Officer Valeria didn't beat around the bush. And even if the bush had to be beat, there'd be absolutely no tiptoeing or nudging around it. I reckoned she might as well use an ax or a bat. She got straight to the point.
Was that common among the girls in this universe, or just a personality flaw she had?
My body was leaning casually forward, not quite surprised, but definitely fascinated by what ticked this woman to make such a weird and indelicate offer, right under the open sky and the prying eyes of dozens of female consumers.
It wasn't like some homeless guy sitting there in the middle of a street begging for pocket change, so yeah. I felt a smidgen of curiosity.
Her straightforwardness could have come from either ignorance, extreme sexual frustration, or both. The investigative side of me was quaking with excitement.
"You could put it a little less crudely." I advised, since what else was I supposed to say to a question like this. "Besides, I'd like to get to know someone better before I fucked them."
I smiled pleasantly, eyes crinkled.
And, in a way, it was quite refreshing and thrilling talking to a woman, a police officer no less, like I was talking to one of my bros or any normal person from my old world. Just say whatever I'd usually say. No dancing around the subject with stupid, useless and mind-numbingly polite talk.
A blush exploded across her cheeks.
Officers weren't supposed to flush like this, especially while drinking coffee on duty. But then again, I supposed most officers wouldn't make such an inappropriate offer to a stranger.
"Sorry." Valeria stammered, suddenly looking anywhere but at me. The café's ceiling, the window, the wall. I expected her eyes to land anywhere on me at some point, but she was incredibly stubborn in her efforts to avert her gaze. "That was... forward. Inappropriate. I don't know what came over me, God. I'm so sorry, so, so sorry—"
"It's... intriguing, I'd say." I shrugged it off, deciding that the blunt truth wouldn't make for the best ice breaker in the world, but perhaps the most interesting. "Why would a decorated officer like yourself ask a question like that? Aren't there some laws in place you're breaking here?"
I wouldn't know; I hadn't delved deep into this universe's legal system and all its finer intricacies. And I figured a well-learned officer would know a loophole or two.
Her eyes darted to mine, then away again. "I was..." She coughed, embarrassed, absolutely mortified. It looked genuine enough that I could easily tell she was beating herself up inside. "Testing you."
"Testing me?" I raised an eyebrow, tilting my head. "For what? With a booty call, of all things?"
That got a small, genuine smile from her. She relaxed a little, fiddling with her cute cap for a moment. "No. It's just..." Valeria struggled to find the words, not looking entirely convinced, but quite enough to speak up. "You're different."
Different. Yes, I knew I was. Different wasn't a word. Different was an abstract concept. How could I even respond to this, anyway, besides, a predictable but still mildly intriguing. "Oh, really, different how?"
She looked reluctant to delve deeper into the details.
The coffee arrived, delivered by a shaky-handed waitress who nearly dropped both cups before scurrying away like a frightened mouse.
As she disappeared, Valeria watched her with what I assumed was mild sympathy before returning to me.
I let silence spread and encouraged her to explain this idea further. Valeria wasn't a natural story-teller, not with all of those first-time jitters robbing her of basic speech—she must've been still reeling from her earlier slip-up.
It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I tried to convey to her that I understood and wouldn't condemn her for it, when the truth was that I, as a bona fide male, couldn't possibly hate a woman for such boldness.
In my world, I'd blow out the candles wishing for just that.
Valeria was cautious as she answered. "... not like... how the others act... more... calm, open..." Valeria couldn't find the right words, and that made her search and struggle through a number of other options. She sighed deeply before admitting defeat, and made a broad gesture in my direction. "... you don't look and act like I imagine a man would."
"You said it yourself, you don't have any experience, so what do you know about how a man's supposed to be?" I ventured, sipping on the coffee. It was alright, just another bean and ground beverage.
"It's just how everyone else I know who's met and talked to a male told me. Those males always act... either standoffish, and indifferent, or aggressively uncaring… they act like they're doing you a favor by existing in the same room. You're not… guarded. Or fragile. Or pretending to be interested."
It was surprising how she got going once she started. There was a lot of emotional baggage to unpack here.
I nodded as if that made sense. She may have expected some form of deep inquiry into that statement, or some opinion about her observations, but instead received nothing.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to disparage you or anything. I really didn't, okay?" She followed up when the silence became too long, nervousness edging on the corner of her voice. "And... I didn't really mean it when I said I wanted to fuck—"
"Don't." I held a hand, then a finger in front of her face. I guess one of the few ways I could reassure her of something would be with actions. "There's no need for you to explain yourself. That wasn't an insult. As far as I'm concerned, your comment didn't damage my fragile little ego."
She relaxed a fraction at my smile but didn't seem convinced.
I glanced up from my drink. She was peering at me nervously, staring from a corner of her eye, her features composed and carefully schooled. She sat and waited, shifting her weight slightly. She must've thought I'd refuse the conversation, maybe even her company, and storm out like some irrational and obnoxious male.
I almost snorted. What did the males from her circle normally do whenever a female asked to fuck? I guess she'd learn from experience or second-hand experience that 'a man's wrath' was something to be feared.
Or the law, in this case, considering how favorable they were towards men.
I scavenged for that last swig of caffeine at the bottom of the cup and licked my lips.
Her eyes weren't looking at my own at that moment.
I looked at her with a face full of polite neutrality.
"Was that it?"
She did a double-take, realizing I wasn't about to go all berserk or start making a scene out of it. "I... suppose?" She mouthed the words with little force.
She stared at me for a moment, as if testing the limits of this sudden change of perspective, and when she met nothing more than a reserved, benign smile, I swear, there were faint twinkles in those eyes of hers, looking, quite frankly, utterly spellbound.
