Hello Tinder, my old friend. You've come to disappoint again.
I know, I know -- you're beginning to think I'm another bitter, man-hating, man-eating, blogging machine. Well, I take offence. I'm only two and a half of those things!
Tonight's episode of 'Not Getting Any' takes place at Mr Chatterbox's city apartment. Mum, this is where you stop reading. Yes, I met a stranger at his apartment BUT, in my defense, it was raining outside AND the bar he suggested was too expensive for my cheap 'waiting on payday' ass. So, to be responsible, I group texted my girlfriends' his name and address to help them hunt him down in the event of my murder.
We got off to a bad start when I attempted to enter his Fort Knox-style secure building. I was given a code for a door, then another code to call his unit and by the third failed phone call/door unlocking combination, I was ready for a big nap. I eventually made it to the elevator and Mr Chatterbox met me as the doors slid open.
"Hello!" he half shouted at me and pulled me in for the kind of hug I usually reserve for very lucky boys. He did, however, have what my mother would condescendingly describe as a 'kind face' (which means she thinks they're ugly but likely to be a good person) so I decided to hold off judgement for another 10 minutes.
He led me through a tour of his place which ended abruptly as we stood in the doorway of the study. "Ah, and this is our future baby's nursery," he joked. Oh how I giggled and giggled until... I spotted it. Standing upright next to his laptop (AKA masturbation enabler)... a big ole tube of lube. The kind that glows in the dark, is flavoured and spawns yeast infections worldwide.
To be honest, there really wasn't anything more I could do except ensure I humiliated Mr Chatterbox for the remainder of the evening. Just when he thought he was safe and I may have forgotten..BAM! Lube jokes. I almost wanted to marry him just so I could continue torturing him about it for the rest of my life. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. You're shocked, I'm sure.
You see, Mr Chatterbox talked a lot. Far too much, far too fast and he NEVER finished his stories. He was basically the male version of the Gilmore Girls ("Oy with the poodles already!") and I could not keep up. One second he was telling me about what he did for work (I still have no idea), his life story, his sister's life story, his dad's life story, what went wrong in his last two relationships, until finally I agreed to watch a YouTube documentary just so I could have a moments peace.
This was a fatal error as we then engaged in a heated racial debate until I found myself left with nothing else to do but plant a big kiss on his lips -- nothing gets me going more than being continually manterrupted by a subtle racist. I'm still unsure/undecided on why I kissed him. I think it was a mixture of the G&T I'd consumed, the passion evoked by the yelling at each other and the fact that he had given me enough material to write my next blog. Whatever the reason, we kissed.
He walked me to my car in the rain and smiled at me as he opened my car door. I lovingly gazed back, told him he probably would never hear from me again and drove off. You have a very kind face, Mr Chatterbox but... you ain't the one.
Liv still Loveless
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