... And I’ll directly tell you all about the delicious kiss and great date...next time.

Let’s see...last time I told you how I nearly vomited asking Jared out. We did end up talking for almost three hours that first night, so that was a pretty good indication that things might go well, at least as far as not having huge gaps in the conversation.

Now I’ll tell you about the date. I’ll tell you the end of the story before I tell you the beginning. We’re friends now. “Go out here and there just to get out and of course kiss on every date” friends. HIS call, not mine, so no nasty emails about me sticking a guy in the "just friends" category. I got stuck there. It’s cold in here. What do you boys do in this friends corner? Masturbate all the time?

The Date.

After some fumbling around and organizing of schedules, we go out one Friday night. We went to this Italian restaurant we both really like, so at least the food will be good even if the date sucks.

Which it didn’t.

The date goes really well. I learned quite a bit about this self-professed very religious guy. Son of a preacher. How many times do you think that song’s chorus ran through my head after learning that? Now, he’s not a zealot about his religious beliefs, so that was pretty great. He’s had problems, like anyone, and was very open about them. Honesty is big with me. I’m honest, so I expect it in return. Not too much to ask, you’d think.

We ended up at the restaurant for over three hours. Yes, it was that fun. Lots of laughing and making fun of each other. Lots of sarcasm. Very nice. Who knew young guys could actually be smart and keep up? (yes, I’m kidding…mostly).

Pop quiz…I asked him out. Who pays? ME, of course. I fully expected to. I was genuinely surprised when he took the check. We haggled for maybe a minute or two, and I debated arguing over it. However, when he said he’d feel really weird if he let me (a girl!) pay, I stopped. Never mind that for a few minutes, I felt like a shit bag because I’d asked him out, and it really was only fair if I paid. That’s how these things work, right? Well, not this time. I’m not some rabid feminist, but I know the rules and play by them. This time, though, I deferred to him since he was, in fact, bigger than me.

And I wanted to kiss him and maybe at some point later in time invade some other private spaces of his, so why insult his clearly testosterone-filled body?

The date’s officially over, as dinner has ended, and the check’s been paid. Now what? Well, I invite him back to my house, of course. He’s not set off any pervert, psycho-going-to-kill-me alarms, so for the time being, he’s on the good list.

We get here. You know what’s going to happen next, right?

You got it. The Kiss – with a capital K.

Oh my word, yes. The kiss was delectable. The kiss caused a big emptiness where the bottom of my stomach used to be. My brain quit on me. All sensation, no thinking (and that’s saying something for this over-thinker). His mouth fit perfectly. Just the right amount of pressure. I could have kissed him all night. The kiss made me a bit light-headed for a bit, as all delicious kisses should.

Oh yes, there will be more.

We get here. Watch a movie. He’s comfortable. Comfortable in a non-threatening, non-groping, very respectful way. You know how the typical progression of date movie night goes. There’s a slow sequence of moves from sitting to lying on the couch. It’s all mostly well-choreographed. Smooth (yeah right, I’m never smooth).

You’ll be happy to know there was more kissing. Very nice, delicious, alternatively soft and so very not soft kissing.

Gentle pressure in the sternum area where he just happens to brush up against.

...pause…”Sternum?” you ask. Well, I should tell you guys that instead of having a nice rack, I have a nice sternum. I have to thank a friend from another website to introducing me to that phrase. God’s truth, though. I am not blessed with ginormous tits, so I instead profess to have a killer sternum. That’s good, RIGHT?

A girl has to work what’s she got, right? Damn straight.

Now, back to the non-groping but delicious kissing….

It’s close to time for the date to be over because he has work early the next day and lives about 45 minutes away. I really don’t want to be, but I’m good. No overnight invites. Not on a first date.

“Okay, 15 more minutes,” he says.

…kissing…

Fifteen minutes later…”Five more, then I really have to go.”

…more kissing and, um, I think the movie was still playing…

Finally, I make him leave which sucked out loud.

Will there be a second date?

I’ll tell you this...next article I’ll tell you how I ended up in my skivvies and a t-shirt in bed next to a guy who never even noticed I was half-naked.

“What the fuck?” is exactly the right response to that statement. Apparently the sternum is not all that worthy of notice. Nor were the pretty black skivvies noticed…or the clean-shaven, long legs…

sigh.

Next time...

The editors of FTTW would like to remind DR that the person editing her post is younger than her and can keep up just fine.

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