“You scare me a little bit with how direct you are, Ann,” the 54 year old creative type texted last night. “Remember, I write poetry.” Sigh.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I disliked most poetry: it’s not my thing. After our brief after-dinner drink last week, he’s been communicative and sweet. He told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me and felt like a teenager. But he’s too saccharine at times – he said I was a “little sweetheart”, two words I would ever use to describe myself.
We will see how the second date goes, when we get to it.
One of the contractors and I were supposed to meet last night. For a rough around the edges guy, he’d been remarkably responsive and kind.
We aren’t soul mates, but over a shared platter of nachos we talked about astrological signs and his pet snakes (!) and I stared at his muscular hands and forearms.
We aren’t soul mates, but I’d fuck him.
We had plans for a second date drink in my neighbourhood. My plan was to have a couple of drinks then take him back to my place. We’d confirmed just a couple of hours before, but when I sent him the exact address he didn’t reply.
Texting with two girlfriends, the consensus was he was an insensitive jerk who had stood me up. It didn’t feel right, but it was odd.
A couple of hours later he texted “Ann I’m so so sorry… I fell asleep on my couch.” We spoke on the phone.
He was sincere.
I was horny.
It was 10 pm. I hadn’t had sex in three weeks. I asked him what he thought about still coming over. I told him it was definitely now booty call territory.
“Ummm, yeah, that’s cool… is that what you want?” He asked, clearly not used to such transparency.
“Too transparent?” I asked.
“No, not at all. If you want me to come over, I’m all good. I will follow your lead.”
“Well, I need the stress release. Come on over.”
He was nervous as fuck. A ball of jittery energy. But he got over it enough to prove he had mad oral skills, a functioning average penis, and really, really, strong arms.