Black-eyed husband. Screaming kids. Waking up at the butt-crack of dawn to a whining toddler…
I actually envy Becky.
How sick is that?
Because those things actually sound horrible. But in reality… they’re not.
The black-eyed husband? There to defend her.
Screaming kids? Just wanting hugs and attention.
Waking up at the butt-crack of dawn? To snuggles and giggling in one big, cozy bed.
I sigh and take a sip of the wine in front of me, waiting on my date. My date who is late. Late date. Oh look, I’m a rhymer now.
Another resigned sigh escapes my shiny red lips as I sit at the bar.
I’m not really looking forward to this date; I only agreed to go out with this guy because GreatDane51 still hasn’t asked me out yet. Hasn’t even asked for my number, which is usually what most guys ask for after chatting online for a few days.
Not GreatDane51. He’s a late bloomer, that one. Or not that interested.
I’m dying to talk to him, curious about so many things: his voice, his hobbies, his job. He shares plenty with me, but after my experience with Mickey Mouse Mike, I’m not leaving anything to chance. And I think I’m ready to get a little more personal with him.
Tonight, however, I’m meeting another Mike. The fourth Mike since I started online dating. It’s a miracle I can tell all these guys apart! They all seem to have the same name: Mike, Dave, or Jason.
This Mike works for a brewery and has a degree from an Ivy League college. In my mind, I’ve already started calling him Harvard, and I suspect, if my experience with Ivy Leaguers is accurate, Mike is going to exhibit some of the following qualities:
- Arrogance
- Arrogance
- Arrogance
He’s flying in tonight from a business trip and coming directly from the airport to meet me, which is one of the reasons he’s late.
My phone dings. It’s a text from Becky.
Becky: Are you still sitting there?
Me: Yup.
Becky: How long are you going to wait?
Me: Well, he’s been updating me… I just hope he isn’t too tired from his trip. He’s coming right from the airport.
Becky: Oohhhh, he must really want to meet you! That’s a good thing, right? Wait. This is the Ivy League guy, right?
Me: Yeah. Shoot, I think he’s texting me.
Becky: Was it him?
Me: Yup! He’s about 2 minutes away!
Becky: WOOO HOOOO. Hey. Are you going to… you know… with this one?
Me: I’m thinking about it! We’ll see… At this point, I’m desperate for some action.
Becky: Or maybe he’s second date material.
Me: Well, if he’s not, I have that jar of Sex Fifth Avenue in my purse.
Becky: That cream from the SEX SHOP? Stop it. YOU DO NOT!
Me: Want me to send you a picture?
Becky: No!!!!
Becky: Ok fine. Yes.
Laughing, we text a few more minutes before Harvard arrives. I know it must be him because his presence fills the room as he stands in the entryway, scanning the crowd. I know when he finds me, because his eyes change. They seem to light up with interest.
He likes what he sees, and so do I.
Now, normally I don’t go for blond guys, but Harvard pulls it off well. Hair that’s not too short, ruffled like he’s run his fingers through it a dozen times on the car ride over. Blue eyes I can see from here, and a mouth full of perfect white teeth.
His jawline is a little weak, but the smile more than makes up for it.
We flow, ease into conversation, never missing a beat as we browse the menu and order our food. His baby-blue dress shirt highlights his tan, and I ask where he’s been.
California, to visit his college buddy.
“He had this wild party last week. It’s annual and I go every year. Here, I have a picture if you want to see it. I went as a caveman.” Harvard digs in his pocket and unlocks his phone, tapping open his photo gallery and grinning when he finds the picture from Halloween.
I smile with anticipation when he thrusts the phone at me.
My smile fades immediately.
“Um. So… um…”
I’m staring down at Harvard, bare-chested, a brown leather loincloth wrapped around his waist. He’s grinning down at a silicone-enhanced blonde, who is…
“She’s sucking on your nipple.” There’s no other polite way to say it.
“Yeah. The party was wild.” Happily, Harvard cuts into the juicy rib eye on his plate, shaking his head at what appears to be an amazing memory. Or mammary.
