(I kind of felt the way this poor kid looks)
To top it all: my heater couldn't stand the cold last night and broke and my geizer went some time after that as well which meant I woke up in an igloo with no prospect of drifting away in a steaming environment also known as the bathroom.
Now if there is one thing I don't think I can live without, it's a nice hot bath. I bath twice a day and sometimes when it's really cold I'll even take a third trip to heavenly bliss. (I think at least I'm "clean" on the outside, like otherworldlyone was saying; maybe there is still hope). It's the only thing that instantly warms me up and puts me in a good mood. No man I've dated could live up to those standards. Sadly.
I thus went to my mom's house to take a bath and feel like a human being again. Shortly after that Mr. Chase phoned and invited me for supper at his flat later that day. He'd been taking me out a few times this past week and I have to admit I haven't been revolted or forced to use the "I have a stomach virus" excuse. Yet.
I dolled myself up and tried to look as desirable as I four layers of clothes allowed me. Mr. Chase has been a great gentleman: opening the car door, standing up when I entered the room, taking the tray from me when I made coffee and regularly kissing my hand for any small and simple reason. I only have to say how spectacular the weather's been (he seems oblivious to my sarcasm) and he takes my hand, looks into my eyes and says with a little smile:
"You outshine everything with your spectacular eyes." Corny, I know, but sweet. Really just a nice guy.
Now I know this man can cook because he's a bachelor and he has amazing hands. Have you ever seen Eric Lanlard's hands (the French guy on the cooking show glamour puds). Or Gordon Ramsey's? Strong fingers: probably to grip the knife tightly as to not lose a finger in the chopping process; short, square nails: so that food or dough can't get stuck underneath. It's a bloody painful process trying to remove dough from your nails. That's another reason I don't bake bread anymore.
Their hands are always clean. In this contaminated day and age it's a bonus to find a man with nice, clean hands. Luckily I'm not obsessive compulsive about that or I'd never be able to have sex.
He made gnocchi and the dessert was this mouth watering frozen chocolate-covered cappuccino crunch cake. I had to refrain myself from not eating six pieces and looking like a pig, but it was INCREDIBLE. The only problem was the wine.
During the course of the meal he poured us wine and was telling me how expensive it was and that he went to great lengths to get this wine and how it compliments the pasta and the rich desert and blah blah blah was all I heard, really, because I'm not the best wine drinker. Sweet wine like a rosé taste like a cold drink to me with the exception being that cold drink doesn't make you giddy or cause your legs to feel like chopped off tree stomps. Wines like a merlot or pinot noir or cabernet sauvignon have an even worse effect on my bodily functions and inhibitions after about four glasses. So to keep my dignity I usually refrain from drinking wine or just stick to one glass. Usually.
Unfortunately he put some music on during the gnocchi. It was some kind of happy French music that made me want to get up, kick my shoes off and just dance with my eyes closed. It made me so happy in fact that I lost track of my alcoholic consumption and before you could say what's under your skirt we were in his bedroom with him having a thorough inspection of that part of my anatomy which intrigued him so much 20 years ago.
He wasn't a bad lover, but it was as exciting and dirty as Sunday lunch with the folks. He was very meticulous and strong and calm and I was too scared to even giggle when he touched my knee in fear of him looking up with a frown and asking if he was doing something wrong. Because he's that type. The type who makes you feel like you’re the parental supervision when you want to hear anything but the phrase "parent" in any way, shape or form.
And then I heard a bell in my mind. I always hear it when I've hit the one week mark with a guy. When you're an athlete and run track, the official rings a bell to announce the last lap. I guess this meant we were in the home stretch with our short relationship. As in me going home and him going away.
When we were both exhausted a few hours later he put his arm around me, he gave me a lingering, passionate kiss and said:
"Wow, that was something else! If I knew it was going to be this great, I would've taken you down like 23 years ago. Good night, baby,"
and curled up against me in the dreaded cuddle position.
First: it would've been considered rape if you "took" me when I was five. Secondly: I'm only 25 years young now and not 28 like you're implying, dimbwit. 28's way too close to 30 for comfort at this stage in my life. 30 means I have to be married with 2 and a half mini me's running around terrorising my dogs. I'm ONLY 25!
I waited for two minutes until I heard him snore. That was the last straw. I slipped out from underneath his clutching, clingy hand and dressed as quick as long sleeved shirts and a skirt allowed me and made a dash for my car. It's not like I have commitment issues, I just don't like messy break ups.
He phoned me this morning asking why I left.
I told him I have a stomach virus.