Have I got smut for you. In the last 48 hours my life went from marginally interesting to full-blown (don't read into that) soap opera of Coronation Street proportions. Blue ribbon to First Nations for being the first to clue in to the (i thought fairly obvious) metahpor of the last post. Perhaps i've given you all an exaggerated impression of the depth of my virtue, thus you assumed i couldn't possibly mean what I meant.
Yep, i meant it.
Aw, hells. I go for 9 years without a date and now i'm torn between two absolutely amazing men. God. Fucking. Damnit.
I suppose you want the skinny, don't you, you vuyeristic little cretins?
Oh, all right then. Fine.
It started about a month ago. My flatmate dragged me out to a birthday party of a mutual acquaintence of ours, henceforth known as Curly. I didn't especially want to go, not being very good at parties, but i thought oh, what the hell, I could use a night out. The shin-dig was at an Indian restaurant, and all 26 guests were seated along one big, long table, jammed in like sardines. The only 2 people I knew at the party were Flatmate, who was seated directly across from me, and Curly, who was way the hell out of conversation range, being seated at the throne at the head of the table. The chap who was sat immediately on my left was very friendly. He was flirty, witty, and generally loads of fun. He's a professional pirate who's into cricket and archery. And he's fit. Really fit. Really really really really really really fit. (Not that these things are important or anything.) We really hit it off. I'm a natural flirt, and I figured I'd probably never seen any of these people again anyway, so let it all hang out and flirted up a storm. That was my first fatal error.
When Flatmate and I left he tactfully pointed out that the Pirate and I seemed to be getting along really well. I responded that I had fun and if I weren't with the Hairy Man, he was exactly the type of guy at whom I would throw myself. But I was (am) with Hairy, so I declared it a fun evening and left it at that.
Until the Pirate rang up Curly to get my number. Curly didn't have it, but rang up Flatmate. Flatmate is a sensible kind of fellow and asked me if I wanted him to pass my number along before he gave it. I debated. I hemmed and hawed. This was almost a month ago, keep in mind, and though I was nuts about the Hairy Man our relationship was rather casual and I really didn't know what kind of feelings he may or may not have had for me. I knew he was still logging in to the dating site (where we met) on an almost daily basis. I figured that if he was still trolling for women, then fuckit I could do the same. I told Flatmate to tell Curly to give the Pirate my number. And then I waited.
I didn't have long to wait. He rang me the following day. He had a ticket to a formal, black-tie ball, and would I like to go with him? I told him that I was seeing someone else, but that I had really enjoyed meeting him (the Pirate), and I would be delighted to go, but strictly as friends; no funny business. I even gave him the chance to retract the invitation witout offense or hard feelings if he preferred to take a partner with more romantic potential. He replied that he would be delighted if I would accompany him, purely for a friendly evening. I accepted. Fatal error number two.
That brings us up to Saturday evening, the night of the ball. I had told Hairy about the whole thing. He knew that I was going to a black-tie do, with a friend, out of town, and that I would be spending the night at the friend's house as the ball didn't let out until 4 am at which hour there are no trains. (The Pirate did offer to drive me home after if I wasn't comforatble staying at his, but he had a spare room and I wasn't keen on him driving me all the way home at 4 am for reasons of alcohol and exhaustion, so I decided it was better to stay.)
I knew I wouldn't be able to identify the Pirate by sight, having only met him once almost a month ago. I had a plan to ring him on the platform and look around to see whose mobile went off. The Pirate, being a clever kind of lad, saw me looking around and came straight up to me. I was, after all, the only woman on the platform carrying a ball gown in dry-cleaner's bag. Duh. The train was late so we booked it back to his house (yes, his house. Emphasis on his house. No family, no flatmates. Apparently piracy pays pretty well these days.) to get dressed. I smiled to myself while I got dressed: in the next room the Pirate was whisteling along with the radio.
We stepped into the hallway at the same time, looked at one another, and promptly sucked all the air from the room as we caught our breath in awe. He was stunning. I know tuxes make men hot, but this was not the tux; this was the man. He said to me, "Wow, you look amazing." We stood there and mutually gawked a good few minutes. Then he stepped forward, offered me his hand and said, "Shall we?" As I took it I knew right then it had officially ceased to be a "friendly" date.
To be continued...
(I'm a real bitch, aren't I?)