eyes and cover my ears and scream, ‘Don’t do it! Don’t say it!’ I’d rather hear anything else but this. I’d rather he tell me he only dates astro-physicists (not that there’s anything wrong with that) or that he has a strange fetish for toe-suckers with messy hair and heavy black eyeliner (not that there’s anything wrong with that either). I mean, I am a matchmaker.
I’ve heard it all.
But unfortunately he says what I hear most. ‘I don’t want someone too…big. You know?’
I arch my eyebrow. My famous arched eyebrow afeared by ex-boyfriends and bitchy salesgirls alike. ‘No. I don’t know. Please go on.’
‘I want someone smaller than me.’ I continue arching, let him squirm under my gaze. He fiddles nervously with his smoothie. ‘I like cuddling, see. I don’t want some big broad. I want someone who can sit in my lap.’
Huh. I see. This is what it comes down to. Every time. Big vs. little. Curves vs. anything but. And it’s not like I’m sitting across from Matt Damon here. This man is tiny. Like thin wrists that can’t hold up his watch kind of tiny. He is balding and has mean eyes and has already told me one million times he is known for being cheap. Also his hands are filthy and…well I’ll just say it, shall I?
And he is sitting across from me – size sixteen, good skin, confident, smelling of oranges, wearing black ankle skimmers, black turtleneck and a gorgeous scarf – judging me? Because I’m bigger? Looking around the little cafe furtively, praying no one thinks we’re an item?
Thinking the only way to have power over a woman is to be bigger than her? Because that’s what this is about, yes? Power. Oh, if he only knew. The power these small men have over us lush women. How long it takes sometimes to build us up and how little it can take to knock us back down. How long it takes to get us in the sack- more on that to come later.
But he doesn’t know the secret. That once you get us behind closed doors and feeling lovely and relaxed…we are world-renowned sex kittens.
More on that later too.
I’m glad he doesn’t know. All of the sudden I’m just really glad he’s as foolish as he seems. I pick up my gorgeous over-sized bag (a knock-off, but still) and put on my over-sized shades (vintage). Then I gracefully slide my over-sized bum out of the booth and say to him,
‘You don’t want a woman. You want a lapdog. And I honestly can’t help you one little bit.’
I notice a man sitting in the next booth as I leave. He tips his coffee at me in a salute. Smiles slow and sexy.
Now this one – this one knows the secret.
______________________________________________________Jennifer McGuire lives in Ontario, Canada. Her recently released collection of essays, ‘Halfway To Happy’ (Glenmalure Publications) is based on her popular humour column of the same name, which appears in daily newspapers throughout Canada. She has also written for the Canadian parenting magazine ‘Canadian Family’, but has secretly been desperate to write for the American public (don’t tell her Canadian friends). Her short fiction has appeared in ‘Room’ magazine and the anthology ‘Every Second Thursday’. She spends her time with her four sons who she adores, her dog who she tolerates and her friends of whom she generally expects far too much.