So Saturday night … reflecting over the day. Hmmm, it had played out in an eerily similar tone to last Saturday. I woke up with slight butterflies in my stomach after having made a tentative arrangement to meet up with The Surfer this weekend.
At 4 am, I sent him a message with my phone number after we had bandied about a couple of potential meeting places equi-distant between our two towns (Okay, I admit: I wasn’t pushing that hard for a meeting as it were, due to my still harbouring a secret fantasy that Mr. X would appear momentarily again and finish what he started – and still be my first on TSS … and I do so like to tie up loose ends). I woke up at midday with a feeling of apprehension.
“Okay,” I told myself sternly, “Don’t tempt providence. This might not happen so don’t over-prepare.” So I didn’t. I only cleaned the kitchen. Left the bedroom … that would be too cruel: making up the bed and hanging all my clothes up and turning it into a boudoir and then end up alone again. So, the bare minimum: body scrub, eyelash tint, a bit of plucking (17 days since my last bikini wax – that awkward time between waxes is the pits!) And a long bath.
Hmmm … 2 pm and still nothing. So I went out to pass the time: I met up with a potential new grass dealer so that he could see I wasn’t a cop, I bought some honey (apparently its an aphrodisiac), ice cream and chocolate sauce – the store was out of whipped cream in a can, damn! … Hmmm, either Clover was on strike again OR the people who live around here are a lot kinkier than I had previously thought – because I’ve always been curious about food in the bedroom and who knew how the afternoon would pan out. Anyway, my fridge was empty and ice cream and chocolate sauce sounded ideal. Then I went and borrowed a video camera from a friend (Mr. X had suggested taping ourselves and watching it after. Yes, it had planted a seed … my interest was aroused … not that I had to act on it … somehow the idea of sex tapes leads to warning signs and flashing red lights in my mind … I don’t really wanna be famous, let alone Paris Hilton-style famous … eeeew! But I could be prepared nevertheless!).
So just another normal afternoon in the life of Moi … No. I don’t do things by half-measures. I mean, if you are going to do something, do it properly … or at least prepare for it properly. The Surfer had said in his most recent email that he would call me in the afternoon … it was now 4:30 pm.
When I finally accepted that my 2nd Saturday Tryst was not going to happen, I put on a DVD … trying to suppress my mortification by losing myself in the final season of Six Feet Under. And it worked. By the 3rd episode, I was deep in the trials and tribulations of the fabulous Fisher Family. The phone rang. Not thinking, I picked it up without looking at the screen and answered.
“Hi”, a slightly sardonic voice said.
Me: “Uurgh ... ” (Classy, I know.)
Oops! It was The Surfer …
Now concentrating very hard, so as to be able to read between the lines (yes, he WAS as laid back and nonchalant as surfer boys supposedly are), I gathered that he was somewhere with friends, settling in for an evening of rugby and beer.
When I get really nervous, I seem to involuntarily enter a mode of incredible calm and lethargy. I think it’s a body/mind-preservation mechanism that I automatically go into when highly stressed that keeps me from exploding. So, as a result (and as one would expect from a conversation between a very cool surfer and a catatonically induced wanna-be harlot) the conversation was …. Sticky. And things were not a whole lot clearer by the end of our exchange. Although his chilled out attitude (not to mention the timbre of his voice) was really turning me on.
But Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck! … Or rather: No Fuck! We were not meeting up.
What the hell was I going to do with myself that night?
I considered calling up the only people I knew in my area that would be going out (not married, no kids, still in their twenties). Then I thought again. Bad idea. The reason being: the brother (let’s call him ADD because he seriously is!) and sister (well she’s gorgeous… so lets’ call her Sexy Little Sister), 8 and 10 years younger than me respectively and, quite honestly, almost every time I go out with them … trouble follows. Always!
At 4 am, I sent him a message with my phone number after we had bandied about a couple of potential meeting places equi-distant between our two towns (Okay, I admit: I wasn’t pushing that hard for a meeting as it were, due to my still harbouring a secret fantasy that Mr. X would appear momentarily again and finish what he started – and still be my first on TSS … and I do so like to tie up loose ends). I woke up at midday with a feeling of apprehension.
“Okay,” I told myself sternly, “Don’t tempt providence. This might not happen so don’t over-prepare.” So I didn’t. I only cleaned the kitchen. Left the bedroom … that would be too cruel: making up the bed and hanging all my clothes up and turning it into a boudoir and then end up alone again. So, the bare minimum: body scrub, eyelash tint, a bit of plucking (17 days since my last bikini wax – that awkward time between waxes is the pits!) And a long bath.
Hmmm … 2 pm and still nothing. So I went out to pass the time: I met up with a potential new grass dealer so that he could see I wasn’t a cop, I bought some honey (apparently its an aphrodisiac), ice cream and chocolate sauce – the store was out of whipped cream in a can, damn! … Hmmm, either Clover was on strike again OR the people who live around here are a lot kinkier than I had previously thought – because I’ve always been curious about food in the bedroom and who knew how the afternoon would pan out. Anyway, my fridge was empty and ice cream and chocolate sauce sounded ideal. Then I went and borrowed a video camera from a friend (Mr. X had suggested taping ourselves and watching it after. Yes, it had planted a seed … my interest was aroused … not that I had to act on it … somehow the idea of sex tapes leads to warning signs and flashing red lights in my mind … I don’t really wanna be famous, let alone Paris Hilton-style famous … eeeew! But I could be prepared nevertheless!).
So just another normal afternoon in the life of Moi … No. I don’t do things by half-measures. I mean, if you are going to do something, do it properly … or at least prepare for it properly. The Surfer had said in his most recent email that he would call me in the afternoon … it was now 4:30 pm.
When I finally accepted that my 2nd Saturday Tryst was not going to happen, I put on a DVD … trying to suppress my mortification by losing myself in the final season of Six Feet Under. And it worked. By the 3rd episode, I was deep in the trials and tribulations of the fabulous Fisher Family. The phone rang. Not thinking, I picked it up without looking at the screen and answered.
“Hi”, a slightly sardonic voice said.
Me: “Uurgh ... ” (Classy, I know.)
Oops! It was The Surfer …
Now concentrating very hard, so as to be able to read between the lines (yes, he WAS as laid back and nonchalant as surfer boys supposedly are), I gathered that he was somewhere with friends, settling in for an evening of rugby and beer.
When I get really nervous, I seem to involuntarily enter a mode of incredible calm and lethargy. I think it’s a body/mind-preservation mechanism that I automatically go into when highly stressed that keeps me from exploding. So, as a result (and as one would expect from a conversation between a very cool surfer and a catatonically induced wanna-be harlot) the conversation was …. Sticky. And things were not a whole lot clearer by the end of our exchange. Although his chilled out attitude (not to mention the timbre of his voice) was really turning me on.
But Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck! … Or rather: No Fuck! We were not meeting up.
What the hell was I going to do with myself that night?
I considered calling up the only people I knew in my area that would be going out (not married, no kids, still in their twenties). Then I thought again. Bad idea. The reason being: the brother (let’s call him ADD because he seriously is!) and sister (well she’s gorgeous… so lets’ call her Sexy Little Sister), 8 and 10 years younger than me respectively and, quite honestly, almost every time I go out with them … trouble follows. Always!
More about that another time. But right now - cocktail time!
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