Does the first thing you see in the morning set the tone for the entire day? That coffee table landscape (pictured above) was the first thing I saw when I woke up on a Monday morning a few weeks ago. I felt around for my phone and took that photo.
So glad my friend followed up with an email; I didn't receive his text message because my phone was disconnected. An invite to dinner at his place on Sunday evening. One of his friends I'd met last summer at the beach, a Cajun, was there with his wife. We drank wine, studied the fifth guest's Bio-jewelry, ribbed each other and played Uno. Then there were three.
My good friend the host, Cajun, and myself. The rest called it a night and departed for their own homes. We had weighty conversations about depression, music and growing up fatherless. We revealed our first impressions of one another and sang along with Prince and Teena Marie. Cajun got first-knuckle deep in my belly button; he was now convinced I had a deep one. "You have Ramen Noodles?" I shrieked, the orange of the chicken flavor noodles appeared like gold. We'd struck it rich. We drunkenly argued over whether we should break the noodles or not. Plans were made for me that I wasn't going home. They wouldn't allow it. I'd crash on the couch. We sat on his kitchen table, not at, on the table. "My hair's gonna be a mess in the morning." "You can just fluff it up in the morning," his fingers fluffing my afro at that very moment. Gorgeous. I love it. He cooed. If my hair could blush, it would've. I remember feeding him soup.
Alone with 2 men; one married, one bi, our shirts up poking belly buttons, fueled by alcohol and emotional bonding, noodles and slurping--this had all the elements for a erotic adventure but alas...
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Hanging out with a friend and her live-in boyfriend watching UFC 129. Bacardi and Diet Coke flowed. I drank wine. He offered me some of his lamb balls. I ate a piece of the brownies he baked first. Him: MMA Fighter, shadowboxing, throwing front kicks and predicting the fight outcomes. They told me a friend of his would be joining us later, a professional tattoo artist. Before he arrived, they briefed me that he looked like Lenny Kravitz. "Not as short as Lenny, right?" I asked. He stood much taller than his doppelgänger and didn't share the same Blewish stock. "I'm Native American, Spanish and Irish." "Wow, I thought there was some of me in you," I said. "Most people do." He paid homage to Slash on Halloween '10. He had a sly expression on his face when he wasn't doing spot-on Christoper Walken impressions from True Romance.
The volume on the television was turned up so we could hear the Jose Aldo v. Mark Hominick & Georges St. Pierre v. Jake Shields bouts over the buzzing of the tattoo gun. I savored Mr. MMA's lamb balls; proof of how he earns his keep. Clicked "Play" on Friday in the Netflix queue. Why won't Craig close his mouth?
My stomach grew tight and it felt like I had a bad case of gas. I rose to use the facilities. I sat on the toilet, pants and panties at my ankles and waited. Nothing exited. I grew weaker. "I don't feel good..." I managed to say as I stumbled back to the living room. I wanted to make it back to the living room so I could rest on the green shag carpet. "You look pale," the tattoo artist stated while he decorated Mr. MMA's back. That's a man who knows color, so I took his word for it on my way down. Could've been the brownies or 'shroom salad but I ended up on the living room floor. I placed myself in a loose recovery position. I remember sipping some water and feeling my friend rubbing my back. Kat Williams droning on in the bg. The buzz of the tattoo gun tickling my eardrums.
I could've woken up with a tattoo on my butt, a cat biting my hair--this had the potential for a one-woman "The Hangover"-style misadventure but alas...
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