The three-marriage factor didn’t faze me. In fact, it didn’t even register at the time. All that paraded through my brain then was: “hot,” “He is,” “fun,” “have some,” and “Good Lord, I’d just experienced the utter embarrassment of clumsily crashing my Sex On The Beach on the floor and wanting to crawl into a hole far, far removed from this bar and Mr. Baldy, when Jake appeared like my knight in shining armor.”
Sexual tensions heated en route to his place, so I cracked
the car window a bit.
“Oh great,” he said, struck by a sudden realization as
I turned onto East Avenue, “you’re going to write a poem about us.”
I laughed. “No, don’t worry. I don’t write poems about the men I meet.” You’ll just end up in a blog post. Eventually, they all do. Stopped at
a red light, I offered him a reassuring grin and pat on the thigh.
Finally, we arrived. Jake's place was your typical sparse bachelor pad: one football
poster on the wall, three books on a solo bookshelf, and a few empty beer
bottles by the fridge.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asked, while helping me waggle out of my jacket.
“I’m good with almost anything, just no rap or heavy stuff.”
Jake maneuvered his MP3 (or whatever it was) and Adele’s
raspy, sultry voice set the mood with Someone
Like You.
He grasped the bottom of his shirt and abruptly pulled it up and over his head, tossing it onto the floor. “I just like to take my shirt off when I get
home,” he explained.
Okay, that wasn’t too obvious! Never saw that move before. I didn’t mind too much, though.
His chest looked edible.
We sat close on his plush dark couch, talked a bit more
about work, life in Chico, and other random topics.
“I can’t believe we met tonight," I said. "I mean, I wasn’t going to go. I
hate the bar scene, and then I spilled my drink and all.”
“Oh, that was you?”
Crap. I didn’t have to tell him?! Robyn, you, me, and I, we all tend to talk too much.
He reached over and gently ran his fingers through my hair. Then, he kissed my cheek. Then, my mouth. His kisses were soft and confident. It all felt very, very nice.
Jake slid his hand along my back.“Your skin’s so soft,” he said. “I’m really turned on.”
Jake slid his hand along my back.“Your skin’s so soft,” he said. “I’m really turned on.”
“Thanks…Me too.” He’s still turned on after I divulged my
drink slippage? I suppose, under the circumstances and having consumed all that
beer, he’d have been turned on by my revealing that I have penile malfunction. (Note
to readers: I don’t.)
“Mmm, mm,” he groaned, as we escalated into a grope-fest.
“Hm, mmm,” I interjected.
Jake placed his hands and fingers in places to my liking.“I could so easily give up the rules now,” he said.
Sigh. “I want you, but not tonight,” I whispered, staying strong.
An hour or so later, I tore myself away long enough to retrieve
my jacket. My other clothes had stayed on, as had his now too-tight jeans. He found a slip of paper for me to jot my number on. (I didn't offer my card; it has my blog address.)
“Have a good night," I said, with one more kiss. "Call me soon.”
“Is tomorrow too soon?”
“No.” I left smiling.
Stay tuned
for the finale.
