Talked to a Woman at Brunetti’s Cafe

It’s a Monday and I’m unemployed. It’s labour-day too. So it’s a public holiday. I was indoors all day getting things done, mostly studying. Doing labour of sorts. Waiting to go out to the language exchange at night time. That would be my first human interaction all day.

I dressed well in a light blue button-up shirt and dress shoes. I did a good calisthenics workout. No longer am I progressing towards a handstand or an L-sit, now I am progressing my handstand and L-sit. As in, now I can do them. That’s pretty special but when it’s a private achievement sometimes you don’t get any congratulations, even oneself can forget to feel happy about it after months of effort.

I took my scooter to McDonalds for a 10-pack of nuggets and garden salad. It’s $11 and it fills me up like a normal meal, but it’s low in complex carbs I think.

Then I went into the city to go to the language exchange. From McDonalds Fitzroy to El Coco, by way of Collins street. The place was closed though because it’s a public holiday. I drove back a bit crestfallen because I was looking forward to socialising and it’s been all day since I talked to anyone. I remembered that I still had to go shopping today.

Outside my local supermarket, there is an arcade, on Lygon street. It’s got this very popular cafe and cake shop called Brunetti’s. I decided to sit down there because the buzz of the place would probably be good for my soul. The energy of other people alleviating the depression that results from its absence.

I walked in. Conscious of my confidence. I’ve been shamelessly direct messaging people all day to join my social groups, on Meetup and Facebook. Well I don’t think I should feel ashamed actually because it’s the right thing to do; for myself and my path. Shame is why a lot of people wouldn’t do that though. A little meme unconsciously shared by society and its purpose is make people feel ashamed and therefore avoid that behaviour. And it does work very well on most people. People who tell themselves they are in control of their lives.

I think that’s why I felt so confident. Because I’ve been putting myself out there all day. Playing a numbers game first and foremost. There’s no anxiety about it. Except occasionally when you see a guy’s profile and he has a square jaw. Or it’s one of the admins and they might kick you out for poaching members. I’ve only ever once in my life received a solicitation on Facebook so I guess not many people do it.

The clothes help me feel confident as well; women treat me like I’m valuable when I dress shoes and that makes me feel confident. What other measures are there for how confident one should feel, aside from one’s own opinion? And can that really be called on as evidence or justification? It almost takes a whole lifestyle to preserve one’s self-esteem and confidence against the gradient of society’s evaluation of you.

The cafe was long, eclectic and sparkling. At its centre was a large circular counter with a half a dozen staff members working busily. Dressed in white shirts, lower-body aprons and the way I remember it red bow-ties. Within the circular counter at a higher level is a circular platform with two or more coffee machines. The owner’s first choice in models I’m sure. Four more people work on this platform. Surrounded by customers waiting for their coffees from all angles, it’s the type of setting that is unforgiving to introverts.

There is a single cash register at an arbitrary point on the circular counter. I joined a mish-mash of people who weren’t lined up so much as they were all just standing as close as possible to the cash register.

One of the half-dozen staff members engaged the group, holding eye contact with me mostly. “You can come to this other register” she said. She was a young lady with cream-coloured skin, a largish, perfectly spherical head and sweet, sparkling eyes.

I felt bad when I approached the register because even though she had sort of validated me I felt more attracted to the other girl who was standing next to her. Morally I selected the first one at least.

She took my order and everything was straightforward. A soy, deaf latte. No issues there. $5.50, a bit expensive maybe. Then I handed her $50 though, and she looked at my hand as though it were grotesque. I do not miss the days when I mostly used cash. There’s much less hand-anxiety when you just hover your phone or card over the eftpos machine. No revolted looks making you feel recoiled.

I wish it were more common to have small hands or fingers or fingernails or whatever it is most unappealing about my hands. Common enough that people could learn that it actually hurts the person’s feelings if you look at them in revultion. We don’t deserve to be derided for it. As if it means we’re not hardworking, aren’t handy or don’t want to grow up or anything like that. Although that actually does describe me quite well.

How much do peoples’ ideas of what you are and what you should feel dictate your subjective reality? Do I not want to grow up and start a family partly because people treat me like a man-child because of my childish hands? Or maybe it’s because that would require me to tacitly resign to being a second-class male. I have all too much knowledge that some guys fuck a lot of girls and some guys only get to fuck a girl after commiting to provide for her. That’s a big can of worms I won’t open here.

