Button, button, stop with the goddamn button!

I owe you lot an apology for not posting a drunk video blog like I said I probably would. So here it is:

“I’m sorry I didn’t make a video blog of myself being retarded drunk on New Year’s Eve because I was far too busy having sex.”

I’d love to say it was glorious and that I’ve been filled up to the brim with enough sexual healing to last me awhile. Sadly that’s not the case. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either.

It was a bit like eating at a really nice restaurant.

The setting is perfect: mood lighting, attentive service, the air is filled with the scent of promise. The appetizer melts in your mouth and the wine is delectable.

Then the main course comes and the first few bites are amazing. Eyes roll heavenward and satisfied moans escape lips. You start to feel a bit lightheaded. You want to eat everything, but you find yourself ready for dessert NOW.

But SURPRISE! There isn’t any dessert! There’s only more main course...and more main course...and more main course. They keep taking away your plate and putting a fresh one down a few minutes later. And that really sucks because you’re a methodical eater – only eating one thing at a time and saving the best for last.

You eat all of the main course you can because you’re a trooper and it’s been a very long time since you’ve been to a restaurant. But someone has to cry uncle. You’re left with no dessert, only a dissatisfied ache. And even though there’s no check, you know you’re going to be paying for it later. Because, for some reason, you already have plans to come back.

There. I think that about covers it. Should I leave it at that? Would you be satisfied? No, neither would I.

I met him sometime around March of last year. He was a friend of my mom’s boyfriend – only a few years older than me, good looking, smart.

A group of them were going to a bar and invited both of us out with every intention of causing a connection. Sadly things didn’t go as planned. We said barely a few words to each other and there may have been a misunderstanding or two. I didn’t see him out again, but I would hear the occasional story about him and his women. I’d never admit it to any of my friends, but his antics fascinated me. It was almost like listening to stories about myself, in male form.

New Year’s Eve was looking rather grim. Most of my friends were either having a quiet night at home or going out to a club. I didn’t really want to spend the evening at home alone, nor did I have the money to go clubbing. The only other option was a party.

My mom and her boyfriend go to this party every year. I always heard it was a good time, but in all honesty, who wants to go to a New Year’s party and get drunk with their mom? Well...I decided it was better to get drunk for free than sit at home, so I climbed in the backseat of Ray’s truck and tagged along.

Ray has to get to everything early, so for the first two hours I was asking myself, “Self, why the fuck did you come here?”

Then things got better. Some people I knew came in and the hardcore drinking began.

I was wearing my new outfit – a pinstriped shirt dress, black leggings, and black flats. I was in love with the top because it reminded me of wearing a man’s shirt. There were slits on each side and when I sat down they rode up to my hips, exposing a lot of leg. Legging clad leg, but still.

I was sitting at a long table with my legs propped in the chair next to me, chatting across the way to a friend, when mom said in my ear, “He’s here.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw him speaking to Ray. He looked good, better than I remembered. I shrugged and turned back to my friends.

Later I was walking past him and he said something smartass to me. I replied in kind and the flirtation began. Never actually stopping to talk to each other, we just exchanged heated looks and barbed words. The turning point was the dance.

There was a band playing country music (which isn’t my favorite, but I enjoy some of it) and they were pretty good. I was standing in a group of people, including him, when they struck up a slow song. (Wish I could remember what it was. I’ll have to ask.) He got all excited, claiming he loved it and had to dance. So I said, “C’mon.”

We walked out onto the floor, wrapped our arms around each other, and melted. His fingers ran from the back of neck, down my spine, stopping just short of getting very hands on indeed. While he swayed us in a raunchy circle, he sang low next to my ear. I forgot about everyone there, including my likely slack jawed mom. It was probably the most fun I’ve ever had slow dancing.

The song ended and we returned to our places. The flirting kicked up a notch and had our looks been hands, I swear we would have been naked and panting.

I’d stepped outside for a minute when I heard the count down begin. I raced back through the door and began counting with the rest. Then everyone was shouting and exchanging hugs as the band struck up the New Year song. I came face to face with him and we grinned at each other.

“Happy new year”, I said.

“Let’s see what you’ve got”, he replied grabbing me and pressing his lips to mine. BANG. FLASH. Instant burn. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it was effective.

