I had every intention of spending my Friday night with Fashion Police and Chipotle. This was my intent on Friday morning while I was brushing my teeth. It was my intent on Friday afternoon while finishing work emails. It was my intent until Friday night when I met a character who I will refer to as Hot Chicago Man (HCM).
I once told a friend of mine that my blog is off-limits for my dating life unless that dating life is non-existent. So, perhaps I am about to violate that line in the code of conduct; or, perhaps my dating life is really still non-existent so I’m not breaching any rules. I’ll go with the latter.
The back story for how I met HCM isn’t the stuff novels are made of. I was visiting my beloved hair stylist for my last excursion while here in Texas. HCM, a barber at the same set of salon suites, came to talk to my hair stylist. When he left, I told her I thought he was attractive and voila, my hair stylist turned in to a magician and made something happen. (also known as she played messenger.)
HCM asked what I was doing later that night. And, just like that, my plans to crack up at Joan Rivers’ commentary over a plate of tacos were trumped, tackled, and obliterated.
I tossed clothes around my room for 45 minutes because my closet has become a treasure chest for cardigans and pencil skirts–not exactly date night attire. I settled on one dress and soon realized before I even walked out the door that I was already sweating right through the thin material. Negative. I kept remembering some date rule I’ve heard of, I think from my sister, that on a date, you should only accent one asset. Boobs, booty, or legs. I checked the ticking clock, pulled a different, more sweat-friendly dress, and decided that night, it would be legs.
It was the kind of outing with a guy I have conjured up in my head a thousand times but never actually gone on. There was live music and good wine and it was dark and loud and sexy. We drank. We danced. We drank and we danced a lot more. He had the kind of laugh that made me laugh. We didn’t talk about my job–aside from the fact that said job would be shipping me across the country in a week. Minor detail. We didn’t talk about politics or our dreams or how many siblings we have. We didn’t talk about anything substantial and something about our mindless banter was completely reassuring.
He told me he liked my lace dress and he liked my eyes and though he’s probably used both lines a million times, I absolutely did not care. I smiled and I batted my eyelashes and I threw back my head when I laughed. I shimmied and I shook and I swayed on that damn dance floor. I shed the thick mama bear sweater that has cloaked my spontaneity for the past year. I threw caution to the wind and let that bitch float with the leaves. I gave a big fat middle finger to all of my inhibitions. And I absolutely did not care.
Now you want to know how the night ended. So, I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to be all coy and say something like, “Ladies never kiss and tell.” But, to hell with that. We kissed until my insides did 100 jumping jacks. And, it was good. So effing good.
I’m leaving Texas in a week. HCM and I will never be more than one really great night. A sentence in my life’s narrative, if even that. Maybe that is what makes it 100 watts better.
But, it would be a complete lie to tell you I didn’t wake up the following morning with a smile on my face. Because, despite being “violently independent” as one of my friends has said, I am vulnerable. And, during lots of grandmotherly nights in my apartment digging through hundreds of pages in a novel, I wondered if I had lost my mojo. I’ve wondered if I could ever take risks or put myself back out there. I wondered if I could even dip my toe back in to the dating pool without feeling like I would completely drown. And, I realized, just like Stella, Tyece can get her groove back, too. Even single power bitches can not affirm themselves. They need their family. They need their friends. And, sometimes, just an ultra sexy stranger and a good make out session will do the trick.
Yes, it’s nice to be doted on. It’s nice to feel wanted. It’s nice to dance with a hot man and forget about the past or the present or the future until the last song in the set.
Xoxo,
Tyece