I’m back! Quickly squeezing in a blog post (may or may not get to the end of our Mr. Z story tonight) in between a scarfed down dinner, shower, and bowling with friends. I absolutely suck at bowling, my friends will tell you that’s not the only thing I suck, but it is so much fun!
As always, once night settles, morning rises. My first morning of 2017 brought a wicked (you will see I throw out some Northern words/sayings occasionally) hangover and Mr. Z laying next to me. I thoroughly enjoy waking up to a gorgeous naked man in my bed, can I get an Amen?!? Lucky for me, I was not the only one waking up with a wicked hangover. It seems the alcohol had settled rough on the both of us. Waking up to him felt so normal, good conversation and excellent kissing. He regaled me with his version of the night before, my excellent kissing skills (I’ve only been told twice now that I am a good kisser, and I gotta say that is a confidence booster) and my drunken inviting-ness to doing the dirty (knocking boots/sealing the deal/boinking/SEX). Mr. Z calmly said, I basically told him to “put it in me” luckily in a slightly classier way and that he holds true to promises (damn clam jam). He did finally admit though, due to my inviting-ness and his level of alcohol intake, if I had had condoms, the deal would have been sealed. FUCK! Are you kidding me?!? Of course my own interference strategy holds true, usually I flip a big middle finger when condoms are missing and throw caution to the wind.
Tangent… I have been tested; again, again, and again. Yes I know that it’s unhealthy and extremely stupid. But try telling that to drunk M, you will receive a lot of “but so”. I am working on it!
After morning canoodling, Mr. Z decided champagne was the best solution to our hangovers. Finally, a man after my own heart. Gross, I mean alcoholic tendencies. Making my way to the kitchen, I am confronted with a shit ton, like a lot, of glitter. The glitter had finally settled, and it was all over my house. I am not joking you, I am still finding glitter in nooks and crannies. Just J eventually showed up with Mr. Z’s truck (I am not a truck girl, but holy hot), to retrieve my car. Did I mention that Mr. Z was ten years older than me, and I was 5 years older than Just J. Just J and I interacted like siblings, bickering over nonsensical things. Well actually, I was teasing Just J for going home with a walking STD. Mr. Z just listened with a twinkle in his eye, finding my charm (weirdness) quirky and cute. I was deposited to my car with a hopeful invitation from Mr. Z to hang out later. At that moment, I was cursing the fact that I had to make an appearance at my grans for New Years Day dinner.
After a long, long dinner I finally was released with high hopes of seeing Mr. Z again. A text was sent, with a grin plastered all over my face…. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Then single girl melodrama took over. “Great, another guy ghosting on me. Found one that seems to be sane and he disappears. Why the fuck do I even talk to guys. I am becoming a lesbian. That’s it, I am gonna be an old hag with dogs.” Honestly, it probably went on all night. Texting my closest girlfriends with my sob story. And really? Can we be honest, why do we do this to ourselves. I met Mr. Z the night before, we spent maybe fifteen hours together. I mean am I that desperate? That lonely?
Life goes on, the glitter settles, and so does everything else. I went on with life, still hoping to see him again, but not putting much stock into it. I made it through the night and to the next morning without tears or high levels of melodrama, then at 10 am the next morning another glitter bomb goes off. Mr. Z calls me. He calls me, on the phone, not a text but an actual voice conversation – who does that anymore? After a quick hello, and me hanging up because I was walking into work, I get a text asking to hang out. My smile reached from ear to ear. Mr. Z was asking me to hang out? He hadn’t disappeared or really had a wife to go back to the next day (oh you know that was going through my mind).
My day floated and zoomed by me. I was looking forward to seeing Mr. Z again, and to do the dirty! I tucked so hard through my Pure Barre class, I am pretty sure people were jealous (not really). Because I knew that Mr. Z would be showing up right when I got home. Mr. Z joined me in the shower, I am surprised we actually went to dinner, the steam from the shower was not the only thing fogging up my mirrors.
This was the day though that I really started to fall hard into liking Mr. Z. Not only did I get an actual phone call from him, but he paid for our entire dinner. Which is saying a lot when you eat with two girls that don’t eat salad and order two beers. That small thing of paying for dinner, turned me on even more. I could not wait for a rump in the sheets that night with Mr. Z.
Did I do the dirty right away? No, of course not because that would be too typical for a guy. We get home, open a bottle of wine and Mr. Z convinces me to watch some TV. I will tell you, that only lasted so long. He began rubbing my feet, which sparked you know what inside me. My new couch finally was broken in (kissing nothing else), and we decide this romp needed to be moved to the sheets.
BAM, finally we did the dirty… Oh there is so little to tell. It was meager in so many ways; the package, the sex, the ‘O. Vanilla is an exaggeration. What did I do? What do most girls do? We lie, we exaggerate, we become really good at faking great sex sounds. But hey, Mr. Z was still in my bed, naked, sleeping and taking showers with me. Could I really live with just this?
I hate to say it, and I know I promised I would finish the story tonight. But I desperately need to shower (are you noticing a theme?) and catching up with friends is calling my name. Tomorrow, tomorrow I will finish Mr. Z’s story. If only I could have made this as short as some other things involved herein…
Until next time…
XOXO – M