Ba-donk-a-donk is a Euphamism

"Are you cold?" She asked.
"Yes. My pecker is about to fall off, slink down my pant leg, and get lost in the road," I said with a set of much classier words. And she moved close to me. And she held my arm.

My set of classier words didn't in fact contain an allusion to my penis. While, in general, the terms "Little Bishop," "Ba-donk-a-donk," and "One-eyed Cowboy," appear in my list of "classy" words, I had decided to forgo my own shrunken penis as a topic of thought. A piece of advice that, despite my own inclination, I tend to heed.

Because she was touching me. Because I could feel her through my arm. Because her weight, and her warmth, moved along at my side, and I knew at that moment that no matter what my insecure, panickey, little mind told me, she wanted to be there.

You see, forever and a day, I have had a crippling logic error, causing the occasional infinite loop in my dating algorithm. I believe that physical contact has a meaning beyond "I am touching you." But it is a meaning that needs to be interpreted. Anything that must be interpreted can be misinterpreted. And through all the things my insecure, panickey little brain obsesses over, presenting myself, my thoughts, and my actions honestly, clearly, and concisely takes up the bulk of my processing power.
In other words, I try my best do do without ambiguous communication. And while this means that you won't often here a "maybe," an "I don't know," or even silence out of me, it also means that I very seldom initiate touch.
Much to the detriment of my dates.
Because, as I am learning, touch is *very* nice.

For dinner, we had italian. It was... okay. The company was better than the food.
For entertainment, we saw Ultraviolet.
A post apocalyptic dystopian action flick that was everything the preview said it would be. And nothing more. That being said, we both had a wonderful time. I laughed at children being shot, and she laughed at special effects that looked like fat cartoons. The film had enough plot holes and continuity errors to give us plenty to talk about afterwards.

Blandine, the archangel of dreams, is a university student I was introduced through a mutual friend. And that mutual friend's little sister. She's a bit younger than me, but the courts won't have anything to say about it. As integers go, she is closer to my age than The Woman in Red. The difference here is that I find her profoundly attractive, and she says things like "you're wonderful," instead of "stop talking."

We had our date, our time together, and it was wonderful. Holding her hand was enough to help me push behind the refuse of my own broken heart, and to make me feel like maybe I could trust her. That maybe, this time, I didn't need to be afraid.