This past Thursday I had another evening between the sheets with Cody. It started off well enough. I arrived on his doorstep wearing a miniskirt, fishnet stockings, and black boots (a far cry from the hippy ensembles and tie-dyes he is accustomed to seeing me wear). He let me in, complimented me on my
hooker attire cute outfit, and pressed me up against the back of the door. We started to kiss but I needed something to take the edge off first. I had just ended a very stressful day in the office and had battled midtown Manhattan foot traffic at happy hour to sub it uptown. He reached for the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc I picked up at the corner bodega and I practically inhaled the liquid when he poured me a glass. I was extraordinarily nervous when I entered his apartment but I began to loosen up quickly.
I’ll skip a lot of the details but will say that we had a repeat performance of our steamy evening a few weeks ago… except for one major difference. This time he didn’t bother to make sure that my needs were satisfied as well. When he was finished, he simply rolled over. The idea of tapping his shoulder, raising an eyebrow, and asking “hey buddy!?” definitely came to my mind, but then I had another thought. This was only our second evening of sex together, far too soon to be complacent and lazy. Also, maybe it’s just me but I prefer to have music on in the background. Not a hockey game. Or episodes of Seinfeld. Anyone else care to weigh in, or am I the only one who feels this way?
I didn’t need to finish; I just wanted to get out of there. Maybe it was because his phone rang incessantly (an ex? another fake girlfriend?) or because I think I spotted a girl’s hair tie in a cup next to the bathroom sink. Oh, and how could I forget the “I (heart) Sarah Palin” sticker on the fridge. That was all I needed to put an end to my fake relationship with my fake boyfriend. Sad, but it was fun while it lasted.
On the path train back to Hoboken, I flipped through my Cosmo magazine (which I was reading for research purposes only) and tried to keep my head up (though I’m positive I fell asleep with my mouth open at one point. Sexy). A guy in a gray suit chatted me up as I gathered my things and headed out of the train. We made small talk and he seemed friendly enough so I agreed to walk with him. When I told him I wanted to grab a slice of pizza he waited patiently for me outside.
He asked what I did for a living and I told him about my gig in the city but I mentioned that writing is more of a passion. Old booze brains over here even blurted out that I started a blog. Of course this led to him asking me about the content of my blog which led to him asking me a series of inappropriate questions about my sex life. Had I been sober, I wouldn’t have answered (or I would have slugged him with my bag), but I wasn’t, so I probably filled in a few too many blanks.
I then asked him about his experiences with dating.
“Well, I guess I should tell you that I’m married.”
Yes. I guess you should. Like maybe 10 minutes ago when we started walking together. This doesn’t do much to renew my faith in the opposite sex. But it’s still too soon for me to lose hope, right?
This is a very exciting week for me, music-wise. I’m going to see my man Michael Franti on Thursday and then Friday I leave with a girlfriend, a cooler, some trail mix, good tunes, and two costumes (because I am a diva and couldn’t decide between Rainbow Brite or Wilma Flintstone). We’re heading down to Atlantic City and meeting up with some buddies for what will surely be two epic nights of Phish madness. What are your plans for Halloween and what will you be?