Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 33

I'm seeing this guy who accused me of being an anarchist. Which is new. After thinking for a beat, I saw that he made a valid point. I show up in a dude's world riding a lightning bolt to signal my arrival, upend the life and plans he was previously quite content with, then I'm like "What? WHAT'D I DO? I just got here."

We met on a flight to Denver, the 2 of us seated side by side right in front of the shitter. From Denver, I'd go to Florida for fun and he'd go to Oklahoma for work. He spoke to me immediately, when I struggled to figure out my seat belt, already taking the blame for sitting on it even though he wasn't sitting on it. But he's that guy, he said. The 1 who is sitting on your seatbelt.

Masked for our safety and no one's pleasure, from there the talking continued for the entire flight and before the plane landed he stated his intent to buy me a drink in Denver and take me out to dinner the minute I got back to our mutual place of residence. That minute was scheduled to be 9:55 pm. He didn't care. Dinner at midnight it is.

The initial 2 dates were agreed to on a matter of faith, since all we had to go on was eyes and conversation and vibes. Once bellied up to doubles in an airport bar and maskless, it turned out we were both cute. He was skinny, but I was into it. (Possibly because he was dressed like a Scorpio in black and chains and distain. Possibly because I sometimes get a lady boner for guys with slinky 70'

s bodies, which I didn't know he had yet, or did my Pisces third eye have x-ray vision?) I wasn't wearing a bra and should have been, but he was into it. He couldn't tell from my loose dress if I had a weird stomach. He's decided that I don't. He is incorrect, but please don't tell him. He thinks I look perfect and I just wanna roll around in that for awhile.

It has not stopped being like this since the flight 11 days ago. We texted throughout Florida. My magnanimous cousin, charmed and grossed out by me smiling into my phone, wanted someone to get laid on vacation, so he told me to invite him. To Florida. He almost came. To Florida. But he didn't. Because he works all the time. Nevertheless in these 11 days there's been a picnic in the dark in a park high above the city gazing at stars and classic horror movies and patio margaritas and photo-ready drinks with 3 course meals and pizza eaten from the same side of the booth while discussing my proclivity for romantic anarchy. I suppose the tale so far proves his point.

I thought I might not write again. Because now there's a boy. And that's what I do. But he said he kinda wants to be in the blog. I don't think he wants me to tell the world about his dick (even though I would only say nice things), but I told him I never know what I'm gonna write and I have to write what I have to write and as a fellow artsy type, he gets it. A child drummer raised in post punk punk, who'd love anarchy more than him? I hate to wear clothes. True to his drummer roots, he hates to wear a shirt. And he should never wear a shirt. Ever. The world is wrong for making him.

Hard to say what'll happen next with a couple of nuded up livewires like us. He's meeting my mother in 11 days without trepidation, so clearly he's fearless.

Did I mention he's 29? I mean, I DIDN'T DO IT. HE asked ME out. I just got here. But apparently I'm the cougar to beat. Which he's not opposed to. Meow. Purr-purr.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness