“You didn’t finish, did you?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
I’ve lied before, but I’m trying to wean myself away from it. Lying only adds a layer of mental unease to any lingering physical dissatisfaction I might be feeling, and assuaging false pride rarely seems like a good deal. The dishonesty (to myself) leaves a bad taste in my mouth; if he bothered to ask, doesn’t he want the truth? Keep reading »
The other night, the guy I’m dating asked me to hang out. We went to the movies, shared some popcorn, held hands. It was sweet. A solid date with a dude I like. Good stuff. As we were leaving, I asked, “Where to next?”
“I thought we could go to a sports bar and catch the end of the Bulls/Heat game,” he suggested. “Are you cool with that?”
He looked at me, waiting for my reaction. I froze. Those who know me well know that I HATE sports. I hate watching them, playing them, talking about them. Sports are just not my thing. This guy knows that too. I was ready to say “hell no!,” to crinkle my nose in a “bitch, please!” fashion. Keep reading »
The other day I was having dinner with a guy friend when he spotted something over my shoulder that had him salivating. Seriously, his eyes were going all googley and crap.
“What are you looking at?” I finally asked him.
“Don’t turn around now, but when you can, check out the woman at the table behind you and to the left.”
I nonchalantly gave the ol’ side eye. Keep reading »