"The Samsonite Theory" -by Trevor Hurst
The music is so loud I can barely hear the sound of her voice screeching out all the past horror stories that have made up her dating life. I simply sit and smile, trying not to focus on her lips or I'll fall into the oft tried and always failed lip read. She is blonde and a waitress. She leans into me, which would indicate a point I�m obviously supposed to hear and possibly comment on. I move towards her and notice that her blouse is open. I can see the outline of her breast clearly as I bend over. Beautiful and shapely, I can just imagine her lying in my bed, naked, with these beautiful, shapely breasts glistening with sweat. I think she�s about to say something important.
"My daughter's father, my ex, thinks I'm obsessive but I think I just know what I want and I don't like to lose it"
Interpersonal land mine, luggage fills the air.
"This is our first date. I thought she was sexy, had a sense of style, her body rocked and she seemed to be able to hold up her end of a conversation."
The barrage of club music seems to let up for a moment and she smiles at me. I smile back, she looks like an angel. I feel a slight tingle, which usually means the ecstasy is starting to kick in, or that there�s a willing participant signaling their intentions to me. This time the latter was the case. Right then some stud comes up, folds his arms around her and gives her a kiss. Introductions all around, he�s "a good old friend she's known for years. We never slept together, really!" Studly pats her ass and leaves. The music returns and she screams she wants to leave.
She is still blonde, naked and in my bed. I try and think of any reason why I shouldn't go through with this. Some last minute excuse to free me from my primal urges. Nothing comes to mind. I�m not a guy who goes out and gets laid on a regular basis, but every once and a while you meet someone that interests you. This interests me.
Smooth, like butter, baby
A short time later she gets up to use the washroom. I want to feel passion, desire. I want to feel a Zen-like sense of completion. No, all I feel is panic. Everything comes flooding back. It's amazing. It�s as if the blood is leaving my genitals and rushing straight back to my brain. It�s so clear to me now. The ex, the daughter, the obsessive behavior, the other studs always trying to have their way with her one more time for old times sake. None of this is escaping me now. Oh my God! She' s in my house! What if she wants to stay? What if she wants her daughter to stay? What if she wants me to meet her parents? Hang out with the other studs that do her? All this luggage! Just to get laid!
She comes out of the wash room fully clothed. Smiling, she kisses me on the cheek and leaves.
"Call me sometime, or not. I know how hard life can be on guys like you." The door closes. I can almost hear George Michael singing, "Freedom, I won't let you down, freedom..." What did she mean, guys like me? I hurriedly ran to the window, and yelled at her as she crossed the street.
"What do you mean, guys like me?"
"You're the kinda guy who believes in the Samsonite theory, a theory based on the idea we pick up luggage with each emotional or sexual experience. I believe it's just chapters in a book."
"A horror story?"
"Maybe it starts out like a horror story but it finishes like a classic drama. Stop shouting at me and go to bed!"
She might have been on to something, but I've spent too many years perfecting my "Samsonite theory" to let it go now. I've probably just acquired a new piece of baggage, I'm just not sure how heavy it is.