Part 4: Magic Mike and the Booty's Call

In part 4, Magic Mike returns from Texas and I learn why they call them “convenient” stores.

Thank God it was crunch time at school during the week Magic was in Texas. Even though I was crazy busy, it took all of my power not to jump on a plane and show up in Texas – it’s a small state, I could find him – and tear off his clothes. It’s just not fair to be that sexy, to disappear, and then to be a complete sweetheart about feeling bad.

I was dying. DY-ING.

I didn’t text him the whole time he was there. He didn’t need to see the crazy girl that he was turning me into. If it really was third grade again, I would’ve had his name scribbled all over my notebooks. There’s no denying I had it bad for this guy. Really bad. People were noticing an extra pep in my step at work, kind of bad. One week. That’s all I had to wait. Seven days. Still Biblical. Still appropriate.

Oh shut the fuck up, Michele. You’re even making yourself sick.

On Wednesday, my mom and I were making dinner and the Cowboys had just lost a big game. “Hm. That’s too bad,” I chuckled jovially. “It must suck to be in Texas right now. Maybe it’ll be so terrible he’ll have to leave. HA!” Mom was not amused. She threw the dishrag onto the counter.

“THAT’S IT!” I stopped giggling and stared at her. “What the hell is it with you and this guy?! ‘Texas this! Texas that!’” Yup, she was mocking me. “I mean, what is it? Does he have a great dick or something?!”

Now, I’ve heard my mother say some vulgar things over the years, but go ahead Mom, just come right out with that one. More importantly, how did she know?! She stood there at the counter, with one fist on her hip, the other clutching a wooden spoon, the true image of an Italian mom.

“Ha!” I laughed it off. “Oh Mom. Just be happy I’m excited about a boy. I am excited about a boy! This is good news! Maybe I won’t be an old maid!” She cracked a smile. Got her. But seriously, how did she know?

I decided I needed a haircut, although now that I think about it, I probably did it to pass the time instead of staring at my phone. I am not lying, guys. I had it bad. So, while I’m in the chair, I hear my text alert. I knew it was him. I just knew it. It was a day before he was supposed to arrive home, but I just sensed it was him. I stiffened up and looked sideways at my stylist.

She sighed, “You’re waiting for a guy, aren’t you?” How did SHE know? What is it with these women in my life? “Yeaaaaaaah,” I admitted.

She let me up out of the chair stating, “You better tell me all about him!” and I grabbed my phone out of my bag. Yup. It was him. See ladies, I know things too! I took a breath before swiping open my phone.

“Hey.”

That’s it? Nope. There’s more. I love that little gray box with the ellipsis. “Weather’s supposed to be bad tomorrow so I flew in early. How you been?”

Did I respond? Absolutely not. It’s not like I’ve been waiting for my phone to ring for the past seven days. It’s not like I’ve been pining over this guy I barely know. It’s not like I’ve been getting haircuts to stop thinking about him! Who me? Of course not. Who does that? Don’t judge me.

I nonchalantly put my phone in my pocket and slide back into the chair, with the biggest shit eating grin you have ever seen. My stylist stands there with her arms crossed and my hair half cut, “I am not cutting one more strand until you tell me about this guy.” So I do. I gush. I tell her all about it. We’re fangirling. It’s gross. I show her one of the pictures he’s sent me and warn her not to swipe either way. “He looks like Channing Tatum!” “I know!” She accidentally swipes and her eyes widen. “Oh wow. He really looks like Channing Tatum.” “I KNOW!

A few hours later, home and trimmed, I finally text him back, “Glad you got home safely. How was Texas?” Immediately he responds, “Busy. Thought about you a lot”. Oh did you, now? Is your hair particularly shorter now too? “I was going to say hi during the week, but I got busy and forgot. Haha.” Yes, that was absolutely a lie. “That’s too bad. I would’ve love that. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” “Yeah, I know.” Whose fault is that, Jesus McDisappearington? “Will you send me a pic now?”

