Fifty Shades didn’t ask me if I wanted to see him today or if I still wanted to do dinner on the beach; he told me that’s what we’re doing. Mmm mmmm….confident men, man…I’M SOLD. I always appreciate a man that knows exactly what he wants and has a SET PLAN for a date. Nothing’s more annoying than a guy who asks me, “So, what do you wanna do?” Mother fucker I would wanna do you if you had an awesome date planned…too fuckin bad.
He gives me the address to his place. Nice try Don Juan; not a chance in hell I’m meeting you at your place when I just met your ass yesterday on the side of the street while you were rolling on Molly outside of the club telling me you’re looking for casual sex (yes, I’m fully aware of the fact that I’m the dumb hoe who fell for this tactic, but let’s just keep the focus on him, shall we?).
He apologizes for possibly giving off the wrong message and tells me I can park on Main St., suggesting we meet at a bar instead if that makes me feel more comfortable.
I appreciate the option. I kindly inform him that it’s not him, it just comes with the territory of being a 4-foot-11 female. This suggestion in and of itself makes me feel comfortable enough to just meet him at his place. Yes, I can be very easy if you’ve yet to pick up on this tidbit yourself thus far.
I decide to wear a tight, purple, spandex Maxi dress for our date. It’s a long halter dress that dips down into a V-shape just below the center of my tits and flows all the way down to my feet. It’s tight enough so that it still shows the curves of my ass, yet long and flowing so it covers up my protruding belly and the fact that I gorged on a bacon, cheddar cheese croissant-wich about an hour earlier. It’s all about strategy my friends; the dress firmly states, “I may look innocent, cute, and girly, but I’m a filthy slutty bad bitch underneath RAWR!”
I’m entirely too perplexed to have any ill-conceived presumptions or qualms about the events that may transpire tonight. Frankly, I’m going because I’m too unbearably curious to see what the FUCK this guy is REALLY like when he’s NOT on drugs. That and I desperately need to see if he’s a good lay. A man who can lift me up onto him and thrust my arms up over my head while he makes out with me only to leave me hangin (literally) and be confident enough to know that I’ll definitely wanna see him the next day is more than enough to get me out of my clothes and into his lap. I can just tell he’s gonna be so super filthy and dirty, too (I pride myself on having a sixth sense for these things). In other words, he’ll be fucking fantastic and I’ll have some fantastic fucking tonight.
Before leaving, I do my usual MASS TEXT of his address to all my friends in Los Angeles, demanding that, “IF YOU DON’T HEAR FROM ME BY MIDNIGHT COME FIND ME!!!! HE IS MURDERING MEEE!!!!!” as I wonder whether or not any of them would actually notice or, further, give a fuck to try to find my mangled, naked body. Guess we’ll see.
On the drive over, I realize that Fifty Shades lives two blocks from Beach Blender. Fuck, man, why must God INSIST on making me shit where I eat?!?! Arriving at his little bungalow-entrenched apartment in Santa Monica, I walk up to meet him at his front steps
Me: *stunned and almost speechless at how beautiful he is* Well hello again, Sir. ARE YOU ON DRUGS?!?!!
Him: *raising his hands in defense* Whoa…NO! Are you…?
Me: (OK good!) No I’m not haha.
Fifty Shades gives a little smirk and kisses me on my cheek. The boy. is. stunning. He looks like an older, blonder, buffer version of Zac Efron, wearing a tight, army-green Banana Republic sweater and a pair of dark-wash jeans. Fuck, man…he wants to wine and dine me. I abruptly scold myself as I catch….myself (hehe)…thinking he’s somehow hotter and better than me, which I know damn well isn’t the case. When I see white and blonde I tend to immediately look at myself and say, “Short, dark brown piece of poo!!!” (Residual effects from having grown up in the all-white, upper-middle class suburbs of New Jersey) However, I always eventually and quickly recover…THANK GOD. It’s just been some time since I’ve literally been fascinated with how beautiful a man was. Consider me fascinated right now.
Leading me inside, Fifty Shades makes sure to leave his apartment door wide open, a gesture I greatly appreciate as it means he’s considerate of my need to feel safe and secure in a complete STRANGER’S home. That or he was raised in a barn and is an idiot fuck with no manners. I’m gonna go with the former rather than the latter. Taking my seat at his desk by the kitchen, I look around and realize there isn’t much personality to the place; barren wooden floors with no throw rugs or fixtures laying about, no pictures of family or friends posted anywhere, a black leather couch with no pillows, and three paintings of palm trees on the walls. Hmm. In this instant, I begin to note with extreme curiosity how Fifty Shades speaks to me: He uses succinctly perfect grammar, his face void of emotional expression, and he stands with a poised and proper positioning in such a way that you wouldn’t think we were in the comforts of his home. In fact, he’s carrying himself in a mannerism that conveys this is a place he quite possibly takes women to seduce and MURDER them. Yeah, that sounds about right. Just picture that.
After asking, “Would you care for a glass of wine or perhaps a light pilsner?” I can’t remember if he told me he was 27 or 57; instead of laughing he smirks and squints his eyes, he says, “Yes” instead of “Yeah”, has yet to curse (I know I can never speak one sentence without adding in a FUCKING or CUNTY), and he speaks only in full grammatically appropriate sentences (i.e “I think the dress you are wearing is quite lovely” as opposed to “Nice dress bitch”). All prim and proper and shit, Fifty Shades is carrying himself in a very meticulously controlled, yet polite and respectable manner. He is a gentleman at that.
He’s also a salesman and I’m a therapist. Aside from the suspicious way in which he carries himself and the absence of personality in his apartment, I’m completely comfortable in his presence and with our conversation. At one point, he tells me that he lost his job a couple weeks prior, is starting a new one on Monday and that it’s all a “very long emotional story.” Being the therapist that I am (meaning I LATCH ON to aspects of conversation dealing with emotions…ugh FUCK ME), I tell him that “I just got here..we’ve got time,” giving Fifty Shades an innocent smirk as I wait in silence.
After letting out a deep, telling sigh and running his one hand firmly through his hair, Fifty Shades paces and stares off as he begins to recount how he was the top salesman at his job, had closed the largest multimillion-dollar deal for the company to date, and how his boss then fired him the day after, thus collecting millions in his hard earned commissions for himself. Ouch. As he discusses this story, Fifty Shades continuously balls his fists and cocks his head menacingly to the side while sarcastically smiling and slightly twitching. He is quite obviously ridden with explosive, intensifying anger…and here I am in the room with it, waiting for him to erupt and strangle the shit out of me. Oh fuck…
As I watch him grow immensely more angry, evidently trying desperately to control any expression of the latter, Fifty Shades states harshly through gritted teeth, “Can we change the subject?” more so telling me he’s going to, rather than requesting. Completely aware of how TERRIFIED and uncomfortable I am at this point, I slowly and cautiously confess to Fifty Shades that I have a way of being unintentionally invasive, apologizing if my line of questioning had caused any anger or discomfort, wondering if I should run for my life NOW and if I should pepper spray him first to make sure he doesn’t chase me. Like night and day, Fifty Shades smiles warmly, shrugs, and suggests we head to the restaurant, taking my hand in his and bringing it up to his lips to kiss it. Uhhh…WHAT THE FUCK?
I’m scared…and horny. I’m utterly conflicted.
Shrugging, I grab my purse and let him lead me out. You know what they say, “Crazy in the head, crazy in the bed.” Guess we’ll see…