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Swing Shift GinJaElla's blog: "RAM1"

created on 03/16/2009  |  http://fubar.com/ram1/b285541

Round 2

I log in, and this little window pops up. It has a heart on it, stating with what seems like forced optimism "You have a new message in your Personals Inbox!". Following the link leads to ruminating upon my guidelines. Yeah, just nobody was paying any attention to them! Seven new messages might result in one of interest (on a very good day..) as most of these men did not seem to grasp the concept of age, preferences as to children, the basics of english composition or (the most baffling) they did not post a photo. Spectacular managed to fulfil all of my general wishes. Bonus, he was cute. Very. Beaming blue eyes and a devilish grin. Correspondance ensued, my machinery of doubt began to kick in. I knew the man was intelligent, his very education and career path made that obvious. Something about our conversations seemed to fall a bit flat, but is it fair to condemn someone that isn't necessarily comfortable making idle banter via modem? Handsome, good job, loves dogs, right age, never married, no kids. Disregarding my ongoing fascination with Froot Loops, I agreed to a meeting. He chose a little bar, once described to me as the cruising point for the middle aged lonely of the beach... Ouch. I agreed. Come on, I have no idea what it takes to "date", and I have no thrilling suggestions for where to take a man on the first one. Anyhow, I would *have* to appear pleasing in a sea of xanaxed cougars, right???? Standing on the curb, cell phone to ear, I listened to his rambling progress to the bar. A silver sports car rumbled it's glistening way into the lot, and I knew that my game was on. (He seemed to think me utterly clever that I immediately called the car as his... Trust me. It didn't take much to put it together!) He emerged as fresh as lovely as his photos. Never before or since have I met a man with such vibrant and expressive eyes, which turned out to be quite an irony. In the bar we found that we had an easy familiarity with one another, and a fondness for the same cocktail. After a couple of drinks, the old liquid courage working its way into me, I admitted to him that a friend of mine from the Crime Scene was texting me, seeking some companionship. Yes, I am the kind of knucklehead that admits to a first date that a male friend is bothering me for entertainment. (*Ahem. Can you BELIEVE nobody has snapped me up yet??) Shockingly, Spectacular was game. We tabbed out and headed on. At the Crime Scene, everything continued to go smoothly. He was pretty, charming, showing me with not-too-forward physical interaction that I had caught his fancy. My exuberant gathering of mostly male pals seemed nothing important to him, he smiled and talked with them, his eyes upon me most all of the time. Some part of me began the mental back patting, this wasn't so hard! Even the quizzical looks from the usual suspects lingering in the dimmed corners did not phase me. By golly, I had somehow seemed to have gotten it RIGHT! My friends, everything about this initial meeting just went so smoothly. For the first time in awhile I managed to not ponder Froot Loops, or any of the other impossibilities that had plagued my heart and mind through the previous months. I stepped carefully onto my pink cloud of pleased, and allowed it to glide me to the end of the evening. Now, I can't tell you how the goodnight kiss came about. That point is usually a point of fret for me, most always when I would like one. Avoiding one is easy. Participating in one means so much gauging of what the other (relatively unknown) party is thinking and feeling, taking cues and avoiding the inevitable impatience and take charge attitude that will cause me to pounce. I don't recollect going through that mental hell that night. Some part of me knew that I would be seeing this man again, that I didn't have to try or worry overly much with him. No part of me found him perfect, I was standing safely outside the gates of smitten. There was just this calming certainty. Justified when he easily leaned in and caught my lips with his. He smelled good, he absolutely looked good, his confidence pulled my kiss in like magical magenetism. His lips were soft, warm and wet against mine. Too soft. Too wet. I realized I had the screaming urge to push him away, fast. I am good at diplomacy, he never guessed. My escape was made and I lay down that night, considering what to do now. Everything about this man was perfect, except, the shuddering fear that he would eventually want to kiss again. That thought carried me to sleep. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
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