My Songbird came over last night to play and work. I’m stupid tired on this 4:00 AM workout schedule. I want my body back as much as the next girl, but I am SO tired. My everything hurts and not in any way I can smile about. I’m pretty sure I feel muscles that are attached to my soul when I cough.
Hello Tinder, my new broken-heart babysitter. I can no longer turn the sounds on. It’s a symphony of dick-pic wielding men that I am marginally attracted to. My inbox looks like a who’s-who of every vice and bad habit I’ve had since adolescence. How bad could it be, right? Yeah, they’re all strangers, but at this point, I don’t know a man who isn’t. What do I have to lose?
Faith, that’s what.
I’m already short on it and this cesspool of backwards hats, naked chests and instant messages from guys who want to show me just how exciting their little fella is, makes me wantonly homosexual. Girls are so much hotter when they’re thirsty.
Which is when my exceeeeeeeedingly hot Gonzaga law school date from the past, now lawyer, popped up on my Tinder feed.
Yaaaaaassssssssss!!!! I definitely danced around the kitchen. The Songbird laughed.
See what I mean about thirsty girls being hotter?
When I met him, he was 24 and in the midst of divorcing his Mormon high school sweetheart. I was in my thirties and enjoying the hell out of exploring my sexuality. He didn’t know what hit him. Neither did I, to be honest. All I had to do was turn the lights on and he was out of his mind with inspiration. It was an incredibly satisfying situation, but he lived too far away and was buried in law school.
He’d never been to a strip club. I took him all sorts of places and showed him all sorts of things and we saw each other frequently until he got a girlfriend who locked him down.
I saw him a few times over the years when the dates lined up and we were both single & free. It was a beautiful sexual friendship, and he always insisted on taking me to dinner, watching a movie, etc- all the trappings of a real date that you knew was going to end successfully. To put it mildly.
Treat me like a lady and I will fuck you with the inspiration of a thousand whores. I have a few specific weaknesses and my favorite men are smart enough to exploit them. I love a man with manners, impeccable grammar and more neckties than I can count. The guy that pushes your mama’s chair in at dinner, then ties you to the bed when you get home. This is that man.
50 shades of yes please and thank you.
The last time I saw him, he called and asked if I was free. I was.
Confession: nothing makes my heart race faster than unbuttoning a man in a starched dress shirt. Ok, maybe cuff links. <swoon> He walked in like my wet dream come to life, bit my bottom lip when he kissed me and pulled me by the hand out the door and off to dinner. It was a great night to end on.
He’s incredibly intelligent and had researched a few languages to talk to me in after he found out that was a serious weakness of mine. Educated inspiration, y’all… it’s a great thing. No request too great or questionable. He was my very own human sex toy, for lack of a more graceful way to put it. Smart men have always been my downfall and he’s my favorite, to date. It never got messy, he was just too far away and life was too busy. I’m not sure when we lost touch, but it’s been at least 7 years?
Until today, when yours truly got one hell of a hot text message after I sent him my number on Tinder.
L- Can I take you to dinner?
I might have to wife him up this time.