Friday the 13th—clearly has no effect here.—Last night, for the second time in 2012, and the third time in two years, I got lucky.
The drought, strike, whatever the f*ck funk it was that took over 25 and 26 is finally over.—I am officially sexually active again.
And thank goodness for that. Two New York City winters are enough to frustrate even the coldest of ice queens.—Although, I don’t think I am an ice queen. To be an ice queen is to be purposeful. I am probably more prude. But definitely not on purpose.
Here I sit, a little lady of 27, and I have never been in an intimate relationship. Hell, if I were holding out for that, I would probably still be a virgin!
So who is this john du jour? We shall call him KS. He’s friends with my roommate’s friends.
KS isn’t serious about me. But he is cute and silly, so I don’t care.
The night we met, I hadn’t been out in a while. I’d been living in a cocoon of work, school, and winter. That night, I was a butterfly. A horny butterfly.
KS was at the bar, waiting to order a drink. I approached him and introduced myself. We talked for a few minutes. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he looked good saying it.
I asked him to kiss me. He wasn’t going to argue with that.
