Do you remember my friend Carrie from "Single and Loving It?"
Well, after a string of what I can only call near misses (as in they were clearly unworthy of her time, effort, or energy) and dodged disasters (self-explanatory) she had all but given up on dating.
Can you blame her? I surely couldn't. There certainly didn't seem to be much gold in them there hills to be mined. Nope. Not a nugget.
Carrie went about her daily life until one fortunate evening only a few nights ago. It was a night of passion. A night of mystery. A night of hot unadulterated . . . um, well. Kissing and stuff.
I hung on her every word. Sweat beads began to form on my forehead. I gripped J's stroller tighter and tighter. My eyes widened as she fleshed (excellent word choice) out the story in mind-numbing detail. OK, so it wasn't mind-numbing. I just like building drama. Regardless. It was fantasy candy. No doubt.
I begged her to share her story with you. I said that many of us might just appreciate a little lustful excitement in our diaper-changing, meal-making, laundry-folding, house-cleaning, hard-working kinda day.
I know it might seem like an odd mix . . . sappy Baby J posts juxtaposed with a little s exy drama. But hey . . . we all know that once in a while I like to spice things up (remember the nekkid photo?). Hey, and now worries. This is no Playboy post . . . it is more like a steamy Lifetime movie. Except without the cheesy plot lines and C movie actors.
For your reading enjoyment, I give you . . .
"How Carrie Got Her Groove Back"
Saturday night started off like any other night when I’m heading out…last Saturday free from work so “K” and I head out on the town.
What to wear, oh yeah, that little black top I just got at the store’s clearance rack. Jeans?? Well no shorts maybe, its hot…no jeans and flip flops. Why am I worrying about what to wear, my club of one is going well (my club: I hate men).
Maybe I’ll try a little something new w/my makeup. Who cares, right? No one to impress, right? So out the door…oh crap, can’t find my ID or bank card. A 15 minute search underway…and out the door.
My friend and I head out to one of the few places we have to hang out. I was feeling the need to have a drink or 2 or 3. After a quick glance around the room I realize that unfortunately there is no good eye candy. I'm not surprised. Shall I play the trivia game? Order a large nacho platter? File my nails?
No. I must forge ahead.
We start discussing where else we could go so that the night won't be a total loss. Hey, come on we are 2 single gals…and we deserve to have something nice to look at! Meanwhile…across the bar I see “him”. His parents were family friend . . . he was just a cocky jock in high school . . . I was a college graduate with a career.
I say hi…he tells me he almost doesn’t recognize me b/c my hair looks different, but quickly adds it looks good. He has this great smile. (Great = rip off his clothes.) Dirty old lady…yes, I’m 32 and he’s 24. *note later in the post…he’s freshly 24. Fresh . . . ain't that the truth.
I have another drink…he gets up to leave stops by to say bye, and asks if we are heading anywhere else, I answer “yeah, I think we are heading over to the dance club (AKA dirty, body-smashing bar) down the road.” He answers, "so are we…it’s my birthday."
I tell him when I get there I’ll buy him a birthday shot. Yup. You heard right. I jumped right in the deep end. Without arm floaties . . .
He gives that yummy smile again and he’s off. I finish my drink and we are headed down the road. In my friend’s car, (I was not in any shape to drive…yes, my face was going numb…should have stopped while I was ahead) I look at my friend and tell her to keep me away from that pretty young man…
We get to next stop, there he is…beautiful smile is flashed my way. I take note of the thick head of hair, the way his muscles tense under his shirt, the way his pants hang on his waist . . . *wipes away the drool*
I get to the bar, order a drink and ask him what shot he’d like for his birthday. One shot for him…one for us, two for us and three for us…and then somewhere in all that…
I don't know how it happened. My lips just fell on his. Or his lips fell on mine. Not quite sure.
I guess I gave the bar a little lesson on how to properly kiss a guy. Yes, that’s right--right AT the bar, we made out like high school teenagers (who of course wouldn't be at a bar--duh!). Yes, if I do say so myself, we gave a top notch lesson that might just make a porn star blush. Mom would be proud.
We leave the bar, I give my friend a nice little wave goodbye (she was ticked--but oh well . . . she'd most definitely do the same to me, except she wouldn't even have taken the time to wave), and PYM and I head out the door.
We get to his friend’s truck and present to all the stumbling patrons making their way to their cars another great lesson …how to properly kiss a man while pushed up against a truck! Total movie moment. And I was the leading lady. Cue music. Dim the lights. Commence with heavy breathing.
We head to his place. Stop shaking you're head. You have no idea the power of a six pack (as in abs), full lips, and a six pack (as in NOT abs). We proceed to give another great PRIVATE lesson on kissing.
The bright sunshine kisses my face . . . kisses his beautiful face and perfect body…yeah, still there in the morning. I rolled over and whispered “I’m leaving…good morning.” Oh, and just so you know . . . THAT did not happen. I swear. No reason to lie. My dad doesn't even know what a blog is.
He asked how I was going to get home (yes, I thought about the walk of shame) when I mentioned walking home (I only live a few blocks away). He said no way. He got up. He drove me home.
What a gentleman.
What a night.
What a dirty old lady . . .
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