Miss me? That fucking headache nearly killed me dear reader. It was fucking close. I drank far too much Nyquil and slept for 14 hours. It was exactly what the doctor ordered.
But you do not give two tugs of a dead dog’s cock about my head. No. You want to know how the date went. Pins and needles. Anticipation.
Dinner felt like too little of an opportunity to get to know each other. So I brought up maybe a museum first. She was down. I figured Modern Art is a great gauge of someone because it either amazing or outright shit.
I picked her up. Cause I am classy. Even got out and opened her door. Like a fucking pimp. Or gentleman. Whatever. Same difference. She was a vision. I was me. Ugh.
I am usually a good driver but I was distracted as shit and missed like three turns. Smooth Criminal right here people. She did not notice but I sure as shit did.
Great conversation the entire drive. She kept touching me. which the internet teaches is a sign of interest. Approaching it from the detached angle it was going well.
Ever just have the irresistible urge to kiss someone? It settled upon me nearly instantly. But I am a gentleman. Remember?
The sky was pissing furiously. We sat in the parking spot and talked missing three good chances to go in and be only slightly damp. Yes I forgot the god damned umbrella. Again. It is in the fucking car now but far too little, far too fucking late.
The museum was small as shit. And everything seemed to have an overtly sexual angle. If it was not just fucking ridiculous. Meh. This is not a judgement on art as much as on my lack of taste. Some of the paintings were breathtaking. A Graphite boat on an ocean of claws or some such shit was wonderful. Enthralling.
The weird geometric shapes performing the oddest 69 was not. Nor the smashed silverware hanging from fishing line that requires a guard so people do not pretend it is a kinetic machine.
And there was this fucking tube of toothpaste hanging from the ceiling with blood red paste hanging out.
I kissed her by that.
It was nice and sweet. Like me.
We left and drove. She had never seen the stockyards so I regaled her with tales of urinating in the parking lot. Fate allowed us to park in spot 69. After the painting it was time to take it back. Seriously.
We held hands and looked at horses and bulls. It was hot as fuck. But fun.
Then we went to dinner. It was nice and filled with genuine conversation. Time flew. Neither of us was ready for it to end. We considered going back to my place but we both knew exactly what was going to end up happening if we did.
Sex. We would have made the beast with two backs. Ten toes up, ten down. Bump uglies. Vaginal penetration. Gotten laid. Screwed. Banged. Squelching noises. Fluid exchange.
This would have been wonderful. But not yet. So I kissed her gently and took her home. Fucking right proper gentleman right here motherfuckers.
Anyhoo. Modern Art is for pseudo intellectuals to ponder. If I want to make odd shapes and colors simulate sex I can do that at home. With lotion and mood lighting. Maybe some 70s soul playing softly.