It's over now, so let’s begin at the beginning.
Back up to the morning after a really shitty third date with someone else, followed by a three-hour drive home in an ice storm. (I tell ya, my life is stranger than fiction.) I’d only slept a few hours and still had a chip on my shoulder about having to drive so much for so little pleasure, so I tried to postpone my coffee date with Paul Bunyan 48 hours hence. He was willing to switch to a venue closer to me and convinced me to follow-through because he said if we hit it off, we could go out again in two days.
“Wear your lucky thong,” his last message said.
I giggled to myself, thinking, There is NO WAY you’re gonna see it today, honey. I hadn’t slept with a man on the first date in over two years and that was such a disaster, I trusted my willpower to keep my pants on. I didn’t even shave my legs as an insurance policy.
Right on time, I settled into a plush armchair at Starbucks with a peppermint mocha (holy shit, those are good. If I could afford to have a java addiction, that would be my drug of choice!) and prepared for more bland getting-to-know-you small talk with the down-to-Earth single dad.
I got anything but.
Not that I’m complaining.
PB was just my type: 39, never married, scruffy faced, six-foot-something and seriously cut. He had a really rough, sexy voice and the most hypnotizing eyes I’ve ever seen on a man. It was hard to look away. He wasn’t just hot; he was handsome. A man’s man. Think George Clooney’s younger, darker-haired brother.
Personality wise, we were identical. As PB exclaimed, “You’re like me, but with long hair!”
The dull chit-chat I expected quickly progressed from caffeinated flirtation to a discussion on threesomes--his versus mine. (Both involved way more emotional fallout than either of us had expected.) PB was also a writer with dreams of penning a TV show script. (Think Sex and the City for guys.) Though he’d seemed shy onscreen, PB didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by me in person. He was cocky, even. The only thing I hated about him was that I suddenly liked him more than he seemed to like me. After an hour or so, when he stood up, I thought that he was going to awkwardly excuse himself, never to be seen again.
Again, I was wrong.
“Want to get something to eat?” he asked, pointing across the Galleria to Kozy’s.
A switch inside me flicked. The only meat I wanted was his. But I kept that to myself and we went to the steakhouse.
“Thoughts?” the waitress asked after PB and I had studied the menu for a few minutes.
My date ordered beef tips and calamari for us to share. I smiled naughtily.
“What are you thinking?” PB asked.
“I’m not thinking about anything,” I said. “I’m watching a movie in my head.”
“What kind of movie?”
“You know exactly what kind of movie,” I said.
PB’s gaze met mine and…holy mother of God. If I thought I felt fireworks with Good Guy, what I felt at this moment was Pearl Harbor, part two. Even better? Now I knew the feeling was mutual.
“You must be a terrible liar,” PB said. “Your eyes would give you away every time.”
(He’s right.)
“Didn’t you just have a date last night?” he asked.
“Yeah…” I said.
“With someone that you really like?”
“I guess…though I’m pretty sure it’s not going to work out. I just haven’t admitted it to myself yet.”
“What date was it?”
“The third.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“We’d already gotten that out of the way on the second date,” I said and shrugged. PB flashed a look that I wasn’t sure how to interpret, but it looked like disgust mixed with concern.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Was that TMI? Did I turn you off?”
“Not at all,” PB said. “I’m just jealous that you had sex last night!"
“The sex last night was mediocre, if that makes you feel better,” I said.
“That’s still better than no sex! I haven't fucked in a month.”
"You say that like it's a long time!" I gawked. "Fourteen months is a slump. One month is a pause."
PB did not agree. He was hungry. (For a piece of me, naturally.) I was salivating for a taste of him, too. My eyes were undressing this man already. Though he was completely clothed, I could tell that PB was harder than any hard body I’d ever been with. I wanted to leap onto his lap right then and there.
Again, my eyes contradicted any attempts to play it cool.
“You want to ride me, don’t you?” PB said.
I blushed in response. (Yes, I am capable of being embarrassed.)
“I know you want to," he said. "I know what you like. I’ve read the archives of your blog.”
“It’s not going to happen,” I said.
“You know it’d be good.”
“No doubt. But I didn't shave."
"I'll shave you."
"I meant my legs," I said. "Besides, I know I'd regret it if we had sex on the first date.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you. I don’t want this to be a one-night-stand.”
“Who said that’s what this is?”
“Have you ever had sex on the first date that turned into a relationship?” I asked.
“Yup.”
I rolled my eyes. “Uh-huh. And how long did that last?”
“Five-and-a-half years.”
Well, then. PB smiled like he knew what was about to ensue and I was a sucker for thinking I’d ever get out of this date fully dressed.
“I know what you’re doing,” I said.
PB jerked back like I must’ve been crazy to think he was up to something. I suddenly felt like I was in a used car lot, being sold a lemon…and I couldn’t wait to take it for a test drive and floor that mother fucker.
“It’s not like I haven’t been seduced before,” I said.
“We’re not exactly strangers, Erica. This isn’t the typical first date. I told you about my threesome. You told me you just got laid last night. Most first date conversation is, ‘So…what’s your favorite movie?’ ”
I giggled because the thought of wasting time discussing such mundane bullshit in front of such a hottie seemed fucking ridiculous.
“I have a hot tub…” PB said. “Do you have a suit?”
What did Cupid expect me to do, readers? You can’t combine the orgasmic dissatisfaction and sleep deprivation from the night before, then put a sex stallion with a completely free evening in front of me and expect me to walk away un-laid! It’s impossible to keep your pants on if your date invites you to take a dip in his hot tub. I’m just sayin’…
“I happen to have a suit in my gym bag,” I said. “But do I really need one?”
PB’s smile spread so wide, it almost split his face in half.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
“No. You’re trouble,” I replied.
Half-an-hour later, I emerged from PB’s guest bathroom wrapped in a towel. He was wearing trunks and a vintage silver chain.
“Turn around while I get in,” I said, dropping my towel on the deck and tip-toeing into the hot tub. I lay back and tried to enjoy the full-body jets while keeping my naughty bits underwater.
We talked for ten minutes or so. All the while, PB kept a respectful distance on the other side of the hot tub. I started to wonder if he’d changed his mind…so I bobbed closer. I traced the tattoo across his shoulder blades with my fingertips.
Then he kissed me.
Oh. My. God.
What happened next was pornographic beyond belief.
The next few hours passed in an ecstatic blur. I came something like a dozen times. He came three. (I didn’t even know men could do that!)
I drove home with the dorkiest “I just got laid” grin on my face...and a big-ass bruise on my bedonkadonk.
"I'm still in the 'wow' stage," PB texted me the morning after.
Yup. I get that a lot. Alas, all good things, even multiples, must come to an end. We’ll tackle that topic next time. ‘Til then, how about my favorite song by one of PB's favorite bands?
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