Whatever.
“When was this taken?”
His forkful of steak pauses by his mouth. “Last week?”
We were chatting and flirting last week. Ew!
“Well, it looks like you enjoyed yourself.” My mind takes me to a place I didn’t want it to go. The bedroom.
Visuals of my future with him: me sitting at home while half-naked Mike gets his body licked and sucked by wannabe Playboy bunnies. Me sitting at home while naked Mike bangs some collegian in a bar bathroom.
Now that I know what his bare chest looks like, my gaze slides down his body, burning holes into the front of his baby-blue dress shirt. I squint, imagining my fingers undoing each pearl button.
What a pig.
Him, not me.
However… “Do you do this sort of thing often?” I can’t help asking. I have to know. Coming from a relationship where my spouse was unfaithful, I have to know without asking outright. I need to know if a guy like Mike can be monogamous.
“Sometimes. I like to let loose. Work is so stressful.”
I cringe inwardly, knowing I have my answer. Another one bites the dust.
I regroup quickly, knowing the evening doesn’t have to be a waste, despite this turn of events. We flirt. Laugh. Talk. He tells me that when it came to his education, it was harder to get in to the Ivy Leagues than it was to go there. Once you get accepted, the course loads are a breeze.
Mike, for his part, is definitely into me, and while I rate him a five overall for partner/spouse potential, his hard body is delicious and manscaped and an overall nine.
A nine.
And I can’t let that just walk out the door.
When the bill comes, he pays and we stand. Shamelessly, I let my eyes trail slowly up and down the length of him, settling on the zipper of his pants. He watches me watching, the pervert, with a smug smile. Those bright, perfect teeth.
Too bad Harvard is kind of a d-bag.
“Come back to my place,” he says with no preamble. No sweet talk. No offer of a nightcap or continuing the date. Harvard cuts right to the chase.
“I’d love to,” I say, and before I can say one-night stand, I’m following Harvard’s Lexus through a quaint little neighborhood. He pulls into the driveway of a cute 1950s bungalow and cuts his engine as I park on the street.
We walk inside, and I check out his house. Dark. Leather. A map framed in a white shadowbox above the fireplace has keys inside of it.
“Those are the keys to all the places I’ve lived, and their cities pinned on the map.”
“That is so cool,” I enthuse, making a mental note to make my own. I get close up, looking at the map, and the little pins with the red dots pinned on cities throughout the United States. Yeah, I could totally make one of these. Becky would love this. She lived plenty of places growing up. I could make her one for Christmas. That would earn me so many best friend points.
Wait. Would she even have any of the keys to any of her old places? Erm, probably not. She throws everything out and always wants me to throw out my crap, too. Well, there goes that idea…
No extra-credit best friend points for me, dammit.
“My ex-wife made it,” he continues, shucking his jacket and hanging it on a dining room chair.
“Oh?” Whoa! He was married? “What happened there?” I don’t mean to pry, but since I’m never going to be seeing this guy again, I don’t bother hiding my curiosity. Waiting, I assume he’s going to give me a sob story about her cheating ways, or how they got married too young and grew apart, or all they did was fight…
“She got fat.”
I swear, my eyes bug out. He did not just say that. “What?” I damn near shout. “You’re kidding me, right?” In my life, I have never…
“I know, right? The fucking nerve.”
“Wait. You’re not kidding.” It’s a statement, not a question.
Harvard begins unbuttoning his shirt, the white collar of an undershirt appearing one button at a time.
He laughs at my outrage. “No, I’m not kidding. She gained twenty pounds the last year we were married.” His shirt falls to the floor, and he leaves it there.
I cross and uncross my arms indignantly. “You’re such an ass.”
He laughs again. “It’s because I can.”
“You can what?” I ask incredulously.
“I can be an ass,” he explains. “We both know what we’re here for tonight, so why try to be anything other than what we are?”
Oh please, I want to scoff, because, like I said, he’s really only a five. Who does he think he is, a movie star? Don Dean? Hardly.
