Monday, October 03, 2005
..But, Do You dig Me When You're Sober? (Part 1)
She isn't a dime piece.
She's not incredibly ugly, because she does have a pleasant face, lithe supple limbs and a rear end that's more round than flat. Her blue eyes always have a glint, a sparkle to them. A smile that could power a small neighborhood block.
And, there's that voice.
Loud. Grating. Like nails across a blackboard. Deep and husky southern drawl often slurring from ingesting too many whiskey shots. A laugh that's all smoky and full of congestion which makes you wish momentarily that she starts speaking again. Her short tongue, the insides of her mouth always have some cigarette taste weighed in sugar residue.
And she's the best you can do for a date. It feels cheap and desperate, which kind of gets tucked away after a few beers. Lots of beer helps bury the guilt.
When I first met her, it was by some arcane connection. Sometimes you can simply exchange pleasentries with someone and can mentally picture you and her in some afterglow admist tangled sheets and sweat. She sent this "cut the shit, I'm interested," vibe. Who knows why exactly. I wasn't wearing my desperation fragrance that night.
Numbers are exchanged, phone conversations commence, a meeting at a nightclub is arranged.
We get a corner booth, making small talk under the oppressive music selection the DJ is spinning. I would wish that I could have subtitles to make out what she's saying about her pet dog, her drunk mom, her boring job, but it doesn't really matter much, because she grabs my hand under the table, rough and course, extinguishes a menthol cancer stick with the other hand. Her drink sweats as heavy as I do because it suddenly feels as if someone turned up the heat. I lean in for the kiss and she meets me halfway. Sloppy and out of practice make out session begins. She pulls back, laughs, and then excuses herself to the ladies room. As she exits, I exhale, look up for a second at the DJ booth, and the DJ gives me the thumbs up with a quick wink.
When she returns, she's applied fresh lip gloss, complaining of the heat. I pay her a rather lame compliment that would have any self respecting drunk woman to exit stage left, but, she just smiles a flattered look and then quickly asks me if I have a roommate.
Picturing her clothes crumpled on the floor I reply "No".
She then asks if my place was any cooler than this annoying nightclub.
Now envisioning her lying on her back naked, I tell her the thermostat is dead locked on 70 degrees. I'm quick to follow up this revelation with I have alcohol if she needs any, all the while picturing her riding cowgirl. Wondering if her small perky breasts taste like a cigarette filter and if I should have some Altoids on hand for the foreplay. I don't have a spare tooth brush.
She tells me how much she digs me and how hot I'm making her. "It's so stressful to be this frustrated," she says, lighting another cigarette. "Can you relieve the tension?" she bluntly asks.
"Get your keys and follow me," I reply, hoping she gives oral.
to be continued....
She's not incredibly ugly, because she does have a pleasant face, lithe supple limbs and a rear end that's more round than flat. Her blue eyes always have a glint, a sparkle to them. A smile that could power a small neighborhood block.
And, there's that voice.
Loud. Grating. Like nails across a blackboard. Deep and husky southern drawl often slurring from ingesting too many whiskey shots. A laugh that's all smoky and full of congestion which makes you wish momentarily that she starts speaking again. Her short tongue, the insides of her mouth always have some cigarette taste weighed in sugar residue.
And she's the best you can do for a date. It feels cheap and desperate, which kind of gets tucked away after a few beers. Lots of beer helps bury the guilt.
When I first met her, it was by some arcane connection. Sometimes you can simply exchange pleasentries with someone and can mentally picture you and her in some afterglow admist tangled sheets and sweat. She sent this "cut the shit, I'm interested," vibe. Who knows why exactly. I wasn't wearing my desperation fragrance that night.
Numbers are exchanged, phone conversations commence, a meeting at a nightclub is arranged.
We get a corner booth, making small talk under the oppressive music selection the DJ is spinning. I would wish that I could have subtitles to make out what she's saying about her pet dog, her drunk mom, her boring job, but it doesn't really matter much, because she grabs my hand under the table, rough and course, extinguishes a menthol cancer stick with the other hand. Her drink sweats as heavy as I do because it suddenly feels as if someone turned up the heat. I lean in for the kiss and she meets me halfway. Sloppy and out of practice make out session begins. She pulls back, laughs, and then excuses herself to the ladies room. As she exits, I exhale, look up for a second at the DJ booth, and the DJ gives me the thumbs up with a quick wink.
When she returns, she's applied fresh lip gloss, complaining of the heat. I pay her a rather lame compliment that would have any self respecting drunk woman to exit stage left, but, she just smiles a flattered look and then quickly asks me if I have a roommate.
Picturing her clothes crumpled on the floor I reply "No".
She then asks if my place was any cooler than this annoying nightclub.
Now envisioning her lying on her back naked, I tell her the thermostat is dead locked on 70 degrees. I'm quick to follow up this revelation with I have alcohol if she needs any, all the while picturing her riding cowgirl. Wondering if her small perky breasts taste like a cigarette filter and if I should have some Altoids on hand for the foreplay. I don't have a spare tooth brush.
She tells me how much she digs me and how hot I'm making her. "It's so stressful to be this frustrated," she says, lighting another cigarette. "Can you relieve the tension?" she bluntly asks.
"Get your keys and follow me," I reply, hoping she gives oral.
to be continued....
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