Be smart, Michele. Take a good one. I did. I was wearing an old gray v-neck t-shirt, you know, the usual. It was dark out, so it was that good suggestive lighting. And my hair was perfect. I looked comfy, ready for cuddling up on a cold winter’s night – which it was. Send. Your move, Magic.

“We match” he writes, and then sends a picture of him in a gray v-neck t-shirt… and boxer briefs. The dirty thoughts flood in.

We make plans for that Wednesday, but on Tuesday, it blizzards. I’m off from work and when I get in from shoveling I check my phone. Apparently, Magic Mike is also home and is thinking about me.

“Last time it was this cold out, I had you wrapped up on my couch.” Suddenly, I’m feeling tropical. “I remember that vividly.” “I hope you wore more than that skirt today.” “I went full snow suit. It’s very sexy.” “You must be freezing and all wet with snow.” Is anyone else sweating? No? Just me? Taking the bait, I write, “Yeah, I’m about to peel it off and take a hot shower.” “Don’t tease me.”

Oh, I am teasing, Magic Michael, and yes, I'm using your full name. You made me wait, missed my birthday, and then went to stupid Texas. Don’t tell me what to do! Then, he sends me an audio clip. I look around. Dad’s outside futzing with the snow blower and Mom is upstairs showering. I look at the cats. Close your ears, guys. I press play.

“I want to fuck the shit out of you.”

Oh holy sweet Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the saints at sea, give me strength! I immediately put my hand over the speaker. The cats are staring at me with judgmental cat eyes. I turn the volume way down, cup the speaker, put it up to my ear, and listen to it again. It’s even hotter the second time. I write back, “I’ve been thinking about that all week.” Not my best work, but this guy is so hot he makes me stupid. I put the speaker up to my ear again, but my text alert goes off at full volume, making me half deaf.

“Come over tonight.”

I hesitate. It stopped snowing and the weather says it won’t start again. I look at Bo and ask him if I should go. He stares at me and purrs as he rolls over for me to scratch his belly. “You’re right. I should definitely go.”

My mom comes downstairs, looks worried, and puts her hand on my forehead. “Mick, are you ok? You’re all red. Are you sweating?” “I just got a text from Magic Mike. He wants me to go out with him tonight.” Her hand drops. She rolls her eyes, grabs a laundry basket, and starts back upstairs. Silence. I call after her, “Bo thinks I should go!” More silence. I look down at my cat who is happily licking his asshole. He stops, looks up at me and meows. Yes, Bo. She’s also judging me.

Magic reminds me that it’s snowy, asks me to drive safely, and tells me to wear sneakers with good traction so I don’t slip. “Plus,” he adds, “I’m into that sporty look.”

Lucky for me, I’ve got lots of tight sporty clothes including those yoga pants that make my butt look great. After all, he did say he liked my butt. I throw on a pair of those and pick a tank that isn’t supposed to require a bra- although of course I have to wear one when I run, but I won’t be doing any running tonight! I start getting butterflies. I can’t wait to see him. Will the chemistry still be as intense? I situate my hair in a messy ponytail and slip my feet into my Nikes. The butterflies are really fluttering now. I’m dying for him to kiss me again. Will we make it upstairs? Will we stop at the kitchen this time? The butterflies are swarming. How cute, Michele. You’re really excited to see this guy!

Oh wait. No. Those are not butterflies. Something’s wrong. Oh my god. I’m going to shit my pants. I race to the bathroom and drop trou just in time. Don’t pretend you’re grossed out, you know you’ve been there. Ok, I know I’m excited, but THIS excited? So excited I’m sick over it? He said he wanted to fuck the shit out of me, but do we have to be so literal?! Please no, not today. Why today? I HAVE WAITED TOO LONG TO CANCEL! Right now, I hate you, Texas. This is obviously your fault.

My stomach settles back down and I hope that’s the end of it. Maybe I ate something that wasn’t sitting right and it just needed to get out of my system. Better now than at his place, I guess. I hop back in the shower, take a bunch of deep breaths in there, and try to calm my nerves. I put on some nice, soothing music while I’m getting dressed, again, and continue to take some slow deep breaths.

