I know we already skipped ahead to the ropes because Thursdays
exist, but it’s time to backtrack a little. When The Song Sender texted me the Sunday
morning before our Wednesday plans to iron out the details, I swooned. There’s
seriously nothing hotter than not having to chase someone down for logistics.
Plus, I thought it might mean he and his girlfriend were working on their
calendars, and that made me feel all warm and fuzzy, like welcome to polytown, TSS.
But really it was mostly about the logistics. I like
being all Virgo-y. I have calendar reminders set for every friend, for checking
on my niece who is going through her first breakup, for futile reminders that I
should vacuum a little each week. I like structure and predictability in ways
that run counter to how sex, love, and romance like to operate, though oddly
compatible with my BDSM mind. NOT compatible with some of the young millennial treats
who’ve come and gone this past year.
So yes, oh my goodness, plans. And a guy my own age! By
the time I was driving downtown to meet him, some of the dizzy unsureness had
simmered down, but neither of us was sure if it was a date or not. In the
neighborhood where we were meeting up, someone had stickered the stop signs to
say “stop giving up” and I took that as all kinds of different advice.
He looked tidy and gentlemanly when I saw him there
waiting, wearing a nicely-chosen blue plaid shirt. His grizzled mutton chops (Which,
along with his bear-size and insistent blue eyes, make him look like if you
looked up “dom” in the dictionary) were freshly trimmed—he’d already sent me a
post-haircut selfie.
We hugged hello and he let out an affable growl. There
was a feeling of being pawed-at even though I wasn’t, and that felt VERY
pleasant. I was a LITTLE more sure it was a date.
No comments:
Post a Comment