I could have had a V8….

I used extremely poor judgment yesterday. I went out with someone who puzzles me to no end. I like them, but I believe there is a some type of disconnect on my part in expressing my desire to devour this man. I am completely convinced that he doesn’t like me. This can’t be confirmed because he calls and texts, so I think that maybe he just wants amusement. However, who reads a book if they don’t like the main character or plays a game if they dislike the rules, just pick something else. I would rather someone just let me know instead of humoring me because it causes confusion. I recently decided to back off, left him alone, at first I thought I won’t even respnd if he calls, emails or texts. So I wasn’t totally surprised when he called, cause all men will call, but I was surprised with my response of unabashed excitement. Although now the question is did my little silent hibernation elicit a response? I was happy when he suggested that we get together, and he invited me to a poetry reading. Cool something different, but yet familiar. I went through my love jones phase back in college. During that time it was unacceptable not try and get in touch with one’s inner poet. Everyone is not a poet, but you couldn’t tell by our regular attendance at poetry readings. Plus I thought it would be fun since I hadn’t been to a poetry reading in ages.

I didn’t know what to wear. I know that looking earthy doesn’t work for me, so I just decide to wear jeans and a shirt. I went through three jeans and shirt outfits. One was too prissy for a poetry reading, the other too militant for me and the last one was just plain ugly. I ended up going with something that reminded me of what a j.crew cowgirl might look like. I put makeup on and then took it off. I thought anything more than mascara and gloss would be too much for a poetry reading. Natural beauty is more accepted on the pseudo-underground scene. Anyway what was all this concern especially for someone who I had decided wasn’t interested? All I knew was that I was excited and I felt like I was preparing for my close up literally and figuratively.

He picked me up and I am certain that he saw the glee and joy in my eyes, but I tried to remain calm and cool. While writing this I just realized that maybe my eagerness to see and please was written across my forehead and that IS the problem. When we arrived I discovered that he reserved a table on Friday, but considering we didn’t make plans until Saturday I realized damn I’m just the insert girl here date. I didn’t care, I’m was just happy to be out with him. We sat down for a night of spoken word. At these types of events there are two types of poets: activist or lovers. Some day I want to go to a poetry reading and hear someone recite a poem about something simple liking eating their favorite food or their favorite toy as a child. I’m sure someone could come up with something tight about a nintendo. Of course there were several poems about just plain raunch and then there were the nice clean love poems. However, there was one in particular that fell in the middle that involved a guitar and it just hit the spot. And maybe it doesn’t take much these days because it’s been a while, actually let me be honest a loooooong time. Watching old people hold hands might excite me at this point. Also the fact that every so often he gave my thigh a nice, firm squeeze wasn’t helping. I realized dang I was getting excited. I tried to think thoughts about the laundry at my house, the magazines I needed to look through, the fact it’s Sunday and I had to return to work the next day. To my disappointment, none of this worked and then I started thinking this was done intentionally. Well if it was it worked because on the ride home I kept thinking about all kinds of delectable naughtiness. It required all my will power to keep from asking him what was his favorite position and could we pull over to try it.

 

So when we arrived at my house, my mind was racing. What do I say? Do I invite him up? This is the last stop on the line and I have to get off. While all these thoughts were racing through my mind, he just pulled in front of my elevator. He didn’t park, Dang! We got out of the car, he gave me a hug and a kiss on my CHEEK and merrily sent me on my way. He practically hopped and skipped back to his car. In the elevator, on the way to my home, I realized this had to be how guys felt at the end of an evening when the girl gives them a kiss on the cheek…goes into her house and locks the door behind her. The joke was totally on me! I had smooth, freshly shaven legs, no man and I was hot as h#ll. It really serves me right, since I should have left him alone. I should have never gone out with him in the first place. He isn’t interested.

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