Calm down, Michele. You’re just anxious.

In the car, I catch myself speeding, which isn’t abnormal, but I’m trying to calm my nervous excitement, not accelerate it! Then, horrific images start running through my head. What if my stomach acts up again while I’m there? What if it happens in the middle of sexy time? What if the shitterflies start fluttering while he’s… Oh, hell no. This is not happening today. This is NOT HAPPENING. I feel a familiar pang right above my hip bones. Oh, no you don’t, stomach. You are not getting in between me and Magic time.

I see a convenient store on the road up ahead, and oh how convenient it is. I pull in and quickly, but not suspiciously, gather a bunch of items in my arms, and lay them out on the counter. The twinge on my hipbones is becoming a slow simmer. The cashier starts slowly scanning the items. Let’s go, lady. A bottle of water. Imodium. Baby wipes. Tylenol. A pack of gum. She looks at me. “Where’s your bathroom?” I ask. She points me to the back of the store without breaking eye contact. What, lady? Haven’t you ever wanted to ensure you don’t shit yourself while getting fucked good and dirty by a Channing Tatum look alike before? Is that too much to ask?! I place a Twix on the counter, just for good measure, she scans that too. I pay, take my treasures, and head to the back of the store.

While I’m in there, since I’ve got some reading time, I check out the back of the Imodium box. It says take two after your first “loose stool” – which sounds like a problem in the kitchen, not the bathroom, but Ok – and then one after each following “movement”. Is this a dance routine? Can’t we just say poop? I take two, gulp them down with a swig of water, and shower my nether regions with the baby wipes. Good as new. In fact, I’m not sure why I don’t use those all the time.

I laugh at myself in the mirror. Only you, Michele. I can already feel the Imodium shooing away the butterflies. But before I leave the bathroom, I take another pill, just to be safe. On the way out, the cashier gives me a dirty look. I wink at her as I sashay out the door like a brand new woman.

I pull into the driveway, look at my phone and read, “Back door’s open. Come in,” which makes me giggle a little because I have the mind of a high school boy. When I push in the door, Magic is sitting at his counter, leaning over his computer, the blue light illuminating his face. He has only one kitchen light on and a candle burning. It smells nice. Manly and clean. He looks up, the computer highlighting those delicious blue eyes, and smiles at me, that sideways smile. Still hot. Still so fucking hot. I hate him he’s so hot.

“You look adorable.” “Thanks,” I laugh a little. My stomach is surprisingly calm. “I just need to finish up some work. It’ll be quick.” He is still smiling at me. “Take your time.” I smile back at him, slide up onto the counter stool across from him and wobble a little. Mmm hmm – a loose stool.

Stifling the giggle, I put my elbows on the counter, folding my hands in front of my mouth. He is still looking at me. “Stop that,” he says. “Stop what?” “You’re running your thumb over your bottom lip.” I am? Apparently, I was. “Oh,” I laugh again, “sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you” I smile playfully. He stops typing and slowly stands up. Like a lion approaching his prey, he rounds the corner of the counter, moving painfully slow. (I’m sure he was walking normal speed but this is how I remember it.) As he’s standing in front of me, my knees against his thighs, he wraps his hands around my body, grabs my tush, and pulls me off the bench. Pressed tightly against him, he runs his thumb over my lip and whispers, “fuck the work” and tilts my face up to meet his. Yup, chemistry is definitely still there. I’m lost in this kiss. It’s like I have no skeletal system at all. Every woman deserves to be kissed like that every day of her life.

Suddenly, he spins me around forcefully, says, “let’s go upstairs this time” and smacks me hard on the butt so that I actually hop forward a little. Oh, Magic. If you only knew... but thank God you don’t.

