I decide to invite Georgia Girl and a couple of her friends to accompanty me to the country club, where we go swimming in the pool and sip mojitos under the sunbrellas. We have a great time; I throw her off the side of the pool, we have a swimming contest, and then the girls lay out in the sun to try and work on their tans while I sit next to her and make wonderful conversation.
She’s smart, she’s funny, and she just loves to laugh. She seems so carefree. So relaxed. Like nothing can – or ever will – bother her. And yet deep down inside I can see she’s a cynic; she’s a thinker. Her eyes dart back and forth smoothly, taking every last bit of information in. She’s got smarts.
She gets up, stretching her perfect, tanned figure out in her white swimming suit, then gives me one of those looks as she dives elegantly into the pool. She swims the whole length underwater, and once she reaches the other end, she comes up slowly out of the water, nose first. Just like in the movies, her hair falls straight back as she wipes the excess water off her face. Her boobs are floating on the water. I catch my mouth dropping slightly, so I hit the diving board.
I completely fuck up the one-and-a-half, belly flopping with the intensity and splendor of a drunk sea lion. After a few choice curse words muttered underwater, I come back up to find her laughing out loud at me – accompanied by her friends and like thirteen kids that suddenly materialized out of nowhere. “It was on purpose, weirdos. You act like I hate bellyflopping like Shamoo or something.”
Thank God for the rum in my system, otherwise that might have hurt more than it did. I’m sure I’ll feel that one tomorrow. I swim over to her, and she’s smiling ear to ear. I take her hands and pull her over to the corner. I pull her close and I stare into her eyes, looking deep inside to see what I can find. I see genuine happiness, a little sarcasm, and a spark. That’s good enough for me.
I lean in and kiss her on the forehead. She smiles at me, smirks maliciously, and throws her arms around me as she delves into a deep, huge kiss. I would have said something to the kids, but I wasn’t about to stop this girl. I just put my hands on her hips and let her do all the work. By the time both of us came up for air, we were both smiling like idiots. And her friends were all just shaking their heads with the absurdity of it all.
I took her downtown later that night to a new creperie I’ve heard about, and we enjoyed our dinner. My phone was ringing off the hook, but I dared not answer it. I knew my crew was itchin’ to go downtown and get my ass drunk (apparently, it’s a great time. Or so I hear). We got a complimentary dessert crepe from the owner (you’re so cute together!), and she chowed down on it as if it was going out of style. Apparently, this girl knows exactly what she likes, and goes for it. Which is good. Especially if she likes me.
I take her back home to my pad, and I pour a couple cocktails as I put one of my favorite romantic comedies. She cuddles up next to me, and we laugh and joke the whole way through. I’d tell you which one, but then I’d have to kill you. It’s one of my secrets. The girls absolutely love it, and even though I know every single line in the movie, I still laugh out loud. By the time the credits roll, she heads to the bathroom to freshen up (probably some bubblegum to mask her breath). When she comes back, she smirks at me, pushes me over on my couch, and jumps on me.
Oh, shit. It’s on.
She attacks me with kisses. She’s swirling her sly tongue in and out of my mouth, and it’s driving me crazy with desire. I pull her hair back and kiss and nibble on her neck, and she lets out an audible moan of surprise and satisfaction. She likes it.
I slowly let my hands work their way down to the back of her neck, then to her shoulders, then to her arms and her side. I start working my way back up towards the finish line at the Twin Peaks when she grabs my hands and shakes her head not even close.
What the fuck? This is supposed to be turbo-dating! According to my calculations, day two would approximate out to two months, and by the evening it would be pushin’ three! So what gives?
Without missing a beat, my hands work their way around and non-threateningly back up to her shoulders and neck. She’s kissing me with definite passion, that’s for sure, but now I can’t tell what her motives are anymore.
Does she just want to be make-out buddies? Is she waiting for later? Is she a virgin? Does she have a fucking douchebag boyfriend back home she’s guilty about? My mind is racing, and I can’t even feel my lips moving anymore.
“What’s wrong? Is it because – oh, that.”
“No, no, it was my mistake. I shouldn’t have even done something so crude. I apologize. This is only our second day knowing each other, and I keep forgetting that.”
She looks down, pulling her hair away from her eyes. She sits down. “There’s something I…forgot to tell you.”
Oh, God. Here it comes.
continued tomorrow…
Today’s Daily Challenge: Give out a High-Five-Who’s-Gay. That means every time you see someone you know (buddies, coworkers, bosses, neighbors, and grandparents), go ahead and give ‘em some skin, my man. I’m talkin’ at least twice per conversation ("Long time no see! High-five! Leavin’? Ok, well, high-five, then!"). Just when you get everybody feeling good about themselves with all these rad high-fives, approach someone you don’t like and right after asking them for a high-five, right at the apex exclaim, “Who’s gay!?”
They’ll sit there stunned with their hand straight up in the air while everybody stares and laughs.
Congratulations! You win!
By Robert Shagwell | Jul 28, 2005 | Permalink |
