In the meantime.
This weekend, I happily fulfilled the role of the third wheel. My best friend’s new boyfriend insisted that I go out with them, despite my initial hesitance. During our threesome brunch, he started to ask me questions about my newest effbuddy. He wanted to know what attracted me to him, though I knew a relationship between us would never work. After I pretended not to hear him and sipped on my mimosa, he looked me straight in the face, “I know your type,” he said.
Instantly offended, I responded with a quick neck jerk, “What type is that?”
“You’re an alpha female. You’re used to getting everything you want, discard men that indulge your every whim and are attracted to men that challenge you and aren’t afraid to put you in your place.”
I tried to interject, but he continued, “You like men who debate you, and aren’t afraid to disagree with you. You love to argue and if someone agrees with you too easily, you don’t think they are worthy to be with. Stop fighting!”
For the first time in my life, someone shut my big mouth up. I had nothing to say. I was simultaneously angry and shamed. I felt as if that cliche nightmare – the one in which I’m onstage, naked in front of a huge audience — came true. He exposed me.
If a man can argue me passionately, we usually end up fighting in bed. I cannot resist a guy who stands up to me. I know it may sound sick, but there is a part of me that loves being told what to do. I guess that since I’m dominant and controlling in every facet of my life, that I’m attracted to men who can overcome me and dominate me.
I guess that’s what my new effbuddy does to me. We argued initially, every day. We still do. And, it excites me. He does not let me get away with trying to outsmart me because he is just as smart. He matches wits with me and never misses a beat and does not hesistate to tell me when I’m wrong.
Only, in dealing with him, I can’t even recognize right from wrong.
Back in business.
Missed me? Well, you can start breathing again because I am back — with a vengeance.
The other day, I was sitting at my desk dirty-chatting with a friend of mine using tacky euphemisms like “hunger” and “drought” to describe my need for some good, old-fashioned “work.” What started out as an innocent conversation, ended up as a scheduled meeting time for him to work on me. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. This is going to end up as it always does, with me crying my eyes out, oversexed and brokenhearted. But, I couldn’t take it anymore. I exhausted Billy’s batteries and have taken more cold showers than a prisoner of war. So I decided to go to the bar, get a few drinks and make a date for 11 at my place.
Perfect. Just enough time to get tipsy, go home, take a shower, and stuff all of my clothes in the closet. Little fireworks went off in my body when my phone rang and my instant-messenger-buddy knocked on my door to deliver a message that came along with high-pitched screams, grunts, and moans instead of a high-pitched computer ding. We talked for about an hour. I only entertained conversation so as not to appear desperate, but my appetite was ravenous and I was eyeing him like a lion eyes a gazelle before devouring it. He finally sat down on my bed and I pounced. I literally jumped him like I was a middle-aged mother of a preteen girl and he was a Hannah Montana ticket scalper.
It was a long and violent session. I felt like I was in a ghetto porno that had LL Cool J’s “Doin’ It” looped in the background.
And I was happy for it. I felt a weird sense of redemption. Sacrilegious as it may seem, I remember whispering an “Amen” to myself when it was over. It felt as if someone had pulled my head out of the water after I’d been holding my breath for an inconceivable amount of time.
I don’t know where this is going, nor do I care right now. I’m not fooling myself, I don’t expect anything from him but a good romp in bed and he shouldn’t expect more from me either.
My hormones are shouting so loudly that I cannot even hear reason or logic. I hope he can handle it.
