As a bachelor, I had grown sick of my smitten acquaintances telling me how they met their soul mates at evening classes.
“I knew she was the one as soon as I saw her lips wrapped around that pipe at Advanced Glass Blowing,” a particularly regressed friend of mine once said. And the Jacksons never tired of telling me how magical it was when their shaking palms first touched at Alcoholics Anonymous.
As a desperate bachelor, however, I was willing to try anything, so I scanned the notice board showing the many options available in evening education. The love of my life was just a subscription to an obscure hobby away—I had just got to find the right one.
Bingo! Having watched Ghost the night before, I knew there would be nothing more romantic than Pottery for Beginners. There’s something so primal about fiddling with spinning mud that would not fail to induce a twinge of lust in even the most prudent of potters. And with a high female to male ratio, statistics were on my side.
I sauntered into the class playing Unchained Melody loudly through a portable stereo, ready for my Swayze–Moore moment. Unfortunately the apparent fascist running the class, Jean-Claude, found my entrance disagreeable, confiscated the stereo and sent me to the back of the class. I’d fallen at the first hurdle—how was my dream girl going to realize her destiny if she couldn’t even see me?
I decided to employ my first plan: the loveable novice. After I show some hapless blundering for a while, at least one fellow artist will not be able to resist placing her soft hands around mine and whispering gentle instructions between light-hearted giggles at my lack of coordination. It was perfect—a guaranteed icebreaker that would put me firmly on the path to loving fulfillment.
A few minutes of forced incompetence later, I realized that this was the first session of a beginners’ class, and that we were all novices, bar my newfound nemesis Jean-Claude. I instantly regretted my plan as I saw his calloused and hair-rich hands closing around mine, preparing to blare instructions at me between violent insults at my lack of coordination. It seemed the second hurdle was proving tricky too, but I eventually shook him off with a cocky rebuttal.
Luckily I had a plan B: the smooth natural. Once they saw that I was a sensitive guy that could throw a pot in his sleep, they would chase Jean-Claude out and be yearning for my hands around theirs. Another excellent plan—I almost wondered why it had been demoted to B-status at all.
I cranked the wheel up to full speed. I admit I don’t know a lot about pottery, but more speed means better ceramics. That was obvious. I moistened my hands and squeezed the wodge of clay with vigor. To my dismay, it quickly morphed into an undeniable phallus.
Not wishing to give the impression that I was over-compensating, I hastily squashed the growing member. I watched the asymmetric blob complete a few hundred revolutions or so until a tiny hunk was ejected like a little clay-based shot-putter on amphetamines. My eye was then drawn to the unfortunate receiver of the soggy projectile—an absolute stunner sat next to me.
I realized why plan B had held such a ranking. Assaulting someone with a ball of clay was certainly an undesirable outcome when trying to pick up girls. I thought I was done for—until I saw her laughing. I wondered why I’d ever doubted plan B. My pottery-wheel of fortune had selected a beautiful woman with a good sense of humor. I moved in to exploit this turn of events.
I removed the clay from her face and made some witty comment steeped in chivalry. Noting another positive reaction, I made a bolder move by brushing her hair out of her eyes—a well-known romantic gesture. Alas, I still had the offending clod on my hand, which I efficiently transferred deep into her hair. Shocked at my error, I retracted my hand with haste. In hindsight, too much haste, for a sizeable chunk of hair came back with it. I’d managed to get away with shooting clay at her, but I somehow thought a partial scalping was an unforgiveable offense.
As I slunk back to my seat amid shrill screams, trying not to cause any more unnecessary balding, I noted that Pottery for Beginners was not as impregnated with Cupid’s magic as I first thought. Or was it? I caught the eye of someone across the room. I knew we immediately understood each other. It really was love at first sight.
A month later we were married. She’s a bit on the heavy side, and doesn’t talk a lot, but she looks like Aphrodite herself could have sculpted her. This would be true if Aphrodite was a pottery teacher named Jean-Claude. Clayla was his prize piece. Now she is mine.
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