Urban Thought Collective

First off Happy New Year and all that jazz. Before I tell you about my plans for the coming year, I need to wrap up a few things from last year. So where were we… right, somewhere in the Mile High City with a handsome man I hardly knew.

First some background about Him. We met at a large birthday bash thrown by a few of my Scorpio friends in a swanky little and I do mean little LA club. A friend of a friend (one of the party givers) introduced us by casually throwing out the line that he had just flown in from Germany for the party. A slight exaggeration—he had actually flown in from Denver where he was visiting a childhood friend, having previously flown in from Germany where he lives. Where he’s always lived. You see, The German (as he will now be called) has a black American father and a white German mother and lives just outside of Berlin. Picture Boris Kodjoe, bald head and all, only a little less pretty. That is not a knock against pretty boys, I’ve dated my fair share and they were perfectly lovely, just call me old-fashioned, but sometimes I like to be the pretty one in the relationship.

The German is tall. Probably the tallest dude in the place. Not very hard to do in LA. For someone reason dudes run short in LA (The Lakers and Clippers aside). You would think with all that sunshine men would grow tall like weeds, but instead they tend to top out at about 5’9. I’m 5’8 in my stocking feet, so I’m speaking from experience here not just conjecture. This is not a knock against short men, I’ve dated my fair share and they have been nothing but lovely to me, just call me old-fashioned but every now and then I like to rest my head on a man’s chest when we slow dance instead of the other way around.

The “Moulin Rouge” theme for the party meant everyone had to be styling. I was forced to rock a repeat look (it’s a recession don’t you know, the days of buying a new outfit for every occasion are over)–a black off the shoulder mini dress, a true winner, but a repeat nonetheless. As for The German, well he was rocking a slim fitting black Prada suit, black shirt and a funky white with black stripes tie. Hot!

Our initial introduction was brief. The party was just getting started and I had plenty of people I needed to hug and air kiss. However since he was so damn tall (6’5 did I forget to mention) he kept catching my eyeline. After awhile it dawned on me I was playing this all wrong. Why was I spending time with folks I already knew, folks I could see at any time instead getting to know The well dressed, oh-so tall German? Now I know people have varying opinions on this, a woman approaching a man versus the other way around, but I looked at it this way; he was stranger amongst a room full of my friends, not to mention a foreigner in my hometown. The least I could do was go over and make sure he felt welcomed. And so that’s what I did.

Him and his half German/Half Turkish friend were posted at the bar, I sauntered over and offered up, “So, how are the Germans finding my little quaint city?” It wasn’t the best line but it didn’t have to be, I’d already made my move. His boy answered that they were indeed having a great time. Him just smiled and asked, “What are you drinking?” I never left his side for the remainder of the night. Over the course of the next few hours, I learned that him speaks three languages fluently, German, English, and Spanish and two conversationally, Italian and French. If that wasn’t sexy enough, then there’s his stomach.

Okay as I said, I knew a lot of people at this party, some by name, some just by face. So there The German and I were still planted at the bar and up strolls this Creole looking dude I kind of recognize. I smile at him, it seemed like the polite thing to do, WRONG. Kid Creole has decided that my smile was an invitation for him to make his move. Now, even if I had been standing at the bar alone, which I wasn’t, it was pretty ballsy of him to assume that my smile was anything more than a cordial gesture. This is the same kind of guy who if I didn’t smile a hello would no sooner turn to his boy and call me a stuck up LA bitch. You know the type.

Anyway, on my right, I’m flanked by a guy I’m desperate to talk to and on my left, is a guy I can’t for the life of me shake. Kid Creole has made it his mission to engage me in conversation, trying to place where we know each other from. I’m doing my best not to be rude to either guy, so I casually place my hand on Him’s stomach, letting him know that even though I was talking to Kid Creole (as curtly as possible), my energy was completely with Him. Well, no sooner than my hand landed on his mid-section, my mouth went dry. Him had a six-pack. A genuine, Shemar Moore, bounce a quarter off that m’fer six pack. I can’t tell you the last time I dated a guy with a six pack, college maybe? I’ve dated skinny guys without the hint of any muscle, and I’ve dated heavy-set guys without the memory of any muscle (Kid Creole would fall into this category though I have never dated him nor will I), all of them were perfectly lovely but a six pack, well call me old fashioned but that is just something extra special.

Apparently, my touching his stomach meant something extra special to him too. According to him Germans aren’t really a touchy feely people, so my innocent gesture left a lasting impression.

This being LA, the night came to end all too soon with the usual 1:30 last call. The German informed me that he had an early flight in the morning back to Denver that couldn’t be changed. He then offered that if I was game, he’d fly me to Denver and we could spend a few days together before he flew back to Germany. Game on.

Tamara T. Gregory is a writer/producer/traveler. Happily single (yes, there really is such a thing), she is an expert on the dating game. Her debut novel, Passport Diaries, is an LA Times bestseller and is soon to become a Hollywood motion picture. The book is available at www.passportdiaries.com. Gregory’s X…WHY blog is exclusive to Urban Thought Collective.