Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating by alan mitchell Page B

long, slender brown legs strutting
toward me with purpose.  This chick had a bad-ass walk on her like a Parisian street whore.  It was what got my attention in the first place.  She had
been hauling her gorgeous ass after a cab on 57 th St.. because she
was late for a Saks Fifth Avenue photo shoot.  I let her have the cab and
figured what the hell and asked her to go to dinner with me.  She’s a
supermodel so I was certain she didn’t eat very much; hence, we agreed to meet
at Fridays after her shoot. 
    It was a great effort to look up from her tasty-looking
twigs and into her smoldering hazel eyes. After several extended seconds of
drooling I finally did.  Presenting herself before me in a body-hugging,
strapless, fuchsia cocktail dress was Ms. September Pierre.  She was a
runway model as well and you could tell by the way she walked in the
room.  The likelihood that she was not wearing panties was high because
women who can pull off a dress like that generally don’t wear any drawers.
    She had a remarkable resemblance to Lela Rochon in
all her best roles. The fine-ass chick with the jacked up feet in “Boomerang,” the
promiscuous friend from “Waiting to Exhale,” and who could forget her in the
classic “Harlem Nights” as Sunshine? But not the “Any Given Sunday” Lela.
    I stood up and pulled out her chair for her, careful
to make sure I did all the gentlemanly little things my mother had emphasized
that women liked. I also gave her a friendly hug and a peck on the cheek.
    She was electric and I could tell every guy in the
room had his eyes on her. Even their wives couldn’t blame them for staring because
they were staring too. She was a tad bit overdressed for Fridays, but I ain’t
mad at her! She was bubbly and effervescent, which was a breath of fresh air
compared to Topeka James’s complaining ass.
    As she sat down I peeked at her perfect posterior
and my suspicions were confirmed.  No panty lines.  Not even the
triangle from the top of a thong.  I ordered her a Cosmopolitan and
another Guinness for myself.  I was hoping she would throw back two or
three more.  She was sexy and exotic like a Bengal tiger.   That’s
one cat I would like to skin.
    “You’re such a gentleman.” That wasn’t the greatest
compliment in my mind because to me it’s just a stone’s throw from the Friend
Zone. “Not many guys would have given up their cab to a woman he doesn’t know
and make himself late for work.  I was actually off today but she didn’t
need to know that.
    “No problem. It’s what I do,” I fibbed.  “And I
do know you, sort of.  You were in Vanity Fair last month. Page thirty
four.”
    “Wow! I’m impressed. You even knew the page number.”
    “Yeah, I’m an idiot savant like that.”  What an
airhead.  I Google-ed her and bought the magazine while I was waiting for
her to finish her shoot.  I was becoming a salesman through and
through.  My manager suggested I start reading the Wall Street Journal and
New York Times instead of the Post or Daily News.  For the clientele I was
dealing with you had to know the same things they knew and information was
power in our new society.  I also perused the fashion magazines so I was
able to spot high-end merchandise more accurately.  And Ms. September Pierre
was high-end merchandise.
    “I love Friday’s, although I haven’t been here in
years.” I bet she hadn’t, especially not in that Givenchy.
    “I’m glad. I could really use a friend right now. My
boyfriend doesn’t believe that men and women can be platonic, but I think he is
wrong.” She was young and dumb. Could she really be that naïve?
    “So, you’ve got a boyfriend, huh?”
    “Yes. Sort of. We are having trouble right now
because he doesn’t trust the friendships I have with my male friends,” she said
in her annoying Jackee` Harry voice.  “Some crap about trusting me, but he
doesn’t trust them.”
    “How many male friends do you have