We met in Vegas…he had a table with apparently his production team…I was there with a bunch of Jersey dudes (don’t ask).
I’m not taken with him at first…but I’d be lying if I said my ears don’t perk up when I hear him say, in a British accent so thick you’d think he was Adelle on heroine…”Ay…woy doughn’tchu cum en seet wif ahs?”
I look over and he shrugs…shrugs and blushes to be precise.
THIS mother fucker is shrugging and blushing.
Was he not aware of the overwhelming amount of social clout and status he had on me at this point?
Tall, full head of blonde hair, blue eyes, BRITISH, and from what I would later learn…a very well-known TV personality.
(Something like that I dunno I don’t watch TV wtf who DOES THAT?! #netflixallday)
He smells like cinnamon, cherries, and manly mahogany all rolled into the perfect mix of rich successful foreign white dude.
In the sea of single women crowding around him I’m surprised I’m even this close to hear or smell him.
In between girls fiending for free drinks and men subconsciously conveying to one another which one of these women was gonna be theirs, my brown eyes meet his blue.
He motions for me to come over.
I sit down next to him, crossing my legs toward him, and squint to SEE if there’s something in him that should make me feel shitty about myself, very aware of the fact that other girls were now ANGRY that he made room for ME.
I squint hard to really look at what the big deal is SUPPOSED to be…kinda like a calculus equation I KNOW would hand my ass to me but somehow know I can take at the same time.
Mmmm if I should be so lucky!
He doesn’t like this…he giggles uncomfortably and puts his hands up into a bigger shrug, his palms facing up, now Britishly bashful when demanding, “Whuuuuuh?! Have ah got sumtheeng on ma fayce?!”
I soften my hard squint into a soft smirk, take his hands in mine, and simply say, “I see you, Sir.”
He softens in turn, looking at me when he let’s out a seemingly gracious, “Thank yew fuh tha’”
We don’t speak or separate all night, but rather spend the next 4 hours swaying between the dance floor, to the tables, to the couches, to the roof…the only conversations being had in the touching of our foreheads and the lacing of our fingers.
It’s too easy, all of it.
My fingers in his hair, his fingers up my thighs.
I can be easy…I can be VERY EASY when I wanna be…and yet easy for The Brit does nothing for me.
He’s behind me when I feel the slightest of a slither on my neck…his tongue now telling me I’m going under…I’m drowning…I’m submitting…I’m losing.
I take his whole face in my hand like a giant grapefruit and ever so gently push that shit OFF ME!
I turn around and face him…and when I look at him he slyly smirks in confusion…giving his boyish, “Whuuuhh?” as we stand still interlaced and silent amidst the noise.
And in this moment I realize, if he tries to fuck me…I will gladly fuck HIM.
But then what?
I’ve had one night stands before…have GLADLY had one night stands before…and yet this is different.
I’m not putting in work for this…HE’S not putting in ANY work for this.
I know what you’re thinking, “Girls don’t have to WORK to have one-night stands!”
Well SORRY (not sorry) I don’t fuck easy boys…I take no pleasure in that.
I enjoy working hard to seduce…I enjoy BEING hard to seduce.
This is…hmm…it’s too easy for him and too easy for me.
Believe it or not, women LOVE working to get a man…
Just like you wouldn’t accept the first dumpster pussy that landed in your lap…women SURE AS HELL don’t accept easy-ass dumpster dick!
And to me…dumpster dick is anything I donn’t VORACIOUSLY work to sit on.
I take his chin in my right hand…and his confusion and excitement grows as his arms cross…giving me another one of his now infamous, “Whuuuuuuuuuh?? Yor sillay…”
Now grabbing his face in both my hands, I tippy toe my forehead up to his, his side smile now stretching and his cross-arms now breaking, I tell him, “Keep up” as I break from him embrace and dive deep into the crowd behind me.
I look behind me to see him jumping in place…searching the sea of sequins and quickly spotting me, now parting the sea as he laughs and bumps and gets yelled at by busily dancing patrons.
I run hop over a velvet couch and into somebody else’s private seating area.
Two Persian men…they look like they’re plotting my murder when I land in between them.
“HIDE ME!” I say as I giggle my way into a ball with their bottle of vodka in my lap…hugging it like a sniper would his rifle in anticipatory battle.
Somehow they laugh as well as they see The Britt spot me, blush, and sheepishly shrug and point at me.
The 2 persian/apparently unmurderous men walk over to The Brit, giving him bro taps on the shoulder as they leave their own table.
DAMMIT…Bros Before Hoes…(or Aliens Before Americans?)
How could I forget?
I get up and dance my way to the Brit…bottle of Belvediere moving smoothly with me as I saunter up to him, him smirking endearingly as if he’s watching a tea-cup pig YouTube video…
I mock him with an accented, “Whuuuuuuuuuh? Whuuuuuuu they say tuh you?”
He laughs and grabs me, pressing again his forehead to mine, and says, “Thay sed good luck with yew…yew seem like trouble…and th-air’s 2 mo bo’les of vodka comin out ON them”
I pull away to give an impressed squint at The Brit, him less-so as he continues with, “Ya gonna haff tuh do be’uh than tha! Maybe YEW neyd to keep up”
I grab my Belvedere and make a bee-line for the stairs at the stage.
The bouncer initially stopping me to say, “Ayo you need a special wrist band fa up here” and me replying with, “But I’ve never been here before and I just wanna see…” as I smirk and twirl my hair.
I have no idea what this does to men…but it does something…cuz he told me to go ahead then.
What IS IT with guys and this move?!
I’m now on the stage as I see The Britt laughing on the dance floor.
He couldn’t keep up.
And somehow…I’m ok with that…relieved at that, even.
I stay on the stage for the rest of the night…whether as a means to really toy with this boy…or to prevent some sort of subduing of my sexual control.
I needed an out…and this was it…so I took it.
I eventually wear out my welcome on the stage and find The Britt still waiting below me to carry me off.
It’s been at least an hour since our kid-like conniptions around the club so suffice it to say the spark has ceased.
And I’m ok with that.
We walk hand in hand back to my hotel room.
Drunk girls screaming, “YOU GUYS ARE GONNA FUCK!” as he giggles and graciously squeezes my left hand in his, me toting my high heels in the other.
I like him…I really really REALLY do….
I kiss his hand and I don’t know why.
Why is he still here?
Why did he not spend that hour of me gone trying to fuck something else
Now, I’m mad and I don’t know why.
We get to my hotel room and he holds my hands in his, the both of us facing each other faces down, giggling like little kids who both know that first base is around the corner.
My back against my room door, I say, “I had fun” my eyes involuntarily avoiding his, more surprised in my tone than revealing.
He presses his forehead to mine again, “Lissen…ay relly wont tuh kess yew…would tha bey awl roit?”
Oh my God…he asked?
He ASKED to kiss me…
I don’t like being ASKED for permission to be so taken by me…permission to want me…permission to act on you wanting me.
I HATE THAT!
And in this moment I’m relieved…
I can’t bear to be HIS nail and bail tonight.
But I could damn sure be the girl who tells him “No.”