Alone in the shop, Greg attended to matters. Yesterday, while watching a comedy DVD, some of the characters suggested a guy "clean the pipes" before a date, and pleasure himself. Greg figured it was ample advice, considering how worked up he had gotten just kissing her. It did not take long. He just thought of those glacial eyes of hers, wondered what color panties she would wear tonight, would there be a matching bra? Any bra at all? Then, he was spent. He showered thoroughly, washing off the sweat of labor, and masturbatory efforts. Greg took special time lathering up his pits, and letting them soak a bit in an effort to ward of any inkling of body odor.
    He shaved, then after-shaved.  Greg did not own an iron, so he threw his black shirt and pants into the dryer. They were sufficiently wrinkle free when they emerged from the hot tumble. Greg wore the same outfit he met Ben at the lunch meeting in. It was still the newest set of clothes  he had. If he planned on getting back on the dating scene, that would quickly have to change. Clothes were important to women. It held more sway than words during first impressions with chicks, and continued well after that. Greg didn't honestly care how he looked most of the time, but that was most likely a lingering symptom of his low self esteem from days past.
    He cracked the cologne and misted it on himself. He debated, then opted to leave the deodorant behind. It would be problematic to take it with him. What if it fell out of his pocket when they sat down? This happened often with his wallet when Greg wore khaki pants. He was getting nervous now. Why was he stuck on the stupid, minute details now? Just relax, he told himself. She's just as excited. Has to be. Remember her eager lips. Oh he remembered, with utmost clarity.
    The Toyota made him feel a little regal as he finally pulled out. It boosted his confidence enough for him to stop by the flower shop and pick her up a small assortment bouquet. While there, he caught site of a rack of condoms. This was synergy marketing at its best, Greg thought. Love, flowers and fucking. It was a flowing circle that proved very lucrative. Greg picked up a package of french ticklers. It was better to have them and not need them, than to need them and not have them.
    Once in the car, Greg ripped a single condom from the accordion-like serrated edge of the bundled rubbers. He recalled Donny's words: she was practically begging for it. If that were the case, Greg grew unsure of his endurance. Even with Greg's pre-date jerk-off, he certainly wouldn't last long once inside that wet pocket of flesh. Greg figured the french ticklers were the best chance he had at offering at least some fleeting pleasure as he struggled to maintain his load.
    But maybe he was overthinking it. She seemed like a pretty classy gal. A couple dates may be mandatory to get into her pants. But then again, there was the ever-present fact of Greg's heroics to consider.
    Greg shook his head. Too much thinking. Women were more spontaneous, run by emotions rather than logic. Let the night flow as it will. There would be time enough to make choices. Let the fun and enjoyment unfold naturally.
    The traffic was growing dense around downtown. It would be a busy night from the looks of it. Rebecca's house was atop the crest of a winding hill. There was a large weeping willow tree in her front yard. The sweeping leaves billowed in the soft spring night wind. Greg felt the willows brush his shoulder like reassuring pats to the back.
    A plain wooden fence lined the walkway dividing the neighbors to his left. The moon was out, bathing everything in an eerily incandescent glow. Moon rays glinted between the boards of the fence, casting his faint shadow on the ground before him. Greg took in a breath of still cool air. At that moment, he was blissfully happy. Things had reached a platuea. If he played his cards right, he could keep this thing going with her. today would be the first of hopefully many days. Greg found his realistic, cynical side trying to pluck him down from his dazed height, but trying failed. He would let pure optimism win out.
    Rebecca took fastidious care of her lawn. Small stone statues lined the corners of her yard. There was a fishing boy, A girl with a flower, a large frog, and a Dragonfly standing vertically, with it's head forming the base on the lawn. The carved wings of the dragonfly cleverly helped to support the statue, and prevent it from tipping over. At each corner, was a different type of flower, a separate color for them all. Everything looked cared for, and expensive.
    Somehow, women could make things look beyond presentable,  carefully crafted and gorgeous. The woman's touch. Greg could feel that touch again, like a paralyzation slowly regaining feeling. Julie and rebecca's names were inscribed on rounded rocks near the front porch. Greg had seen this technique done before. They sandblasted the names in, and dyed it somehow to show up black. it was all done with computers, to Greg's understanding. Greg paused. There was a gap in between the two girls rocks. A dark impression lay there, where no gravel was surrounding it. This was the ex-husbands rock, gone now
    Greg stood and looked at that spot for several seconds. You had your chance dude, Greg thinks to himself, now I'm stepping up to take over. Hope I never meet you, asshole.
    Greg climbs her short concrete steps and rings the doorbell.

Part 41: http://www.ebaumsworld.com/user/blog/artman4444/view=82370937