I waited between the second entrance and the large, circular counter. I was perched just behind the circular layer that most people were arranged in, waiting for their beverages. Everyone was where I could see them. If anything untoward happened I would be aware of it.  It never does though, not when everyone is yoked together in my mind. Religio.

I grew self-conscious of seeming like a would-be puppeteer or high-level organisational thinker. Ivory tower. Charioteer. I elected to step into the fray. I felt confident. It’s a different part of the mind though. You’re one of the moving parts rather than the lynchpin, the origin. Who knows what’s going on in other parts. That’s why I hate it when you work a job at a company to earn money but you’re not the CEO or the founder so you have to just stay in this little role, and the machine just pumps, prods and roars around you. You can get critiqued or removed like a bit of machinery too.

A little lady with silver-blonde hair pressed roundly to her head was to my side. My mother’s age or thereabouts. Something about her presence there and how I was aware of her made me feel she was aware of me. I looked over at her cocked and ready to devalidate her. I looked at her and I could tell she was smart, smarter than me probably. She was thinking something about me despite me thinking something of her. I felt she was alright after all. Lately, I’ve learned that with women you best not think logically, you have to be present with your emotions, because otherwise they test you and mess with your emotions emotionally and irrationally. And there’s no apparent reason why but they piss you off and get under your skin. So the only way it makes sense is if you’re paying attention to your emotions to begin with. Not good for philosophy or technological advancement.

I could feel that although I didn’t validate her sexually, I did validate her existence somehow by checking into my emotions and not pulling away. The emotions weren’t so bad. I could feel her heart swell with gratitude. Before you call me nice, know that I wasn’t intending to look out for her (don’t worry I would never do that), it’s just how my alpha self was feeling.

I sat down outside the cafe at a round concrete table, within the arcade still. A large male waiter came to remove just one or two of the multitude of objects on the table so I was stuck with a cluttered table most of the time I was there. I settled in, feeling soothed by the presence of other people. Also frustrated though. It felt like everyone there had been spending too much time with others and they were all pissed off in general. It’s like this pressure was built up and egos were jostling against each other. I hadn’t had any sense of that all day so it was a new flavour in my palette. Status. Anxiety.

There were three women at a table nearby. I only saw one of them because the back of the second one’s head was blocking the third one. The first one was wearing green and although she was good-looking she was also at that age where panic begins to set in. No turning back. She looked like a socialite, to be sure. Someone completely wrapped up in preserving and enhancing status by way of a group. Gossiping. The social truth is absolute and by playing this game hard I fear you not. I have money, membership and am made-up, so I am more dominant than you although most women my age may not be.

She needs a big cock in her arse. By a writer who cares little about such matters as social impropriety. And who meditates so cares not of her ego. She’d probably feint by its proximity. Throbbing with a different energy than she finds agreeable. And it would be in a cabin in the woods as well and she was too confused to possibly make it back to society through the wilderness. She’d like it after a few moments though. We’d do a few different positions like that and then I’d cumshot her. That’s how it usually goes I’m pretty sure.

Little did she know though that I was something of a socialite myself. I happen to manage a social group on two different platforms (Facebook and Meetup). Each have over 200 members. Importantly, I had hope of having a thousand or ten thousand members. Her complexion turned to lemon juice. That swift feeling when you out-socialise extroverts but don’t even give a fuck about such matters. Just cruising by. Nothing of value here: threatening, opportunistic or otherwise. A king need not countenance every peasant as he moves through the world.

To my other side there was a woman sitting there alone. She looked like she was wearing pyjamas and her hair was tied back and not been washed in some time. I didn’t think much of it. Late 30’s, maybe greek or something. I don’t remember my thought process but I felt like I might say something to her. It’s a funny feeling when that happens. I was probably staring into the middle distance as people walked past. It’s accompanied by a feeling of weakness, as if you don’t know what the fuck to do or say. And there’s approach anxiety.

I felt myself sort of shake myself out of it. Then I felt Mrs Socialite at the next table ascent of my candour. I had done the right thing by choosing to opt out. The Australian thing. The socially acceptable thing. It’s a curious thing to get respect about. I feel like if I saw a guy wuss out of approaching a girl he was thinking of talking to I would automatically nod approval at him warmly. Why? To perpetuate this big game of ring-around-the-rosy we’re all playing?

