when he caught me off guard. It would’ve been nice to know what the
problem was that needed his immediate attention so urgently.
But it’s not
like he offered the information up himself. Plus, he was in such a hurry. At
the time, it would’ve seemed rude to pry into his personal business.
After all, I
didn’t even know him.
And to think I
was considering sleeping with him?!
And not just
considering it, but looking forward to it!
From the
moment he met me at the bar, I’d hoped the evening would end with sex. I
imagined he’d be in such a hurry to have me that he’d rip my dress when he tore
it off, and I wouldn’t even care because I have it in so many other colors.
Then he’d
throw his clothes on the floor, too, and give me the mind-blowing fuck that I
so badly needed. And even though I would never actually say any of the pillow
talk I imagined would be fun to whisper to a doctor, it all ran through my head
between dinner courses…
“I think I’m
coming down with a fever… Lay down for me so I can test your reflexes-”
And then he
might say “tell me when this hurts,” but I wouldn’t because it would hurt so
good I wouldn’t be able to breathe much less speak.
But as I
refused to learn despite repeatedly being burned, the fantasy was always better
than the reality.
Fuck!
I was supposed
to be mending a deflated heart, not putting myself through the ringer again! What
the hell was my problem?!
Was it that I
always put out too quickly? I mean, all my prudest friends were the first to
get married. Maybe I had to stop doing that if I was going to convince a guy that
I was worth committing to.
Then again,
that theory wasn’t even relevant to this situation. After all, I wasn’t really
pursuing a real relationship with Jack. Anything that happened with him was
just a holiday fling.
Unless I
didn’t even sleep with him and then who knew what the fuck it was? A holiday
chat? That would be a good story for the grandkids and the girls at home…
“Hey everyone,
gather round. I want to tell you about this hot doctor who saved my life, and I
thanked him by having some really great conversation with him. Boy did we laugh
the night away with our hands in our own personal space! It was an absolutely
wild time!... Maybe you had to be there.”
Of course, we
did have fun. The conversation flowed. There were no awkward silences. We had
enough chemistry to account for a lack of common interests, which isn’t to say
we didn’t have enough in common to keep things interesting.
And I’d been
on enough first dates to know that they never went that well. If I met him in
Seattle, that would’ve been the perfect date, and I’d be hoping with every
fiber of my totally frustrated being that it wasn’t just a fling.
Then again, I
was a terrible judge of men’s character. If there was anything that my dating
record proved, it was that I was complete shit at reading their signals,
knowing where they stood, and guessing at what was going through their thick
heads.
But he had definitely
kissed me and liked it, right?
Or had he
hated it and that’s why he fled? And now he was sitting in his apartment
thinking he’d dodged a bullet by not sleeping with me because my kissing was so
atrocious that he didn’t want to take things any further.
No. That
couldn’t be. And not just because it would kill me but because my kissing was the
only thing I had any confidence in whatsoever. It was the single sexual skill
I’d practiced the most anyway.
But what if
that’s why I could never hold down a serious relationship? Because everything
besides my kissing was deplorable and cringy?
My heart sank.
If that were true it meant none of the embarrassingly numerous first dates I’d
been on had ever liked or cared enough about me to give me a heads up that my technique
needed work. In fact, they probably got together to discuss
problem was that needed his immediate attention so urgently.
But it’s not
like he offered the information up himself. Plus, he was in such a hurry. At
the time, it would’ve seemed rude to pry into his personal business.
After all, I
didn’t even know him.
And to think I
was considering sleeping with him?!
And not just
considering it, but looking forward to it!
From the
moment he met me at the bar, I’d hoped the evening would end with sex. I
imagined he’d be in such a hurry to have me that he’d rip my dress when he tore
it off, and I wouldn’t even care because I have it in so many other colors.
Then he’d
throw his clothes on the floor, too, and give me the mind-blowing fuck that I
so badly needed. And even though I would never actually say any of the pillow
talk I imagined would be fun to whisper to a doctor, it all ran through my head
between dinner courses…
“I think I’m
coming down with a fever… Lay down for me so I can test your reflexes-”
And then he
might say “tell me when this hurts,” but I wouldn’t because it would hurt so
good I wouldn’t be able to breathe much less speak.
But as I
refused to learn despite repeatedly being burned, the fantasy was always better
than the reality.
Fuck!
I was supposed
to be mending a deflated heart, not putting myself through the ringer again! What
the hell was my problem?!
Was it that I
always put out too quickly? I mean, all my prudest friends were the first to
get married. Maybe I had to stop doing that if I was going to convince a guy that
I was worth committing to.
Then again,
that theory wasn’t even relevant to this situation. After all, I wasn’t really
pursuing a real relationship with Jack. Anything that happened with him was
just a holiday fling.
Unless I
didn’t even sleep with him and then who knew what the fuck it was? A holiday
chat? That would be a good story for the grandkids and the girls at home…
“Hey everyone,
gather round. I want to tell you about this hot doctor who saved my life, and I
thanked him by having some really great conversation with him. Boy did we laugh
the night away with our hands in our own personal space! It was an absolutely
wild time!... Maybe you had to be there.”
Of course, we
did have fun. The conversation flowed. There were no awkward silences. We had
enough chemistry to account for a lack of common interests, which isn’t to say
we didn’t have enough in common to keep things interesting.
And I’d been
on enough first dates to know that they never went that well. If I met him in
Seattle, that would’ve been the perfect date, and I’d be hoping with every
fiber of my totally frustrated being that it wasn’t just a fling.
Then again, I
was a terrible judge of men’s character. If there was anything that my dating
record proved, it was that I was complete shit at reading their signals,
knowing where they stood, and guessing at what was going through their thick
heads.
But he had definitely
kissed me and liked it, right?
Or had he
hated it and that’s why he fled? And now he was sitting in his apartment
thinking he’d dodged a bullet by not sleeping with me because my kissing was so
atrocious that he didn’t want to take things any further.
No. That
couldn’t be. And not just because it would kill me but because my kissing was the
only thing I had any confidence in whatsoever. It was the single sexual skill
I’d practiced the most anyway.
But what if
that’s why I could never hold down a serious relationship? Because everything
besides my kissing was deplorable and cringy?
My heart sank.
If that were true it meant none of the embarrassingly numerous first dates I’d
been on had ever liked or cared enough about me to give me a heads up that my technique
needed work. In fact, they probably got together to discuss
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