Wifey

He reached for me and I swallowed hard as I felt his nails dig into my wrist. They’d been drinking all day and I’d just gotten off work. Being sober in a bar at midnight is no laughing matter and it was a full house of what looked to be, inebriated teenagers.

I needed booze on board, post haste.

The dirty Bombay Sapphire martini I held, felt like a liquid security blanket even though I appeared to be the only person in the room with an actual glass. His hand on my wrist made my heart race, and the icy cold gin wasn’t helping fast enough.

Something had shifted with him and I could feel it hanging in the space between us. I set my glass down and he pulled me out the door and across the street to another bar.

We’re standing at the end of the bar, halfheartedly trying to order a drink, when a man interrupts us.

M- Hey, Hi- excuse me! I can see that you’re having some sort of romantic and special evening, it’s your anniversary, isn’t it! Can I squeeze in and order?

I blink at Perfection. Completely speechless and thankful for the dark, because I’m positive I’m ruby red.

P- It is. What’s it been, wifey- 3 years? Oh no, 3 years and 10 months.

I’m amazed my shaking knees are holding me. The butterflies in my stomach are making me a little nauseous and I feel feverish. I wish I had a drink in my hand so that I could do something other than look stunned. I finally choke out an awkward response.

J- Sure, hubby. Wow, you’re a daddy too.

P- Bonus!

I’m thankful for my sobriety, and manners…because they were the only things keeping me from propositioning him right then and there. The strange guy just wants to buy a drink, but now that he’s celebrating our anniversary with us, he insists on buying us a shot. I am still so stunned by what’s going on with Perfection that I cannot make up my mind about what I want.

J- Not Fireball or Rumple minze. Anything but those. You decide, Darling.

P- I insist, wife. What do you really want? Tell me what sounds good?

The answers that come to mind would leave him equally as speechless, but his hand is drifting lower on my ass and I can hardly breathe, let alone speak. The stranger is looking at me, expectantly.

J- Washington apples. Thank you.

I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. Is this real life? Am I hallucinating? Am I really wasted and I just feel far too sober?

We take the shot and the stranger wishes us well on our marriage and leaves. Perfection leans in.

P- Do you know how many times I’ve had dreams about you?

J- Are you feeling alright? I think you’ve been overserved.

Ever have one of those moments where you’re a million miles away from the noisy room you’re standing in? I could feel his heart racing and hear him struggling like me.

This is real life.

This is Perfection.

This is what it’s supposed to feel like. In and of itself, it is a huge relief that I can recognize that. He doesn’t live here, the timing is wrong and he has a few loose ends I don’t want to get tangled in…

But…. it is fanfuckingtastic to have a Perfect evening, and remember what it feels like to be wildly attracted to not just anyone, but someone really and truly special.

Maybe I’m not a catlady, after all.

99

The Ugly Panties

Thank GOD I wore the ugly panties.

I realize that’s an awkward prayer, but today I am tossing thanks up to the heavens for my laziness in undergarment choice last night. I was getting ready for work, looking for substance, not style. They’re comfy, and cover the necessary parts… but if you were to find yourself in the arms of your biggest crush?

They’re a whole lotta cockblock in one not-so-sexy hunk of cotton.

From the beginning, I’ve had a crush on Mr. Perfection. I met him years ago, through some of my closest girlfriends, whom he also happened to be close friends with. There was a dia de los muertos birthday party and he’d shaved all his hair off and painted his entire head. I love a man who can dress up, but I worship a man who knows he’s walking into a bar as the only painted man with a handful of painted lady friends. He’s a beautiful soul, who loves his mama, works hard and tells everyone close to him how important they are. To be loved as his friend is to know what it is to have a family. I named him well, and it is no sort of exaggeration.

If you’ve read my blog for any amount of time, you know that he is part of a small group of good men I’ve been attracted to. More accurately…. Perfection stands alone. In my bemused quest towards cat lady status, he is my Achilles.

In the chaos of going through a breakup during the 11th hour of my pregnancy, I gave up on men. I really truly have. I am not interested in dumbing myself down to have a conversation that bores me. I can’t pretendĀ  to care about having a boyfriend. My life is focused on raising my girls and growing too many veggies. My 40th birthday is this coming Tuesday and my pregnant cat is due with the most spectacular birthday gift an aspiring cat lady could ask for. I am wholeheartedly unavailable, and happier than I’ve ever been…

… so when Perfection walked in the doors last night, I was gobsmacked. He’s sparkly smiling and hugging me tightly while I’m fighting off goosebumps. It’s a scintillating rush after not having been touched in 3 1/2 years. I was a little speechless, and he was more than adorable. I have been in serious hermit mode, and don’t do anything socially. At the end of the day when I need to unwind… I knit. šŸ™‚ So when he invited me out for a drink after work, I agreed. Who am I kidding… I watched the clock tick slowly while the last few hours of my shift ran out.

Seeing him for the second time, did not help my situation. Surrounded by mutual friends all celebrating his return, things started crackling. Accidental touches turned into some good ol’ fashioned temptation.

Which is precisely when I got my groove back.

I’d forgotten how good it is to be soundly kissed by the one you crave… which reminded me of a few other things I’d forgotten I miss.

Buttons popping. Teeth dragging along my neckline just enough to allow my reason to escape. His silky smooth hands grazing my hip were like a white hot reminder.

Dear God. I have my hot pink motherfucking ugly panties on.

FML… if it’s one thing we ladies know and can agree on- it’s that we certainly don’t want the first time we get wild and naked with someone we’ve adored for years, to be on a day we’ve chosen the ugly drawers.

Every woman has a pair, and I’d be willing to bet that you love yours too. Mine are smooshy soft in brilliant hot pink with BABYDOLL in rhinestones emblazoned across the ass.

It’s a childhood nickname and I was not buying them for style or a show.

They are also, quite possibly; the last thing I’d want to beĀ  wearing in front of anyone, ESPECIALLY him.

My hot pink insurance policy helped me collect myself, my thoughts and my moral compass, which had gotten tossed along with his shirt. I’m kicking myself a little while his cologne lingers on my skin enough to torture me, but relieved that I’m finally in a place where I can decline momentary satisfaction. If it’s going to happen, I want it to be right, and if it isn’t right, then it isn’t meant to happen.

But gawwwwwd… of all the days to wear those damn underwear.