We continued to talk, then. A few new rounds and the conversation slowly turned comfortable. We shared things about ourselves—I had nothing to share, obviously. Unexpected memory loss here, and I certainly couldn't talk about my old world and its society's peculiarities.
So, instead, I was a good listener. I asked her to talk about herself. How had she been doing before getting her big job as a police officer? Where had she come from before?
Valeria's shoulders began to slump, then relax. She seemed more comfortable with each passing second. Her story wasn't particularly interesting; she was from a small town a few hundred miles from the city, had always been the rebellious sort, and had moved to the city for a job.
I nodded to each little anecdote, each small recollection she offered, making her feel more at ease. I didn't stray my gaze for an instant, sincerely interested to know how she went on through a life where men were scarce, where women were more competitive as a result. For her. For all of them.
And in turn, Valeria spoke with more enthusiasm than she began. Even when she must have felt this entire story sounded quite mundane. She went on. And after some time, we fell into a rather comfortable pattern of talking about ourselves and making casual conversation.
It didn't take long after that to establish that yes, this was pleasant.
With a first impromptu 'break' like this, and her 'admission' that the whole, 'I want to fuck you thing' was just a way to gauge how the rare, extremely rare, different, male responded to such statements and suggestive behavior... Valeria went on.
I had the privilege of seeing many different shades and expressions from her.
She tried and tried again, trying to get reactions from me, testing if this whole amiable atmosphere, and easygoing, non-defensive stance was nothing more than a performance put on to impress her, as if I wanted to seem like a 'nice' male that would only offer platitudes or sympathy and be disgusted by overt sexual advancements.
Her patience and curiosity gradually turned into awe as she came to realize there really was nothing in my reactions to reveal anything other than utter and uncompromising nonchalance, and a steady desire to listen, and for the woman to share and speak.
So, this, for Valeria, was an unfamiliar, very unfamiliar territory indeed.
By the time she finished speaking, she was leaning forward like I was, idly twirling her hair like spaghetti, and with the most pleased smile that face had ever been granted with.
"Oh, I've been talking about myself all this time..." Valeria's austere countenance had lightened considerably. It was incredible how a severe hairstyle and a police uniform could transform such an expression, and change one's whole appearance. "Ahem, tell me something about you, Damien. Please. Whatever you're comfortable with."
"Me?" I said, taking a small bite from my éclair. "My life's much less interesting. I'm nineteen. I live in a house with a bunch of women. You know the rest."
Her lips parted. "But you must have a hobby. Something you enjoy? Something you... like to do? Even if it's not work?"
A hobby. I almost laughed. The old Alex's hobbies had been steadily collecting the scars of a nine-to-five misery and heating up packaged food without a single burnt bite.
What would Damien's hobbies be? My research pointed towards things like contemplative poetry, watercolor painting of single, isolated flowers, stamp collecting or something equally lame.
All safe, non-threatening, and intensely solitary pursuits.
Time to throw another wrench in the works.
"Alright. You know what I'd really like to do? I'd like to start a fight club. Right here in the city."
Valeria's perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "A... fight club?"
"Yes." I nodded, warming to my ridiculous premise. Hey, it was actually not that ridiculous. It'd rebuild some of the lost testosterone my unfortunate gender has been lacking in this reality. "But not just any fight club. A fight club exclusively for men. We'd meet in secret, knock each other's teeth out in a ring made of mattress frames, and then go home with black eyes and split lips and feel alive for the first time in our lives."
She stared at me, her lips slightly parted, utterly dumbfounded.
The concept of men engaging in recreational violence was so alien to her that she was having trouble processing the sentence itself.
"You're... joking." She finally managed, though her tone was one of questioning, not certainty.
I let a slow, deliberate smirk spread across my lips. "Am I? Well, think about it. Shirtless men grappling with each other in a basement, slick with sweat. If you charged an entry fee or something, you'd make a lot of money."
She blinked, and I saw a faint, almost imperceptible flush creep up her neck at the image I'd so crudely painted. Her mind was trying to reconcile the absurdity of the idea with the undeniably... compelling visual I'd just provided.
"That's..." She stammered, searching for a word, any word, to categorize this. "That's illegal. Immoral. You could get... hurt."
"Getting hurt is the whole point, Valeria." I leaned forward. "A controlled environment where men can get hurt without it being a national tragedy. Ah, don't make that face. I'm just spitballing. My actual hobby is more mundane. I like to sing."
"S-sing?" The relief was palpable. A safe, acceptable, artistic hobby. The world was back on its axis. "That's wonderful, Damien. What do you like to sing?"
"The most offensive, misogynistic, hard rock and metal I can find." I took the last bite of the éclair; it had outlived Valeria's one, at least. "Stuff about objectifying women, breaking hearts, and general male aggression. I find it... cathartic. I scream it at the top of my lungs in my room."
The coffee cup in her hand rattled against the saucer. She stared at me as if I'd just admitted to practicing ritual sacrifice in my spare time.
This was not Damien Winters. The real Damien would be practicing the flute and writing sonnets about dewdrops on spiderwebs.
"You... you do what?" Her voice barely there.
"I also want to learn to ride a motorcycle. A big, loud, obnoxious one." I continued, piling on the heresies. "And I was thinking of getting a job. Something manual. Maybe construction."
Valeria went pale.
"Damien..." She said, her voice laced with genuine horror. "You can't... you can't say things like that. Not out loud. Not in public." Her eyes darted around the café, as if the secret police were about to burst through the windows and drag me away for re-education. "What is wrong with you?"
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