The chemistry is undeniably present. I get the butterflies in my stomach, and you do that cute nervous-you-might-order-the-wrong-beer-in-front-of-me thing, which is adorable for the time being and will probably continue to be so for about a week or two, at which point I will expect you to have learned that a) I'm sufficiently impressed that you drink beer at all instead of frothy, bubbly girly drinks with lewd names I can never bring myself to actually say to a bartender, and b) anything that gets you drunk is okay in my book.
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Not that I'm trying to get you wasted so that I can take advantage of you. No, I'm not That Guy. Rather, I'm trying (and, I suspect, in vain) to achieve in you that state of pleasant buzzed-ness, in which inhibitions are admittedly lowered, but self-control and basic decision-making capability remains. Also, I suspect you have the faintest tinge of a drinking problem, and I'd hate to be the guy to pound the nail in the coffin. No, I'd much rather just be done with the whole dinner/drinks component, and bring you back to my place, or to your place, or, hell, public, and just fuck you absolutely silly.
Now, you and I both know that we're both two classy people. I'm less worried about the internet world considering us both to be white trash, but let me outline, among the many reasons why we should bone, the following factors:
We're both gainfully employed in rewarding jobs. While yours is a typical 9-5, and mine is a little bit off the beaten path, I think we can all agree that we're both more or less happy where we are. While I cannot speculate as to your salary, and, frankly, it's none of my damn business, I know mine, and I'm comfortable with it. Add to this the awareness that I will be in much more of a position to buy you shiny things than many other potential suitors, and I think you will find that I can be a generous, loving fuckbuddy.
We are both hot. You're hot, I can categorically state this. I'm hot, I've been told (by, among other people, you). I've always had a bit of a self-confidence problem, and so I'm not sure I entirely believe this statement, but I've received enough compliments that surely there must be something to it. Imagine how hot we'd be together, preferably naked and sweaty, and ideally fornicating.
We're both intelligent, educated people. Between the two of us, we have at least four diplomas/certificates/degrees, not to mention an active involvement in the world around us. We are not slouchers. Imagine the intensity if we applied that dedication to a day-long sex marathon.
Our senses of humor work well together. To date, you have not told a joke I have not found funny (except that one about the horse walking into a bar, and the bartender inquiring about the long face, but that was just because I'd heard it nine million times, and I think you were drawing off that fact rather than telling the joke straight up, so don't you worry about it), and you seem to respond well to my style of humor. In fact, I've already got a little one-liner saved up for the cuddling period in between our first romp and our second, significantly longer and inevitably messier, full-on session. I can't wait to bust it out. If for some reason, I was in such a hurry to penetrate you that I forgot to rip your socks off during foreplay (or if you're wearing those come-fuck-me boots, which are WAY hot, and I'd want you to leave on), this joke would rock those fuckers right off, so perfectly would it be timed and delivered.
In conclusion, the evidence seems incontrovertible that we should engage in some serious fornication ASAP. Give me a booty call. I'll bring the candles, you bring the handcuffs. Let's bone, baby.