My service provider won’t commit!
It appears that this time the joke might very well be on me. I had cut off all other possibilities of meeting anyone new, even trimmed my repertoire by half. Why would I be so foolish you ask? Because I felt the freest I’d been in months with this service provider. We laugh hard, play hard, mate even harder and fall asleep with our bodies completely intertwined. He holds me all night. Even when I roll away, he finds a way to pull me back in. I melt. We like each other as people too, and the added bonus of finding each other clothes rippingly desirable only adds to the belief that there is more than just service provision going on.
He is a pure violation of the top 5 lifestyle choices I swore I would never be with. I shall only share the one most relevant to this rant.
- Never, ever, ever date an actor!
They tend to be narcissists and manage to both be in love and in-lust with themselves. If you’ve ever copulated with an actor in front of a mirror, odds are, he is spending 95% of the time studying his own performance. The remaining 5% is spent asking you to confirm that he is indeed delivering the goods for your pleasure.
My natural instinct leans toward self-protection. I quickly agree to be set up on a semi-blind date. Semi, because said date, has seen pictures of me on line. Pictures of him on google are nonexistent. He is a powerful young corporate attorney, drives a Maserati and has an ego the size of Mount Rushmore. Damn!
He offers to pick me up. I opt to drive myself in case I would need to put the pedal to the metal and race away from Mount Rushmore. Dinner is at a high end spot, worthy of a curve flattering dress and the kind of killer pumps that a drag queen would try to steal off your feet.
Maserati man is seated at the bar and takes it upon himself to order what he assumes I will enjoy as a cocktail. Burning Mandarine Martini. He’s right!
The waitress saunters over to let us know that our table is ready, and attempts to hold his gaze but he is staring at my thighs as I uncross my legs. He’s right again. Damn!
The conversation at dinner flows freely. I tell him about this blog. He dreads landing in here. He wonders how I would feel if I knew “that someone was writing about me.” “Flattered, of course!” I answer, but he’s right again. Damn it!
The evening comes to a bit of a screeching halt. This blog is better than mace. He is so well behaved after this news, I'll have nothing to rant or rave about. The burning mandarine martini was rave-worthy.
Outside he waits for the valet to bring my car around. We bid our adieus and part ways. I get home and receive a text from him: “Great body, great looks, I even like your brain..Too bad you kiss and tell!”
He’s right again! Damn it!
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