Days to England: 3
Operation Mini-Skirt: Would you believe I forgot to get on the scale? Just as well. My weekend was not strictly up to dietary code. Plus, it's placebo week. Placebo week, people! Ok? The hormones are going to weigh more than anything else for the next few days!
So, er, a funny thing happened to me over the weekend…
(I'm giggling here, you know that, don't you? I'm giggling like a crazed 13-year old on crack and too much candy.)
Right, so it goes like this. Saturday night was my cousin's "Ladies' Night". The Other Mare is getting married in a little less than 5 weeks, and about a dozen of us got together for drinks and girlish fun at Lava. And oh! What fun! It was!
The thing is, the fun in itself was a bit of a surprise. See, I always feel a little outclassed when I go out with that group, as they are all – and I mean, to a one – stunning. Thin and tall and impeccably dressed in classic-yet-up-to-the-second style. They know the right thing to say; they know the right thing to do. I always feel like the token dowdy one that every social circle must, by rule, have. But, Saturday? I don’t know – Saturday I felt better. Perhaps it had to do with the emergency shopping expedition I went on earlier that day, purchasing clothes with size tags that weren’t altogether too disgusting. Maybe it because I wasn’t having a horrible hair day. Maybe it had to do with the smoky effect I had created with my eye makeup, which always manages to please me more than I can possibly explain. It’s a mystery, but it’s a mystery that worked for me.
We had situated ourselves in this little sunken area right behind the window that faced the patio. Our little band of beauties had the area to ourselves, and the dozen of us fit just perfectly, making it all very conducive to conversation and laughter and a lovely and sophisticated good time. We were there simply to help my cousin bid farewell to the life of a Singleton (despite the fact that she’s been dating her fiancé for 10 years) in a stately and ladylike manner.
Which is why, after we were nice and jolly due to healthy alcohol consumption, Lisa ordered a few rounds of shots, I recruited several random boys throughout the bar, and basically offered them the opportunity to drink a free one out of The Other Mare’s cleavage. And there we were, whoopin’ and hollerin’, as I placed the shots in TOM’s bra, and the boys got right in there, plucked the shot glasses between their lips and inhaled those suckers!
All the while, the patrons on the patio were deriving great amusement from the free show happening in our little snug. Eventually one of our girls knocked on the window, pointed to a boy, beckoned him in and mouthed the words, “You’re next!”
And in he came, where, with great showmanship and flourish, he made a little show of confused-little-boy-innocence, playing at not knowing whom to drink from, and not knowing how to do it. I don’t know how, or why, it happened, because the next few minutes are all a bit of a blur, but after he drank from TOM’s cleavage, he was directed to mine. The shot glass of Bailey’s (a girly shot if ever there was one) was duly placed between Mary-Anne and Ginger, and The Boy dove in. The girls, they whooped, the girls, they hollered, and the girls, they poured a few more shots! The Boy? He wasn’t complaining – he was drinking for free from my bra! I made a play of laughingly protesting that I didn’t usually get this much action on a first date, but he wouldn’t be dissuaded from the glass I was, er, holding. Finally, I said, with a twinkle in my eye, “Well, at least kiss me first!
And he did! And then he did again, just a tiny one. And then he did again – this one not so tiny! And, poppets? It was lovely. Simply… lovely. Just the right amount of pressure, not too much ickywetness. Good saliva control, you know? The mini-mini-make-out lasted only long enough to shock and impress the girls before I thought it best to break it off… for my own good. Because, darlings? That kiss was that good. Like, he must practice on melons or something! I felt it in my knees! (Bonus points and a saucy limerick for anyone who can tell me where I stole those last two lines from.) After that, he disappeared, and our continued raucous laughter filled the air.
But, alas, the fun wasn’t over yet, my beauties. Later on, I joined him and his friend on the patio, and we sparked up a 20-minute conversation that left me moony-eyed and viewing the world in soft-focus. He’s well spoken, he’s clever, and poppets? He’s got my number. And I have his. And he’s already left me a ridiculously excellent voicemail in which he called me, “Delicious”.
Delicious! What a lovely, lovely word that is!
So, now what? Do I call? Do I wait for him to call again? Do I have to wait for the prescribed amount of dreaded Boy Time before I can even consider calling him? Now what, poppets?! Now. What? Honestly, even if we hadn’t shared that fantastic kiss, the first five minutes of our conversation would have made me want to talk to him again.
Lordy. What a week this is shaping up to be….
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