“Welcome to the age of un-innocence. No one has breakfast at Tiffany’s, and no one has affairs to remember. Instead, we have breakfast at 7AM, and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible.” -Carrie Bradshaw
Right. So, I’m leaning against the dishwasher with a glass of water in my hand thinking, Well fuck. I’m definitely drunk, but not drunk enough to make up my mind about what’s going on here, especially having received all of the attention I had from the night. “You’re really, really cute,” he says, still transfixed. “Thanks. So are you,” I tell him uncertainly. After about 10 seconds I realize that I have to be a big boy and make up my mind. But actually I don’t because The Writer lunges at me, pulls my leg up and starts kissing me ferociously against the clanking dishwasher door. This is fun for a minute, but the clanking door is really starting to irritate me, and as fun as it would be to recount having such a ferocious make out session that I destroyed a set of dishes, I thought better of it and shoved him to the counter on the other side. After another minute, I stopped and said, “Wait…I can’t have sex with you.” Why, oh why, did I say this? Well a few reasons. For one, I really didn’t want to have sex with him that night. Also, I’m just kind of a prude, so I tell him the undies are staying on. “That’s OK,” he replies reassuringly. Now, there are several clever responses around the undies that I probably would have caved to, (like I did the last time I slept with someone in New York,) but he only made direct attempts to de-clothe me. Besides, every time I’ve porked on a first date or first date-alternative, it’s gone horribly wrong. (One guy became a coke dealer and then told me he was going to defriend me on Facebook if I didn’t hook up with him again. Boy, do I know how to pick ’em!) Also, I’m new in town, and I don’t want to be branded as an easy piece of tail.
So what happens next? We moved to his bedroom, lights off, a little humping, grinding, and some surprisingly clean albeit aggressive kissing. I generally hate sloppy kissers, you know, the ones whose tongues are so unwieldy that they end up in your nostrils, and your face is completely dripping with slobber. But The Writer kissed in the complete opposite fashion–sparing tongue and almost no biting. Although he did ask me to bite him. Which made me laugh a little, but then I did. Now comes the embarrassing part, so I’ll remind you once more that I was drunk and also no lights had been turned on in house since we returned. “Want to know a secret?” I offered. “What?” he asked. “I’m Read the rest of this entry »