Another entry in the sporadic events of The Hopeless Romantic:
Releasing reason and letting the frequencies of horny thunderclouds overtake my inhibitions, I sought a companion for summer flirtation. Suggesting helpful liquids in said massacre of inhibition, we traversed to the likely candidate for hidden, hush-hush romance, nestled tightly away in a glittering booth that takes you from the land of once comfortable monogamy to a land of confused, yet legal, polygamy. A place for dirty romance.
My romance was not dirty, but I did not heed my own goals of standing on the sidelines, waiting for my turn in the roll call between two or more candidates.
An entire bottle was consumed. And the age old standard of Vino Veritas stood true and victorious for us both.
Then the game of chess began, wrench throwers uniting. At home, defensive line tacklers supplied my lady with paint drenched brushes and she supplied us with tangible adolescent panty voyeurism.
A half drowsed cuddle (and maybe a few misplaced kisses of care later) she went home, an abode sparkling with the promise of comfort and routine, a machine for forgetting the novelty of the previous evening when mixed with the side effects of amnesia that travel with the tasty truth syrum nestled in her belly.
At least that's what I felt tonight as I heard ". . . baby . . ." on her phone home. A quiet retreat is my next course, waiting on the sidelines like I should have done in the first place.
Bon Iver -- "Skinny Love"
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