Pick Me Up
I have this fantasy. It's not that original. It's the fantasy where a guy picks me up at a bar. He buys me a drink and before you know it, we are going home together. It's cliche. I know.
In an effort to make this fantasy a reality, I decided to stage it. D and I were going out the other night. I gave him explicit directions. I always give him explicit directions. He is awfully good at following them.
It was simple. All he had to do was let me sit at the bar and look sultry for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen...tops. Then he had to sit at the bar. Not next to me, but close enough. Buy me a martini. Dirty martini. When I asked the bartender who sent over the drink we were supposed to exchange glances. I would do that whole raise the glass, take a sip, lower my eyes and blush thing. I had rehearsed it. It was convincing.
From there, he would come over to where I was sitting and we would make brief conversation before going home together. Simple.
On paper, this was a beautiful plan.
To be fair, D couldn't have prevented what happened.
I got to the bar. I took my seat. I ordered a martini. I did my I-am-so-bored-with-this-scene look. That's when my ex approached.
We get along well. He's the only man that I used to sleep with that doesn't want me dead. We hugged and chatted about how good I look since the last time he saw me. I agreed. I've never looked better. "How's tricks?" he asked. I did that playful punch thing that is soooo cute. Then he motioned to the bartender. I did need another martini. He's still got it.
The bartender brought another filthy dirty martini. We toasted to his health and to my wealth.
And that's when D walked in.
Suddenly, he looked pathetic. Why did I buy him that Multiple Orgasm Donor tee shirt? Why was he retarded enough to wear it? And why tonight?
For a brief moment, I thought that maybe I should explain. For a second, I didn't know what to do. I looked at my ex. I looked at D in that stupid f*cking tee shirt.
I pretended not to see him.
I said fifteen minutes tops, dammit.