To reiterate this point from a previous blog post, no I don’t just meet mother fuckers on the side of the street, take them home with me, let them feel me up and lick me up and down while my girlfriend is passed out in the bed next to us, and then agree to dinner, chocolates, and wine on the beach with them the next day. Unfortunately for me (and maybe fortunately for all hopeful men around the world using this tactic to get laid on a Friday night), I can no longer attest to being adamantly against this considering this is EXACTLY what I did the night prior.
Uhh. Ooops. Hehe.
After my romp and roll earlier at 3-5 in the morning with a complete stranger from the street, I’m more than surprised (to say the least) when I get a text from Fifty Shades requesting my presence in Santa Monica at 8 o’clock tonight for wine and dinner on the beach. Fo reeeeeeeeeeeeal, kid? Let me clarify for a moment, I was PLEASANTLY surprised that I’d gotten such a text.
To my dismay and oblivious surrender of romantic ideals, I don’t necessarily expect to hear from somebody with whom I conducted myself inappropriately and ridiculously while under the influence of heavy drugs. Like hellooooooooooooooo, you were there man; did you not see how easy it was for you to make it into my bed?! You’re not supposed to call me! I really don’t give a shit if I never hear from you again. Furthermore, you’re not supposed to wine and dine me. These are the rules and I do well always to abide by them rightly and justly. Otherwise, I’d hafta come face to face with some embarrassing shit the morning after. NOT IDEAL. Trust me, it’s OK. I know this. This is why I, and everyone else, knows damn well that you don’t meet a respectable person who could potentially be the one at a bar or club. You meet them at Barnes & Noble…because they’re educated. And literate. Or homeless. Hit or miss, I guess.
I very much appreciate the gesture; romance and chivalry nowadays have diminished and dwindled down to nothing more than lost proprieties of a former time (me being completely guilty of accepting such a notion). I mean don’t we all sit there and hope and wish he’d call anyway? My definition of romantic at this age can sadly be sum up in one phrase: He texted me saying he wants to chill. AAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!! Sweetest guy everrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!! *insert awkward emoticon here* Saying he wants to do a picnic on the beach, too? WHAT WHAAAAAAAAAAT?!
Hopefully broken after this picnic.