While deep in the throes of passion, he compliments, “You know, you have the perfect ass.” It’s not perfect, you have no idea what it’s been through today. Without laughing, I manage to respond, “Thank you.” Clever, I know. I told you he makes me stupid. “One day, Michele.” Wait. Huh? “One day, what?” “I know it’s not your thing, but I want you to try with me.” Is this seriously the conversation we have to have today? He has to decide to bring this up right now?! Let me be frank, since really there’s no going back at this point, I am of the strict exit-only thinking. A one way street, if you will. This topic was not open for discussion. My backdoor was closed.

“Not today,” I smile, trying to be cute about it. “I know, maybe when we’ve been together longer.” He kisses me on the nose, also trying to be cute about it. When we’ve been together longer? Was this his version of together? I feel fluttering, but not like before. These were normal butterflies. Thank you, Imodium. Thank you so much.

Magic leans down and says softly into my ear, “You trust me?” “That depends,” I laugh nervously, trying to ease my own personal tension. Internally, I am not laughing. “You’re not -” “Not this time” he laughs too. Oh good, we’re joking. Then, he continues, “Turn around.” We’re not joking. Correctly reading the look I shoot him, he gives me that sideways smile, “Michele. I am not going to stick it in your butt.”

Flutters? No flutters. Because I have no self-control, I decide to trust him.

With no effort, he flips me over. He’s standing behind me, he leans down and kisses my shoulders, then my back, then my hips, then, oh Ok, this is all familiar, and quite nice I might add. Then he shifts a little. Is that… is that his tongue? Did he? Yup. He did. He licked my asshole. I remember the image of Bo from earlier this morning. I laughed loudly.

“Are you alright?” “Yup. It just tickles” Yes, that too was a lie.

He stops, thank you, Jesus, he stops, and turns me around so I’m facing him again, lays down next to me, and pulls me up to his chest. He cuddles me in his arms and rests his hand on my head as I burrow my face in his chest, mostly because I’m trying not to laugh.

“So, did you hate it?” “I didn’t hate it.”

I definitely hated it. Couldn’t he have wanted to explore this next time – or never? I was just glad to have made it through without feeling any twinges in my abdomen. In fact, I felt absolutely no rumblings whatsoever in my belly. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve completely halted my entire digestive system and all the trains on the NYC subway system. I breathe a deep sigh of relief. I survived. We laid there for a good while. It’s quiet and mostly dark. His chest is warm. His hands gently rub my shoulder and stroke my hair. I waited weeks to be back in this man’s arms and I was savoring every sweet second of his presence. I breathed him in and exhaled deeply, thankful that my disruptive digestive distress didn’t meet the expectations of my unnecessarily creative imagination. I was in the clear. I start drifting off to sleep.

“Hey, Michele. Do you want to get something eat?” I lazily nod yes and he continues, “Do you like Mexican?” My eyes shoot open. There goes the reverie. Now, I love Mexican, but right now, I know better. There is nary a time when this girl turns down a taco, nixes the nachos, or banishes a burrito, but I was happy to be buried against his body so that he couldn’t see the sheer look of terror on my face when he suggested my beloved Mexican cuisine. The spices. The cheeses. The beans!

And yet, somehow, despite my better judgement, out comes, “Yeah, I love Mexican.” MICHELE. ARE. YOU. KIDDING. Do you not remember nearly shitting your pants earlier today? Did you forget the awful look of disdain from the convenient store cashier? You are weak and you are a glutton, Michele. A weak, dirty, sex-crazed glutton.

We get there, we order, I excuse myself to wash my hands. Of course while I’m in there, I swallow yet another Imodium. The sensible thing to do would have been to suggest something else, but no, you can’t say no to Magic Mike and you can’t say no to Mexican. Sigh. At least the food is good. And so is the company. He again mentions taking me on a real date. A real date – perhaps one where I’m not dressed like a hooker or worried about a disorderly digestive track. Of course, I agree.

I called my friend on the way home, the one who is Sexually-Braver-Than-I, and told her the story. The whole story. “Oh my God, girl!” She yelled. “You took 4 Imodium in like 2 hours?! You’re never going to shit again!” “But at least I didn’t shit the bed. I regret nothing.”

It took four days.

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Part 5: Magic Mike & the Final Blow >>

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