Part 2: Magic Mike And The Mini Skirt
- Oct 23, 2015
- 6 min read
The real challenge for date #2, of course, is trying to get out of my house in this outfit. Let’s not forget about my roommates/my parents.
The next few days are filled with steamy texts and cute witticisms. I’m totally playing it cool. He texts me first, I make him wait, the whole stupid game. Apparently, it’s working. He texts me every morning, just a quick hello, and then a few other random times throughout the day.
“I can’t stop thinking about your legs.” See that, half marathon training comin’ in clutch! “But not just your legs. I think about you all the time. Is that weird?” “No, it’s not weird. It’s nice.” “You’re trouble. Ya know that?” “Oh? How so?” “Never mind. We don’t have to talk about it now.”
Interesting…
He says he can’t wait to see me and tries to set up a date for that week. Obviously, I’m busy (read: I don’t want him to think I’m desperate, so I tell him I can’t). Also, I’m getting my period. Seriously. That fucking thing always comes at the worst time. We make plans for the following week on a Thursday. After work. After not having showered for 8 hours. He lives up by my job and there will be no time to head home first. Damn it. I flip through my schedule and realize that I conveniently have a follow up ankle-sprain appointment that day and will need to leave work early to shower, shave my legs, and get all sexied up. I make him promise he’ll let me leave by ten. I start work early, and the drive home is long. He agrees. We're going to order food at his place. Mmm hmm. I'm on to you, brother. Although, I'd like to be on top of you.
The plan goes off without a hitch. I get home, I get ready, and, feeling brave, decide to wear my shortest mini and my highest heels. He did mention how he loves heels - and my legs. The real challenge, of course, is trying to get out of my house in this outfit. Let’s not forget about my roommates/my parents. I sneak my heels into my car, throw on a pair of jeans, pull my skirt up under my sweater, since it’s really more like a belt anyway, and I’m on my way.
“Bye guys! Love you!” I’m going to have ridiculous sex with Magic Mike!
Last time I went to his place, I followed him from the bar. This time, it’s dark and the row houses are all so damn close together. I drive up and down his street three times before I can actually see the house number. On the fourth time around, I realize I’m still wearing my skirt around my waist. I pull over half a block before his house, quickly scurry out of the jeans, pull my skirt back down, and throw on the power heels. If someone called the cops on the suspicious Honda slowly circling the neighborhood, this would be quite a sight for them.
But, of course, I’m completely cool as I step up to his door. I might as well be leaning on one side of the door frame like a young and sexy Marlon Brando. Marlon Brando in a black mini and platform stilettos. He greets me dressed partially in his work clothes, dark gray suit pants and an old college t-shirt under his unbuttoned and untucked light blue oxford.
He legitimately could not be any sexier as he looks at me with that same sideways smile, “Hey. I like that skirt.”
We barely make it in the door. He presses me up against the door frame and with that same intense tenderness, runs his hands up into my hair and kisses me. I don’t know how he does it! How can someone kiss with such force but be so gentle at the same time? It was all consuming. Thank God for that door frame or I would have been a puddle on his stoop. I pull away from him for a second so we can close the door and he follows me into his apartment, which is very nice, mind you. It’s a shame he doesn’t keep more food stocked in here because this is a great place for cooking.
I lean against the back of his couch and he tells me about his day. He does medical sales and travels a bunch. It seems interesting, but quite frankly right now, I don’t care. Then, the look. Like he’s going to devour me. He’s standing in front of me but won’t kiss me. His face is so close to mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek, his hand on my leg, his chest against mine. When his lips are close enough to mine that I can taste them, I gently lean forward and graze his lip with my bottom one. He is pleasantly surprised. I mentally pat myself on the back.
“Want to go upstairs?” I don’t answer. We never made it upstairs.
An hours later, we are lying on his couch. He is cradling my head against his chest. “You want to get something to eat?” he asks. “Sure.” I laugh, “I can’t believe I’m still wearing my skirt.” He breathes, “You probably shouldn’t be.”
Half hour later, half on the floor, half on the couch, he says, “I want to take you to this restaurant in town that I like. Wanna go?” Who me? I never say no to food, except… oh, fuck. I’m dressed like a hooker. The no-one-night-stand-plan has a big loophole. What if I don’t stay the night? What if I need to do a walk of shame in the middle of the date? What if I just go over there and then we decide to go out to dinner, in a town, mind you, that is packed full of families… families whose children I teach?!
In my cutest tone, I respond, “But we have to get dressed to go out. Want to stay naked and order in?” “Well, yes, but I really want to take you to this place. You love to eat and I know you’ll like it.” Curse you, teenage boy appetite. CURSE YOU!
I find all my clothes scattered around the living room, under the couch, crumpled behind a pillow, and reassemble my outfit. It’s December, so I throw on my pea coat, button it, and look down. “I look like I’m wearing no pants.” “Ha. I like it. And I like that butt.” He swats it and walks out the door nodding his head for me to follow. Oh boy. He’s lucky he’s so charming. I mentally shake my head.
We get to the restaurant and I keep my head down hoping not to recognize anyone. I look up slowly, that way I’ll have a chance to divert my eyes if need be. But, even as I look up, I notice that all the waiters are staring. Oh God. They think I’m a hooker. A hooker wearing no pants. The food was definitely good and so was the conversation. I have to say, for something that was supposed to just be casual, we were really getting along well. He must have noticed too.
“So,” he begins, “can I take you out to dinner sometime next week?” “We are out to dinner.” Why can’t you just say yes, Michele? Why do you always have to be a smart-ass? “I mean, just dinner. Like, um. Like a…” he fumbles with his napkin. “Like a date?” I have never heard words come out of my mouth so quietly. Gee, Michele, when did you get shy?
“Yeah,” his blue eyes looked up at me. “Yeah like a date.” “Ok.” It was all I could do not to giggle. I was blushing like a mother fucker.
Back at his place, he leans against his couch and wraps me up in his arms, noticing I’m freezing. Mini skirt in December is only a good idea for about 2.4 seconds. He cradles my head in his hands and kisses my forehead before looking at my lips. “It’s 10:00,” he says to them. “I promised you I’d let you leave.”
MOTHERFUCKINGSONOFABITCHCOCKSUCKERIHATEYOUWORKFORSTARTINGSOEARLY!!!!!!
Obviously, I did not say that out loud.
“You did promise.” I smile. “Thanks.” He kisses my hand, leads me to the door, and says goodnight. I friggin' can’t with this guy. It’s just. He’s just so damn hot. I sing loudly the whole way home, drumming on the steering wheel, using my phone as a mic. This would be another winning sight for the cops if they pulled me over for speeding, which I was obviously not doing. Obviously.
I get into bed and hear my phone. It’s him. “I’m not a cuddler, but I could have held you in my arms all night. Goodnight.”
And I’m dead.
Hold up. Did you really think this was going to be all fun and cute? Well, don’t worry. Shit gets weird in Part 3…
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