I am a fan of Nicki Minaj since day one, and when she sang, "Bite me, bite me, that excite me / He said it's my pussy (yup, it might be) / If you eatin' it, do it precisely / 'Cause I'm a millionaire, this pussy pricey." I so related with that.
I related intensely, not just to the bravado, but to the core principle: self-worth is non-negotiable.
In my years of endless searching on the apps, I had been giving away my "inventory" for cheap. I'd offered up my time, my vulnerability, my wit, and my carefully calibrated charm to guys who barely looked up from their phones, treating my emotional effort like free samples at a grocery store.
That "millionaire, this pussy pricey" line—it wasn't just about anatomy or money; it was a declaration. It meant: I know my value, and if you're going to be here, you better do it precisely. You better bring your A-game. You better treat this connection like the investment it is.
Julian, the cinnamon-and-clay-dust guy, had stumbled into my life right after I had finally closed up shop, thrown away the "For Sale" sign, and declared myself priceless. And that, perhaps, was the entire secret.
The transition from "pottery buddy" to "potential date" was fraught with all the familiar anxiety I thought I had buried. The moment we exchanged numbers on the sidewalk—Julian's thumb brushing mine as he typed his contact in—the easy, dusty bubble of the studio dissolved. Now, the old rules of engagement were attempting to reassert themselves.
For two days, I analyzed the texts. They were simple, conversational, and often about pottery mishaps ("Did your decorative tragedy survive the kiln?"). But when Julian finally suggested, "We should grab actual coffee this week, outside the studio," my heart did a frantic drum solo.
The hunting instinct, dormant for weeks, lunged back to life.
* What does this mean?
* Is this a date-date, or a friend-date?
* What if he finds out I'm a total mess and immediately unfollows me?
I physically restrained myself from sending one of those deeply self-sabotaging texts like, "Just to be clear, is this a date date? LMAO!" I reminded myself: Pricy. Precision. Stay in the present.
The conversation we had on the sidewalk after class, where I admitted I'd stopped looking so hard, had felt like a vow. If I showed up for this coffee date and immediately started interviewing Julian for the role of "Lifelong Partner," I'd be breaking that vow. I decided I wouldn't interview him; I would just observe the documentary of him.
We met on a Thursday evening at a place Julian suggested: a small, independently owned bookstore café called The Loose Leaf.
It smelled intensely of old paper, ground coffee, and rain, even though the weather was clear. It was a perfect, low-key setting—the kind of place I would have been too intimidated to suggest during my hunting phase, fearing it wasn't "trendy" enough.
Julian was there first, sitting at a tiny two-person table tucked between the "Poetry" and "Urban Planning" sections. He was wearing a soft, worn gray sweater that looked exactly as comfortable as he was.
He smiled when he saw me, a smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the skin around his glasses. He didn't jump up; he just offered a wave. No grand performance. Perfect.
I ordered an espresso I knew would be too strong and sat down, carefully setting my bag on the floor.
"Thanks for coming," Julian said, stirring his tea. "I was worried this was a terrible idea. Our dynamic is so specifically tied to clay and incompetence."
I laughed, feeling the tension drain out of my shoulders. "I almost showed up with a trowel just in case."
The conversation started easily, picking up where we had left off: hobbies, the absurdity of our pottery instructor, the books we loved.
Julian, I learned, was an archivist at a local museum. He loved preserving history, but his true passion was the small, forgotten details—the handwritten note tucked into a donated box, the smudged fingerprint on an old photograph.
"It's like finding a ghost's diary," he explained, tracing the rim of his mug. "Everyone remembers the big historical figures, but I love the people who were just living their ordinary, complicated lives."
His depth was astounding. Every time I started to drift into my old pattern—Ask him about his family, determine his long-term goals, check his emotional availability box—he would say something that derailed the script entirely.
"Do you ever feel like the universe has a specific sound?" he asked, completely out of the blue, right when I was about to ask if he was close with his parents.
I paused, stunned by the unexpected poetry of the question. "I... I think it sounds like white noise, honestly. A massive, beautiful shh."
Julian shook his head, looking out the window at the lamplight glowing through the rain-streaked glass. "I think it sounds like the subtle hum of a refrigerator running in the dead of night. It's consistent. It's a promise that things are working, even when you can't see them."
I felt a genuine rush of warmth, an instant connection that went deeper than anything I'd ever found on a dating app. He wasn't giving me answers to a standardized test; he was offering pieces of his worldview, inviting me to lay my own down beside them.
An hour and a half later, the bookstore was nearly empty. Julian leaned forward and quietly confessed, "Okay, full transparency, I'm obsessed with terrible 90s action movies. I watch Con Air at least twice a year."
I grinned, relieved and excited by his willingness to be truly unguarded. "I'm embarrassed by my obsession with the music of Taylor Swift's entire Folklore and Evermore era. I've wept over songs about fictional people in tiny New England towns."
"Oh, Brian," Julian said, his voice soft, "you're a great hang, but you have the most tragically romantic soul."
I didn't take it as an insult. I took it as recognition. He saw the tragedy, the romance, the whole complicated package, and he wasn't running for the hills.
When we finally stood up to leave, Julian didn't make a move to touch me, which oddly felt more respectful than any premature hand-hold. We walked out onto the pavement, the air cool and damp, and stood under the awning.
"I had a really wonderful time, Brian," he said, zipping up his sweater.
"Me too, Julian. It was... easy."
"Easy is good," he agreed. "Hard is for throwing clay against a wall."
He reached out and gently brushed a tiny flake of dried clay—a relic from the studio—from my collarbone. It was the only physical touch of the night, and it felt like a signature. Precise.
As he walked away, disappearing into the city lights, I realized that I hadn't once checked a box, performed a routine, or felt that desperate, hollow pressure in my chest. I hadn't gone hunting. I had just shown up as the millionaire I knew myself to be, demanding only the precision and honesty he had so effortlessly delivered.
The feeling that settled over me wasn't the frantic excitement of a new crush; it was the quiet, profound fulfillment of a difficult quest completed. Julian wasn't a prize I had won, but a resonant frequency I had finally tuned into. And it felt like the perfect opening movement to a song I truly wanted to write.