Missed Connection: In Search of My NYE Kisser

Hi, friends.

This completes my kiss-diss series (last three posts). I'm enjoying thoughts of finding my New Year's Eve kisser.I think the best way to do that is through Craigslist Missed Connections, because, really, what greater venue is there for sparking a meaningful romance with the person you're destined to be with? 

Here's the ad I'm planning on posting. Your critique is welcome. Thanks.

CL; chico personals missed connections

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Thurs Jan 16

New Year’s Eve Kisser – w4m (chico CA) map

Dear Kisser,

It's all a bit fuzzy, but you kissed me on the lips on New Year's Eve at midnight in a club in Chico (the dark one with a lot of people). I'd like to thank you (repeatedly). You made this 47 year old feel like I still got it or, at least, I can still get it if I want to. I'm fairly certain you look like a perfect combination of Tom Cruise pre-Scientology-sofa-aerobics and Brad Pitt pre-wolverine-Jolie-won't- notice-if-I-give-Aniston-a-few-of-our-kids-right? You're 5'8" give or take four inches, and you're at least 18 years old--provided your ID is legit. You're athletic and toned, with a physique not unlike Michaelangelo's David. You appreciate the premise behind the movie, Harold and Maude (i.e., older women turn you on).

Please respond with a close-up selfie of your lips, so I know you're not an imposter. Thank you. Looking forward to our next encounter.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

PS  I'm leaving town for the weekend, to celebrate a friend's son's Bar Mitzvah. I'll take a picture of the cake for you. My Internet access will be limited or nonexistent. I'll miss you. 

Be well. 

Have a great weekend, and I'll see you soon.

Wherein I Kiss Again and Tell Again, part II

A vigorous, funky groove pulsates through me. Between the music, half a glass of champagne a bit earlier,* and the fact that an adorable man had planted his lips on mine at midnight, I buzz ecstatically into 2014.

Donna shifts further from me and closer to the stage again. My attention strays to a tall, slender man bouncing by my side.  He's cute, in a young Woody Harrelson kind of way. With a beer bottle in one hand, he offers the other for an introduction.

“Happy New Year. I’m Woody.”**

I knew it! “Happy New Year. I’m Robyn.” 

Woody abruptly finds a nearby table on which to unload his beer and returns, determined to focus on dancing with me. I'm elated by another dose of male attention--more than I got all last year. This guy's fun too, probably a 30-somethinger. I like to get down low (when I’m dancing) and Woody keeps up just fine, mimicking my movements, and taking my hands sporadically to spin me around.

“You’re fun,” I spout.

“So are you. You’re great, Robyn.”

“Thanks.” This is going well. Really well. But I feel off-balance. Damn heels. I hate them. I hope I don’t fall. I’m probably not completely sober. Oh no, I’m slipping. Woody grabs me by the waist and steadies me. Phew. We keep grooving, as though it never happened.

His hand grazes the side of my body, and Woody tells me he’s been in Chico for 17 years.  He’s working on his Master’s in Psychology. Pretty good, I think, admiring his soft blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and marginally innocent smile.

“What do you do, Robyn?”

“Social services. I’m a—” I stop myself from saying that I’m also a writer.  And I write humorous snippets about my non-romantic romantic life. He’ll likely be the subject of my next blog post, especially if he proves himself a jerk or a dufus—“I’m a social worker.” That was close.

We chat and keep dancing and time floats by. Woody pulls his phone out and asks for my number.

“Sure,” I say. He types it, as I enunciate each number, digit by digit: 8, 6, 7, 5, 3, 0, 9.***

“I’m going to call you. I am. Can I take you to dinner sometime?” he asks.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” I try to look cool and hide my excitement.

Woody leans closer and wraps his arms around me in a tender embrace. He pulls back slightly,  gently strokes the side of my face and kisses me, with fervor and a teaser of tongue.

Am I dreaming? I don't think so because my feet hurt like hell. Wow. Kisses from not one but two men! That only happens to other women like Carrie Bradshaw.

“You made my New Year’s, Robyn.”

“You made mine too.” Well, the other guy did first. He was a little cuter and younger too. But your kiss was just as good. Almost. He edged you out due to his timing and boldness. Otherwise, it was a very close race.  

--

As I clumsily approach my door at 2am, my phone rings. It's Woody, already. We speak briefly, sharing that we're glad to have met, and confirming a date for dinner Friday night.“But what day is it?” I ask. “I think it’s Wednesday. Or is it Thursday? I’m all mixed up. Maybe it’s Tuesday. Hm, why don’t we make exact plans after a good night’s sleep? Friday's good though.”

