Junkfood Sexlife. Jessamyn Violet

second date. But it was too late to shift plans. He didn’t feel like making excuses. He polished off his third beer and belched loudly. In the mirror he saw a guy who looked like he was holding his face in an expression that didn’t quite fit.

      He never knew what the fuck to do about that.

      After grabbing his “professor” jacket, he was out the door and walking the three minute walk to Abbot Kinney.

      Nebraska was waiting on the corner, gazing into her phone like everyone else who refused to just observe the world around them for a minute while they waited. Great. He hadn’t even met her yet and already he could write her off. He pondered turning around.

      She looked up and their eyes caught at that moment.

      No matter how many people Philip met, he still got a satisfaction out of reading people’s eyes. He felt it was a sort of Braille, as contrary as that was to say— a reading with a different sense, one that went far beyond the 3-dimensions of sight. But he knew not everyone operated like that. Not everyone read people as deeply or quickly as Philip did. That was why he had trouble staying interested. He’d speed-read people, front to back, and be ready to move on to the next, searching for a real challenge, a twist in a plotline he could never have seen coming.

      Sometimes, Philip considered himself a borderline sociopath. But he figured his awareness of it made it equally as likely that he wasn’t, if that made sense.

      Which he wasn’t sure it did.

      Regardless, he’d never put himself in a therapist’s office to get a second opinion.

      Nebraska seemed happy to find “Gio” better-looking than his dark and somewhat obscure profile pictures. He pictured himself through her eyes at that moment: Tall, slim, with gelled, silver-blond hair, wearing a dark blue sweater and creased dark gray pants. A successful, well-put-together, handsome career man. Philip was also happy to find Nebraska as self-advertised: A slim slice of sweet prettiness-with-an-edge. Her eyes weren’t all cyborg. A part of her was, in fact, very human, bright and warm and present in the moment.

      “Gio?”

      “Nebraska. Hello.”

      She smiled and put away her phone in her cow-print shoulder bag. “My name’s not actually Nebraska. I just use that for my profile. I’m Cassandra.”

      “I understand,” Philip said. “Good to keep that initial degree of distance. Shall we have ourselves a drink?”

      Ten minutes later, they were seated side-by-side in the back of the bar. Cassandra seemed very comfortable in her own skin. Philip was having a hard time being able to tell what her issues were right off the bat. None of the obvious insecurities upfront. And she looked familiar. Very familiar. He hated that about Los Angeles. If someone looked familiar, one never knew if it was because they were famous to some degree, or they’d met them before, or if the person was going to be famous soon. It all translated the same way.

      Much to Philip’s surprise and delight, Cassandra ordered beer. There was nothing more intriguing to him than someone unpredictable. He’d had her pegged for a rosé kind of woman. Or maybe he just had them all pegged as that.

      “So, Gio, what did you do today?”

      He settled back and composed his “at ease” face.

      “I saw eight clients.”

      “Wow, you must be exhausted!”

      “Well, in the beginning it was exhausting, but by now I’m pretty used to it. Our job as therapists is to have a detached attitude towards taking on emotional conflict so that we can be as effective as we can be efficient. And after my workdays I go for a long cycle. It really helps.”

      Cassandra’s face twisted up.

      “Wait… so, you’re, like, a psychological cyclist… or a cycling psychologist?”

      He almost snorted his drink up. “A psychological cyclist. That’s rich.”

      They laughed about that for a minute. Philip couldn’t remember the last date who’d made him laugh like that.

      “Damn,” he said when they’d calmed down a bit. “How am I not going to think about that on my rides now?”

      Cassandra grinned and pushed her dark hair away from her eyes. “Sorry! I think in catchy song lyrics.”

      “That must be annoying,” he teased. “Why do you think like that?”

      “Quit analyzing me!” she said immediately. He was stunned and then felt an immediate rise of anger when she again collapsed into laughter. “Kidding! Bad joke. Oh, I didn’t think you’d take it that seriously. I’m sorry.”

      “Some sour previous experiences with that accusation,” he mumbled, feeling sheepish and exposed.

      “Obviously,” Cassandra said. She rested a light hand over his for a moment. He pulled away, hating that he’d lost his composure. Philip made a mental note that dating younger did not always mean he would necessarily be in control. This woman seemed to have a peculiar humor that unnerved him.

      He suddenly craved a cigarette.

      “I messed up,” she continued.

      “It’s alright. So, let’s move on. What did you do today?”

      “I’d love to tell you what I did today. I managed the rental rooms in my house – the usual, making sure the place is clean, the renters are happy, all has been communicated, etcetera. Then I went to yoga. Then I wrote a song. Then I came to meet you.”

      “Sounds like a pretty good day,” Philip said, struggling for back-to-normal.

      “I can’t complain,” Cassandra said. “I owe it all to my father, he left me his gorgeous house on the canals. And thanks to Rentaroom, the place funds itself as well as my bank account. It’s basically my own motel. I should start calling it ‘Cassie’s Corner’ or something.”

      “You could probably think of something a little catchier than that,” Philip said, attempting playful.

      She just nodded. “The name hasn’t come yet. It’s like naming a band, it’s no big deal and yet it’s somehow everything.”

      “I get it,” Philip said, though he really didn’t. The only thing he’d had to name in his lifetime was his practice, which, surprise surprise, was Dr. Philip K Parker, PhD, Psychotherapist.

      Cassandra Panda::

      It wasn’t exactly a dud of a first date but she wasn’t sure she was that into Gio. He had a general air of mystery and misery and solemnity, which normally would be a turn-off, but he was uniquely good looking and so far had more of a sense of humor than she’d expected at first glance. It seemed as if she was lifting his spirits, but that wasn’t news. She was always the one fighting for good moods to prevail, and she was pretty tired of it, to be honest.

      Where were all the lighthearted guys at?

      She usually dated younger for that reason.

      They went outside for a smoke. Gio stood close to Cassandra and she wondered if what she felt was sexual tension or if he was just intruding on her personal space.

      “So, Gio, when’s the last time you fell in love?”

      This question, like most of her conversational moves so far, seemed to throw him off. He didn’t act like he was used to being on a date with a woman with a personality. He probably only dated bobble heads. She watched him step a little further away, retreating somewhere deep in his head. Then he shook it off and went back to pretending to be nonchalant.

      Cassandra thought it was pretty crazy that he seemed to have no idea how transparent he was.

      “It’s been a while,” he said. “Probably close to twelve years ago. I was married, actually. I had