Continued from Friday Night with Fred: I Never Promised You a BJ
As I mentioned in my last blog post, when Fred left Friday night I was pissed off that he was pissed off that he didn’t get off. But… I was horny.
I normally dislike using the word “horny” when referring to myself. To me, it sounds so, well, male, and utterly unfeminine. But there is no other word for what I was feeling on Saturday. I wasn’t frisky, I wasn’t amorous. I was horny.
All day long, I couldn’t concentrate. I had an itch, and Fred was the only one who could scratch it.
That night, I texted Fred and asked him to come over, and he did. I also asked him to bring some party favors to enhance the night’s activities. Like I said, I don’t smoke often, but I knew he’d have the good stuff and it makes for mind-blowing sex.
We lit up and got right down to business. I wore a hot little corset number with thigh high stockings, which made me feel very sexy, and he seemed to appreciate it as well. Candles were burning, music was playing, and my neighbors were out for the evening so we could be as loud as we wanted.
I was not disappointed; it was pretty damn spectacular. He did everything I wanted him to, without me having to ask. When it was over, we were both more than satisfied.
Afterwards, as we lay on the bed, I looked over at him and he was staring at the ceiling with a big grin on his face. I asked him what he was thinking, why he was smiling.
Without a trace of sarcasm, he replied, “You know, when I’m sitting here smiling for no reason, 90% of the time it’s because I’m thinking about how fucking awesome I am. And the other 10% of the time, it’s just stupid shit. And that’s the God’s honest truth.”
“Wow,” I said, incredulous. “You’re really full of yourself.”
He said, “You know what? I am. I am 100% at peace with myself. I am my favorite person in the whole fucking world. There is no one else I’d rather be than me.” When I told him there is a difference between being at peace with yourself and being full of yourself, he got a little pissy, but continued on with how marvelous he was.
Ew. I just bagged a douche.
I wanted this guy out of my apartment. I didn’t want to cuddle, and I didn’t want any pillow talk. I simply wanted him gone.
I got up while he was still talking, put on some sweats and went into the kitchen to do dishes. Eventually he came out and put his pants on, but didn’t leave. He was still talking about himself.
I sat on the couch and tried to think of a plot to get him to vamoose. Then he started doing some kind of Chippendale dance for me. I honestly couldn’t tell if he was being silly or if he really thought it was sexy.
I turned on Saturday Night Live. I thought, if he won’t leave, at least maybe he’ll shut up. But he didn’t. He kept blathering on about his life, even though I was staring and laughing at Jon Hamm, who was hosting that night. Couldn’t this guy take a hint?
Finally, I turned to him and said, “Look, I’m really tired.”
“Oh. I get it,” he said. Well, it’s about time, you feckless knob.
He put on his shoes and thanked me for the hot sex. I thanked him back and sent him on his way.
And then I went to bed, happy, without a single regret.
Categories: True Story