The party ended with the band making up funny songs about it’s members and various people in attendance. People were drifting out and saying their goodbyes. I was sitting on a barstool and he stood with his back to me, wrapping my legs around his. I slid my hands under his shirt and ran my nails down his back, tugging at the back of his belt. He made a noise of frustration and looked around before slipping his hand behind him and placing it between my legs.

It was all very inappropriate, but I honestly didn’t think anyone had noticed until I looked to the left and saw mom looking at me in horror. I just shrugged and grinned at her. She never drank, but that night she was wasted, having taken a Xanax before the party. I knew she wasn’t likely to remember much. (And she didn’t.)

Ray turned to me shortly after and said, “Are you coming with us?”

“I guess”, I replied reluctantly.

Loosening my legs, he turned around, looked and me and said, “That’s fine”, in a fake hurt tone.

That was all the invitation I needed. I looked back at Ray. “Nevermind.”

As we tripped off across the driveway he said, “Your mom is going to kill me.” (My mom works with his mom and knows him quite well, him being a friend of Ray’s and all.)

“And?"

We made the short drive to his house and went in. While he greeted his dog and dicked around, I took off my jacket and watched him. He seemed nervous, which was at odds with the personality I’d come in contact with so far.

“Come sit down for a minute.” He stretched out on the couch and patted the cushion next to him. I lay my head in his lap and threw my legs over the armrest. While we talked he slipped his hands inside my shirt and, well, here’s where I have a mental block. If I’m to explain it correctly I should say, “He fondled my breasts”, or something like that. But I just couldn’t type it without laughing and thinking of a Fabio novel in my Aunt’s fat, sweaty paws. I also couldn’t say, “He played with my boobies”, because that just doesn’t sound right...right?

Whatever, you get the idea, ok?

I was impatient, which I’m sure he was all too aware of, but he took his sweet time getting acquainted with my boobs. Finally he got up and towed me toward his bedroom, shutting the door in the face of his unhappy dog.

I started to take off my leggings. He turned around from whatever he was fiddling with (no, not himself) and said, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking off my leggings.”

“Oh.”

At the time I was a bit confused about the problem with me removing my clothing. Was there a protocol? Was I supposed to play red light, green light or something?

I soon realized what the deal was: he wanted to be in complete control.

After removing my leggings, I crawled across the bed on my knees and turned around to face him. My shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and I was attempting to undo the rest when he pounced, flattening me to the bed. My sense of time is a bit addled, but there was a lot of long, delicious foreplay.

But when I tried to rise and take some control, he wouldn’t have it. For a moment it was a bit like being between two trampolines. I was trying to sit up and not understanding why he wouldn’t let me. So being the stubborn drunk, I kept trying and just ended up pinging back and forth between him and the bed. It was awkward, but kind of funny.

I finally got him on his back. (Isn’t that always fun to say?) And you’d think I’d get tired of hearing how awesome I am at oral sex, but no, I don’t. I’m even semi-bragging about it now. How tacky...yet entirely true. I will say I’ve never had one shout quite that much or that loudly. Must be getting better with age, eh? *brushes shoulders off*

Then there was some sex. It was good sex. There was hair pulling and ass slapping and shit talking. But then...

Whiskey came calling and demanded payment. And we’d have to start all over again.

And again. And again. He was tireless and would not accept defeat and neither, at first, would I.

Unfortunately, the longer things went on the harder he was on my bizness. Not in, or with the right appendage, but on, you understand. I’m not exactly sure what that deal was, but I had to put a stop to the button grinding before it went numb and fell off.

The stop and start routine went on forever before we finally just curled up together and slept for awhile. When I woke up he wasn’t there. I slipped on my shirt and found him in the living room watching TV. He was embarrassed, poor guy.

Now, normally I wouldn’t have cared it he was embarrassed or not. I would have shrugged and kept my mouth shut. But for some reason, I liked him enough to reassure him that I’d had a good time. And for the most part, I had.

I went and put my clothes on and asked him to take me home. I still have an aversion to being there when the sun comes up. I’ll have to work on that...

We laughed and carried on an easy conversation all the way home. When we pulled up he apologized again. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. As I climbed out of the truck he said, “I’ll make it up to you next time.”

“Yes, you will”, I said smiling.

He watched me dance across the driveway on my tiptoes, trying to avoid the mud puddles, and didn’t pull off until I was inside.

I went quietly about my routine and climbed into bed, but I couldn’t sleep. As much as I thought I liked him, there was still one problem:

I was too sore to help myself to dessert.