“Okay, I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight, Robyn.”

“Goodnight, Woody.”

Stay tuned for part III.

*I'm such a lightweight. Let's keep that a secret. Thanks.
**Not his real name. Woody is a euphemism.

***I gave him my actual number, not Jenny’s. For you youngins, I’m referencing Tommy Tutone’s 1982 hit single, Jenny.

Wherein I Kiss and Tell: NYE 2014

My New Year's date, Donna, is the type of gal pal a woman both loves and hates to hang out with: a sweet, outgoing, gorgeous blonde who can fit into a size zero with room to breathe. She disappears in the swarms of people close to the stage, all following the band's lead as we ready ourselves to welcome 2014.

The band breaks to announce the countdown. Anticipation cuts through the cement walls of the boisterous nightclub. Champagne makes rounds. Beer is chugged; joints, puffed; and the time, eyed. I end up on the fringes of the commotion.

"Ten!"

A raucous crowd surrounds me with an intoxicating energy -- to my right, and in front, and...

"Nine!"

I glance left. Whoa. Cute guy. Standing close.

"Eight!"

Mm. Dark hair. Young. Handsome. He glances at me and...

"Seven!"

moves slowly closer and closer to me and...

"Six!"

I think he's going to kiss me. Nah. He probably just...

"Five!"

wants to look at my watch to check the time or something but

"Four!"

his lips look nice and closer and full and closer and...

"Three!"

juicy and closer and I can almost...

"Two!"

taste them as they come even closer and

"One!" YES! His aim and timing are perfect. So are his lips - moist, gentle, assertive, not aggressive or slobbery. They press against mine for one glorious moment, lingering sweetly as I pucker in response. Then they lift, easing away slowly.

I freeze, wide-eyed. Happy New Year to me!

Donna stammers through the crowd, arms extended. "There you are, Robyn. Happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year, Donna! It's going to be a good one!" What a start!

Funny that I didn't think to watch him walk away. I wouldn't even recognize my kisser if I saw him again. I mean, he was cute and approximately half my age and maybe 5'8" or so, give or take a few inches. I was in heels, so I don't know. None of it mattered. Kisser made my night.

As thrilled as I was, I never imagined my New Year's could get even better. But it would.

Stay tuned for part II.

Making a Splash in Jamaica

Please enjoy the following excerpt from my novel, Woman on the Verge of Paradise, due for release some time in the future.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Perched on a sun-warmed spot of stone overlooking the cliffs at Pirates' Cove, Negril Jamaica, I was privy to an influx of magnificent sights. While this “no worries” isle boasts resplendent scenes, one specimen instantaneously claimed top of my list. A seasoned diver, he leapt from steep cliffs and floated downward in elegantly angled positions, landing with equal grace and poise in the welcoming ocean 40 feet below.

Returning from his fifth magnificent dive, the man arrived on land and began strolling past me but halted. He turned to eye me and I reciprocated. I couldn’t help it. He appeared a delicious chunk of dark chocolate sculptured by Michelangelo, radiating sun rays from the most intimate of crevices and dressed with black spandex for public viewing.

“Hi, I’m Donovan.” He extended a hand.

“I, hi, I’m Robyn.”

“Come with me.” Like a puppy in heat, I pranced behind.

Focused on the subtle shifting of his tight buttocks, I followed as Donovan led me down a metal ladder into an underwater cave. We landed in an active, chilly ocean, sheltered atop and along the sides by dark stone walls that opened up to a glorious view of the fading blue sky streaked with yellows, oranges and reds. The waves nudged me, as I fought to secure my footing. Donovan planted himself in deeper water and I inched closer to him amid brief flirtations.

“No husband or boyfriend?”

“No, I came here alone, just to get away. The last one was crazy.”

“Did you make him crazy?” He teased.

“I don’t think so. I mean, I’m sure I didn’t.” Probably.

By this time we stood facing each other, little room in-between. With waves crashing against the rock, sun resting in the backdrop, and the titillating grazing of our warming bodies, Donovan’s juicy lips savored mine. I relaxed into the dreamlike moment, enjoying his luscious kisses and the touch of his fingertips moving gently up and down my back.

A sudden surge of rough waters ruthlessly forced me off-kilter, tossing me back towards the cave’s walls. My forehead crashed against sharp-edged rock. It hurt. I don’t remember incurring a concussion so I probably did...

P.S. Psst, Donovan is the man I have my hands on in the top right corner of my blog. (I didn't have a photo of us together, so I got creative.)