“You must admit, I am very British. I don’t say hard ‘Rs.'” -Adelle Dewitt
Oh, the drama. Thursday night, Mr. Wolf wants to have dinner. I decline because “dinner” means much more than just dinner, and I have work the next day. So Friday afternoon, I ask him to have dinner, but I get a dodgy response (and a bad lie) about how he has to finish up some work. My cousin Clark (who I had previously asked about Mr. Wolf–they’re long time acquaintances) then calls me to share that he had just missed a call from Mr. Wolf, and asks me how our night was together. “Our date from Monday?” I ask a little confused. No, Clark is referring to a “night” that didn’t happen. Suspicious. Why does Clark think there’s been another night between Wolf and I? And why is Wolf giving me poor excuses when I know he wants me?
Saturday rolls around and Wolf calls me, asking if he can cook me dinner. I’m understandably a little pissed and almost say no, but his Britishness overwhelms me, and I give in. I arrive a little late as usual, and he’s thrown some lamb chops on the grill. The exterior of his house looks as though it’s been swallowed by a jungle (in a kept yet mysterious way) and the inside perfectly fits his personality. The walls are covered with photographs he’s taken and some along with a few paintings. Everything from the floors to the way the light enters his house seems so revealing to his character.
After a delicious dinner, Mr. Wolf sits me down on his awkward couch. “I don’t know what you’re looking for…” he starts, and I roll my eyes, “but I’m not looking for a boyfriend.” I almost laugh at how direct his statement is. I want to yell “duh,” thinking, this coming from the man who upon first sight I thought would eat me alive. “Oh, I know,” I assure him with a smile. “So…is that why you called my cousin yesterday?” He blinks at me, confused that Clark would tell me. “I’m not sure I why I called him to be honest. I talked to him today though.” “He doesn’t even know me that well,” I reply, referring to Clark. “I don’t know, I guess to get his blessing or…no, that sounds bad,” he trails off. I suppose I did some similar information gathering, so I ignore it.
“Shall we go out?” He asks. I kind of just want to stay in and get rowdy, but I agree. “I’ll call a cab, but first let’s have a drink.” He shows me to his liquor cabinet, which is quite full for someone who doesn’t drink that frequently. “I have Kettle One, Scotch, Patron…” “Patron,” I declare without hesitation. “I’ve never had tequila before,” Mr. Wolf tells me. My jaw drops, and I refuse to believe him, but he tells me he only really started drinking recently. “Patron it is,” he says pouring two shots. “How exactly do I do this?” He asks. I explain the salt and the lime and we go for round two and three. “It’s not near as bad as everyone says,” he tells me as his stare locks in. “You’re going to be fun tonight,” I promise him. “Am I?” He asks. “Brits are always fun,” I tell him. He then makes a Dr. Who reference, and I gush about my Anglophila. Instead of being freaked out, he pushes me back on the couch then mounts and kisses me ferociously. The cab pulls up, so Wolf takes his lips off my beaming face.
We leave to meet Wolf’s friend, the Ke$ha drag queen, although I am scolded for calling him a drag queen. I’m not sure why; he’s wearing hair extensions, a tube top, mini skirt, and enough body glitter to drown in. It’s Ke$ha Jr.’s first night at this grimy gay bar, and I’ve had two more tequila-based beverages when K-Money Jr. has to hold a dance contest. I’m already getting bored when a wildly inebriated black man hops on the stage. “We’re only taking contestants who signed up,” our friend tells him. But to no avail. The man undoes his belt, drops his pants, and gyrates until his penis flies out of the front hole of his boxers. There’s nothing like someone exposing himself on stage to finish off an evening, so we catch a cab home. When we get back, Wolf fondles me on the couch, and I can’t stop weaving Natalie Portman’s lines from “Closer” into our banter, which I think unwittingly turns him on. “You’re impossibly sexy,” I slur. I don’t remember much else because that was the most I had drank in a while, but what I can tell you is this: best sex of my life. Period. The difference between a boy and a man is that a man knows exactly what he’s doing. And Wolf knew exactly how to manhandle me. I’m also pretty sure I yelled out “Mr. Wolf” at one point. Oops.
The next morning, we shower and hang out at Starbucks for a half hour. That afternoon, I get a message from him: “I had a great time last night. If you’re up for it, I’d like to have another adventure.” I write back, “ooo, I don’t know,” and wait a second to make him nervous. “Just kidding, let’s do it.” I look forward to it.