A Conversation with Jake

“You see,” said Jake. “The thing about women is, they want you to be thinking that you’re trying to make them feel special for being unique individuals while all the while hoping that you don’t put them on some pedestal where you’re actually thinking that they are special and unique individuals.”

“So,” I said, a little confused and very drunk. “Women want me to make them feel special, but they don’t want me to actually think that they are special.”

“Exactly,” said Jake, ashing his cigarette in the purse of a young, female passerby who, obviously unaware of Jake’s actions, smiled at him. “You see, they want to know that you have options, to know that you can go out and fuck whoever you want, which, if you’re even slightly confident, you can. So, they don’t want to be put on a pedestal, as if they’re the only piece of pussy you can get. But they want it understood that you’re trying to make them feel special, even though they know they’re not special and they want to know that you know they’re not special.”

“I think my head just exploded,” I said, as we made the right onto Seventh Avenue and walked towards Ybor City. “But let me try to recap this. My girlfriend basically, wants to know that she is dating a guy who is wanted by women, perhaps even by women that she knows are better than she is, and because of this, my girlfriend knows she’s dating a guy who there is a demand for. Also, my girlfriend wants me to truly understand that she is really not special, but to treat her as if she is special, without actually telling her that I know that she’s not all that special.”

“You got it Youngblood,” said Jake, as he sat down on a bench in front of La Tropicana.

“You want some Cuban Coffee?” I asked. “It’ll sober us up.”

“What the fuck we want to be sobered up for?” asked Jake.

“Good point,” I said. “Let’s get another beer.”

“This time I ain’t drinking none of that Nazi shit.”

“Then this time, you’re buying,” I said.

“Fine,” said Jake. “I guess some of that Nazi shit ain’t too bad.”

“For the last fucking time, Heineken and Amstel are not German beers. They’re Dutch beers.”

“Yeah, well you know they all look alike to me,” he said.

“And what do they look like?”

“About two bucks too much.”

“You ain’t that funny.”

“Just keep trying to convince yourself of that, Nate. It’ll do wonders for your self-esteem.”