“Let’s go upstairs.”
I expect him to walk over and take my hand, but he doesn’t.
What a douchebag!
Still, he’s right.
And as much as I hate myself for it, watching his back muscles flex beneath his tight white undershirt causes my hormones to move my left leg, then right, until I’m climbing the stairs behind him, and checking out his ass the entire time.
Douche bag or not, I plan on having an orgasm tonight.
“Your body is amazing,” Harvard says moments later when I’m naked, watching me from the foot of the bed. I’m sprawled out on top of his fluffy white duvet cover. A dick he may be, but he has excellent taste in bed linens.
“I know,” I retort, deciding to match his arrogance. “I hit the gym on a regular basis.” And watch my friend Becky workout while walking on the treadmill at a tiring speed of two point oh.
I raise my arms above my head, and let him look. He’s naked too, all white chested and hung like a freaking porn star. My mouth waters as Harvard moves up my body, that hard erection brushing my inner thighs as he climbs towards me.
We kiss, his lips soft and pliant. Mmm… yummy, yummy kisses. Kisses I haven’t had in a long time, and now is no time for him to be greedy.
Or selfish with them.
My date wastes no time with foreplay, and he reaches into the nightstand, grabbing and rolling on a condom. His large palm cups my breast, groping with little skill or concern for my pleasure.
I sigh.
How annoying.
Honestly, I feel like I’m about to get banged by a nineteen-year-old frat boy. And not a frat boy with any skill.
For a brief moment, as his fingers cup my crotch, I picture the blonde in his photograph sucking on his nipple. The least he can do is suck on mine.
But Harvard is a greedy asshole and goes right for the strike.
Except… it’s too big.
He’s too big.
And with little foreplay—boob-grabbing does not count—there isn’t much to ease the transition of him sliding in, if you know what I mean. Ugh, do I have to spell it out? Okay, fine: he didn’t make me wet.
There, I said it.
The bastard didn’t get me wet, so his dick won’t slide in.
Shit.
And here I was, giving Becky a hard time about her issues in the bedroom. Man, she is going to eat this story up. On second thought, it will cheer her up considerably, which totally works in my favor given I scrapped the DIY shadowbox project and now have zero gift ideas for her.
“You’re so tight, baby,” Harvard mutters, still unable to get his erection inside me.
“Mike, I don’t think this is working,” I point out, wiggling beneath him impatiently. “Maybe if you… ahem.” I wiggle my hips again, clear my throat, and nod downward, hoping he’ll take the hint, abort his mission, and go down on me.
He sucks.
And also… he doesn’t.
In the end, he ends up rolling off me and pouting, “Just forget it,” into the dark before climbing out of bed and stomping like a baby into his master bathroom. I lie there, staring up at the ceiling, completely exhausted. Not from being spent, but from the long workday and the mental anguish from being turned on with no relief.
I can’t masturbate in his bed, can I? Would that be rude?
I think about the Sex Fifth Avenue still at the bottom of my purse and sigh.
Me: Prepare to be excited. I’m about to make your whole night.
Becky: Yes, yes, I’m listening. rubs hands together gleefully
Me: This date was bad. So bad on so many levels.
Becky: Bad as in, “What a psycho!” or bad like, “I accidentally called him Harvard to his face.”
Me: He was bad. And by bad, I mean in bed. I’m not sure he really knew where to stick it.
Becky: WHAT???
Me: Yeah, seriously. He couldn’t stick it in.
Becky: I don’t get it. Was he a virgin?
Me: NO BECKY. He was thirty-four and showed me a picture during dinner of himself getting his NIPPLES LICKED at a party last weekend. So one would assume…
Becky: It’s like I tell the kids: never assume. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You know how I love to give advice.
Me: I could use some advice, actually, because what I’m doing does NOT seem to be working.
Becky: Now THAT I like the sound of…
Date No. 4: Harvard
Overall impression: Nice smile. Arrogant douchebag
Cons: Horrible in bed.
Verdict: Big head. Pun intended.