Dont Mince Words

Tonight I realized there’s a magical male age when they can play Jedi mind tricks with their dick and hold a conversation during a date without the fear that blood will be drawn from their brain.

The 31 year-old I was with was obviously the team captain of the cock Special Olympics. He was obsessed with my hair and had to touch it. Then he moved on to my body. I was curvy. I was perfect. I had a great ass. The compliments were nice, but not in the first 15 minutes of meeting me. I did my best to redirect the conversation. Reverse mortgages. Margaret Thatcher. Roger Clemmons. I said anything to distract him and to get some blood going to his brain.

The evening became hopeless when he wanted to guess my cup size. My Olympian guessed correctly. That’s about the time I should have declared game over and gone home, but it was raining harder and I knew he’d just continue to give me material. Two bourbons and four beers later he had a nickname for me and knew what our kids would look like. I think it was pretty safe for me to assume he was an alcoholic looking for the older woman score.

This experience has taught me that I need to raise my minimum entrance requirements. A smart cock in the hand is worth one in the bush another day.

I was in the office checking my email early this morning when the guy I report to walked by then backed up and did a double-take.

“What did you do to your hair?” he asked.

“I washed and straightened it last night. Washing my hair seems to be a Valentine’s Day tradition.” I replied.

His jawed dropped open and he said, “What about what’s-his-name? That guy you picked up the night of our movie debut in October? Aren’t you still seeing him?”

“I’m not sure. He sent an e-card yesterday and said he had to work last night,” I explained.

“He lives near you and can’t swing by for two seconds? Oh Marna, he’s got commitment issues. Move on,” he advised.

So, it appears I don’t have a boyfriend after all, but I do have a kicky new hairdo.

I’m not a fan of this holiday, but if you are going to recognize it, do it balls-out-swinging, otherwise, mutually agree it’s a stupid holiday, let it pass in silence, and find a different way to profess your love.

Beans, who still lives eight blocks from me, sent an e-card. Seriously, an e-card, but it gets better. The message had five consonants and two vowels. Yes, he’s a writer, but obviously he had romantic writers block. He had an opportunity to redeem himself that evening when he called. Instead, he insisted he could not stop by and teased me about being alone on Valentine’s Day.

The card and envelope I selected to give to him in person is back in my desk drawer. I’ll use it for someone else next year.