A Harlequin Moment . . .

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 . . .

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"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…

We kiss.

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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