Something I’ve thought about lately is surfing-the-urge. Or rather, suring the anxiety. In that situation, in real-time, I decided to try and isolate the exact feeling that was stopping me from talking to her. After a few seconds I found it. Then my inhibition melted away and I talked to her. I said “are you waiting for someone”. She said “no”. Then I remembered to apply my laser-like, steady eye-contact. So she would feel the right thing from me. She femininely smiled when I did. Then I think I felt nervous about being rejected and did some pointing over-and-down gesture. I asked her “are you ordering anything?”. Actually she wasn’t she was just sitting there waiting for the movie.

She got up and left quickly after that second sentence. Why do I always feel like it’s inevitable. And why does it always happen with Australian women. I refuse to accept this limitation. I murmured “I was just being friendly” as she left. I felt this phobic feeling from people around, like I was oil and they were water. Particularly the socialite woman. She started covering her body a lot after that.

It really wasn’t so bad though. It was a good opportunity. I checked in to my emotions. And it wasn’t so intense. If anything I felt like she was really quite rude to just get up and leave like that. Then I went a step further and went in my wise-mind by thinking what I thought about it: I have the right to talk to people and I was just being friendly. Any suggestion that I was in the wrong was out of order. I felt actually pretty good. I even forgot about it and continued drinking my coffee.

After a while, I realised that I hadn’t felt any craziness or testing from the woman in the green top in a while. So I shortly glanced over at her to try and communicate to her “well done” by my intention. She was frozen, with her arm across her body up to her cheek. A couple soon sat down at the table next to me. I finished my coffee and went to get a glass of water. The same two women were at the register. When I was about 10 metres away walking towards them the one with the spherical head just shook her head with an “eww no” look on her face. I don’t know why exactly. Probably something about value and emotions, not something reasonable. Reason was developed by men in ancient greece and it’s taking a hiding recently.

I asked the other one for a glass of water. She handed it to me. I felt like our rapport was in the red since her facial expression towards my hands. She gave it to me and seemed to think “why’s he cold towards me, oh was I supposed to react differently to his hands?”. I didn’t feel devalidated by this one. Why is it the attractive ones validate you the most? Is it real though or just that they feel secure?  What is my value? Not much apparently. I have so much going for me though, what about all that? Doesn’t matter apparently unless some high-value girl deigns to accept me for my flaws. Why would she do that? Because of how she feels and because oh yeah men can have non-visual based cues of attractiveness. That’s all a bit abstract though and in the here and now I ought to feel horrid about myself and unworthy.

As I did my grocery shopping I began to miss being a hermit. I had just approached a woman and when that happens women often seem to be more approachable to me. As if they “feel” something towards me. What I felt though is a bit treated like crap because the girl just got up and left after 10 seconds of me talking to her at a cafe. So is the game to do the things, get treated like irrational shit and then do the things again when you don’t feel like it anymore and you’ve just been told it’s not ok, and that’s when that thing that you originally believed but got harshly rejected for is validated and then if you get a result the whole thing is socially acceptable? I’m eternally encouraged by the fact that I cannot seem to meet women on Tinder.

Sitting down writing this now I am not sure that this format has helped my game. However, I do believe it is a good story. I feel a bit offended as if someone just yelled at me in front of everyone. That was an excellent experience of conquering approach anxiety though. And it was an excellent experience of talking to someone at a cafe; they don’t get much more crowded than that. It was good because I said more than just “hello” and actually got a response out of them rather than just them backing away silently or blowing past. It was good because I used good eye contact and that was effective. It was good because I sat with the reaction, felt the emotions rather than letting them control me via unconscious undercurrent. I feel like that experience was somehow an object of proof that it’s ok to talk to women and even other people in society basically accept it by default if you are certain of yourself.

It would be good if I had better game. Maybe I could have opened with a story or tried to talk for a while. Perhaps if I had just spoken to her instantly rather than waiting those 10 or 15 seconds to talk myself into it. Perhaps if I wasn’t so worried about them instantly and inevitably blowing me off. It would be good to get 30 seconds even. I’ve done that before and much better actually. So why does the default seem to be the limiting, the impossible, the unworthy, the discouraging. This specifically is what I would like to transform.


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