Rare is sex rivaled, but sometimes all a person really needs is to make out. That's not to say that mouths won't wander, but...
"RESIST THE TEMPTATION," evangelicals, "The Rules" girls, and my mother would likely bellow. "WHAT?" I'd only mouth soundlessly in return, motioning to my ear as though I could not hear their strident warnings. Then I'd return my thumb alongside the other and continue sexliciting.
Like I was last night.
Yeah, yeah, "What happened to having a date first"? That's what he said. Literally.
Well, I wasn't going to give it all up, I made that clear. Not yet, I was also sure to stress; but I certainly needed some. So badly that I choose to forgo an opportunity at post-dodgeball karaoke for the second week in a row, rushing home to rinse off before my turn at the mic. And that, as my friend's drew attention to, is quite the sacrifice. An indication, even, that it was not just the potential to giddy up, but get to know Sid36, as the man has become known, that had me all agog.
"Well, hello," I dropped my salutation to an octave low and seductive enough to make Kathleen Turner proud.
"Hi," his tone was casual, "I'm in the driveway."
"Oh. You can't park there," I walked out of the bathroom, tightening my towel.
"Standing in the driveway," he clarified.
That's not how I remember him looking, I thought, peeking through the blinds.
"Where do I go now?" His lips matched the words as they came through my earpiece.
Hmm..."Number eight?" My disorientation upswung into my voice.
"Gotcha," he hung up.
And revelation clapped down.
"Oh - my - GAWD," I uttered in disbelief, in sync with his footsteps on the stairs. No. Quickly, I slid my phone open, frantically tapping back into my archived messages as I shuffled towards the door. Yes. NO! I've been texting the wrong Sid. I've been texting the wrong Sid for the past two DAYS.
"Freudian slip," some might say. I expected him to. Especially when presented with the knowledge of the differentiation between "Sid36" and simply "Sid" in my contacts. "Pity fuck," others will shrug. "I would have," my roommate admitted.
"Here's the thing," I chose the honest route, "This is embarrassing - more so for you than me - but I thought I was inviting over a different Sid."
My cheeks scrunched upwards, guilty and apprehensive, as I expected his face to fall or mine to befall his fist. Shockingly, I was the only one to flinch. He remained impassive and it was only his index finger with which he reached out, tugging gently on the terrycloth knot at my waist. "We can still fool around," he offered.
I shook my head, re-securing the thin cloth between my loins and he. "I'm not saying it's never going to happen, but do you really want it to be like this?"
No, his eyes read. Stoic, but not unsentimental.
"I am a horrible person," my forehead flopped against his shoulder.
Yep, he raised his eyebrows.
"I'm such a jerk."
"A cute jerk," he tweaked my chin.
It wasn't the release I had in mind, but I was getting off easy. I sat down on the couch, careful to shroud, not Sharon Stone, mah goodies. "So, off to skewer me to your friends?"
"No, I'm going to the grocery store."
Latex was no longer an option, but I imagine he conducted himself just as gallantly in the supermarket, extending the same respect to Mother Earth by choosing paper over plastic. Let's fucking hope so, because I don't want him RAP-RAP-RAPPING on my door once more, plastic bag in hand, retaliation by suffocation in mind. "How you gonna tell this story, BITCH? Huh? HUH?!"
I would expect this kind of fury had I "[You should have] taken a picture of his face," as one of my friends lamented. But I'm not Freddy Prinze Jr. in "She's All That." There were no malicious machinations behind my textual advances, just a mastery of grammar and punctuation and an inattention to every other detail.