Small talk, Sweetness, and Kung Fu

I suppose I write something for proof of life. That’s about all I really have to say. Actually, I had a pretty good weekend.

I went out with the bodybuilder, henceforth shall be {SC}. We went out for pizza at a little hole-in-the-wall pizza joint, which are always the best.

I was proud of myself for getting ready. I did my eyebrows, then I trimmed my hair for the first time in two years. It was looking bad. Then I did a full blow dry, which I don’t remember the last time I did. I sprayed that shit so hard I could have used it as a helmet. I pulled out the expensive makeup. Probably shouldn’t have used the eyeliner and whatnot since it’s so old, but no signs of an eye infection, so the risk paid off. I looked in the mirror and saw me for the first time in a long time. It’s been a while since I’ve seen me. So I actually felt pretty damn good.

Driving north towards the city at night, I do have the best view of the Las Vegas strip coming from where I live. I’m not always happy to see it because it reminds me of the good times and the bad, but this time it reminded me I live in a pretty cool town.

So I made my way to the rich side of town with the windows down and the tunes up.

We were adorably nervous around each other, making small talk about big things—like our shared issues with PTSD, what’s working for him, and that his mother had a major stroke—and, you know, everything that’s happened over the last year or so of our lives.

Then we decided to go back to his place and hang out and chat. I was trying to find my keys in this goddamned guitar-shaped purse I have, the shape of which makes me lose everything in it, but damn it’s cute. And he grabbed me gently but with force and kissed me. I could have melted in that moment as I muttered profanities at my guitar-shaped purse. My red sequined shoe fell off as I reached up to keep kissing him, exposing the remains of the partial tortilla chip that was inside the foot of my stockings. Something I had decided wasn’t worth the hassle of taking off said stockings, and would remind me that eating chips and salsa in my bedroom is not a good idea.

We went back to his place and we, for lack of a better word, just cuddled. One would have assumed we’d have gone farther than that, but everyone kept their clothes on. He didn’t want to have sex on the second—first—date. He wanted it to mean more.

We kissed goodnight as I walked out to my car. Of course, I then tripped on the stair I didn’t quite see, fell and skinned my knee, and tore my stockings, because I’m clumsy. I went home with a smile, and he texted me to make sure I made it home and to tell me good night.

Best PG-13 date I’ve had in a long time.

I went gently to sleep.

Until I woke up kung fu-ing my guitar art supply cart by the bed because I had a nightmare about {D}. You take the good with the bad, I suppose.