She's the Man

My friend Christina told me that she had a friend who was "absolutely perfect" for me, someone by the name of Jessica.  I had been single for a while and was always open to the prospect of meeting someone and seeing how things developed, so I asked Christina to set something up.

Jessica and I met up for dinner and drinks at a bar.  She was my height and gave me a hug that nearly snapped my back in half.  When we sat down, she started talking.

Jessica had the butchest voice in all the land.  It sounded like she had gargled with testosterone.  She told me all about the five sports that she played (roller derby, football, baseball, kickboxing, and hockey), showed off her muscles, which were ample, and even joked, over the course of dinner, "I feel more like a man than a woman most of the time!"

Clearly, Jessica was more of a man than I would ever be, and I have no problem admitting that.  She seemed very nice, but she just wasn't my style.  My type of woman is independent, strong, and womanly.  Jessica was two out of three, but two out of three is 66%, and 66% is a D-.

After dinner, we took a walk and she said, "You seem like a cool guy."

I replied, "Thanks.  You're nice, too.  I think that we'd make good friends."

She stopped walking.  "Friends?" she asked, her voice deeper than ever, "Okay.  I thought this was a date."

Oh, honesty.  Such a lonely word.  I didn't want to lead her on, but I also couldn't really be too forthcoming on why I didn't think it would work out.

I said, "I'm not really looking for anything too serious right now, and I don't know if I feel a lot of romantic chemistry between us."

"That's okay," she said, "We just met.  We can take things slow.  Can I call you my boyfriend?"

I said, "No.  That wouldn't be taking things slow."

"I like you.  You don't like me back?" she asked.

I stammered, "Jessica, I–"

"No.  Fine.  I don't like you either.  You don't even play sports."

"Sorry."

"You don't want to be my boyfriend?"

"No."

"I can't call you my boyfriend?"

"No."

"Fuck off," she said, and walked off.

I had driven us to the restaurant, and her house wasn't even close to walking distance.  I called after her, "Can I drive you home?" but she jogged away.