“I’ve been telling everyone who hasn’t met you yet that you have a porn-star body. Because it’s true.”
Nothing like some kind words from the S.O to boost a girl’s self-esteem.
I'm the book that beat the speed-reader, and I'm the card the dealers won't touch. And it's just not true I'm a man-eater; all the same, we should probably go dutch.
The things you pick up as you go.
So, after pulling a Sixties Housewife tonight—doing the dishes after smoking while shirtless and dancing to Rihanna…so sue me— I was thinking about how it seems as if the preferred method of going out and meeting people— i.e, going out to loud bars packed with swarms of sweaty people— wasn’t quite the brightest idea. I mean, there I was, shaking my booty in a Victoria Secret’s push-up bra and brandishing a sponge, and this was all in the privacy of my own home. If you met me in a bar or club, I’d be stiff, a little bit formal, awkward as to how get across the fact I’m cool (Are you a dancing kinda guy, or one that wants to see that I can school them at pool?) and I’d probably think your name was Stan, not Dan. Overall, not as cool as that girl back there shakin’ her thang to David Guetta. Why can’t I just tell a guy, “Yeah, why don’t you come by Thursday night at 11 PM, and you can just pretend you’re not there and observe me doing my thing and see if you’re compatible?” It seems SOOO much better than “Meet me at 11 at the bar where drunk white girls will be screeching along to Kes$ha?”
I brought this fact up to one of my exes, who— bless his little heart— immediately responded by saying, “You always were the most fun when we were just at home. I never knew what to expect to find.”
…Sometimes my exes are allowed to continue to exist in my mind if they’re ever so kind.
I’ve got a GREAT “Once Upon A Time” for you guys. Listen up.
Once upon a time, in my sophomore…junior?…I don’t know; it was college; there were drugs; ANYWAY…year of college, I had a class with this really sweet, really downright sexy (read: Built, Italian, great smile, just my kind,) guy. I found him A.) Adorable, and B.) Intelligent, and we chatted however many days a week it was that we sat near each other. (Like I said, it was college; I don’t remember.) We kept in casual touch after that class ended; mostly, I’d run into him on campus, or, more likely, in the gym, because he has the sort of bod that one only obtains through being one of the ONLY guys spending copious amounts of time actually WORKING OUT in the gym pumping iron, instead of just standing there, admiring yourself, and grunting as you lift a barbell 3 times, like most dudes do. I’d be doing my run on the treadmill, he’d wave and smile, and then wait until I stopped at the end of my set to come over and chat with me.
This is important— I think this was when I developed a thing for him, because unlike other guys, he understood that the LAST thing a girl wants is to try to hold conversation while pounding out a 7-minute mile. I mean, really. Panting while sweaty and red in the face and VERTICAL? Not so sexy.
Anyway. It’s been a minute since we saw each other, but we started chatting today on Facebook when he sent me this:
“I’m always seeing pics you post up…Like modeling-type shots…You’re looking good :).”
SIR, YOU CALLED ME A MODEL; I WILL NOT CORRECT YOU. NOW, DROP THOSE CLOTHES AND WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO NAME OUR BABIES?