It’s a random Tuesday night, and my daughter is asleep, and there are zero date-worthy men in my life. So, what I am left to do? Recount my friend Blair’s tales of dating woe to you lovely people.
I have to say, I’m so glad life brought me to Athens, Georgia because otherwise I might have never met my dear Blair.
Go ahead and find the good wine key and that bottle you’ve been saving for a special occasion, because if you’re anything like me…. this article is the best prospect you’ve had for some time. *Note: If you are easily offended by – ahem- language then go ahead and skip this one. It lives up to the column name for sure.
And now I present, my friend Blair, of Sex and the Classic City- originally posted on The Broad Collective:
I can tell I really like someone when I go to describe them later to my best friend, Sebastian, and all I have is a handful of hyper specific details so painfully specific they are almost useless. Standing in the lot behind Magnolia’s, there was the distinct impression that I’d later be annoying Sebastian with many such usless details about my new Chef-boy. Like how his beard has the just tiniest little bit of red in it, or how the scent of his cologne mixed with the leather of his jacket and the cold Autumn air was so delicious it made me absolutely weak at the knees, or the cute little “mmm” noise he absentmindedly made between every kiss, the way his face lit up when he talked about his work or the cute little line that held court at the corner of his mouth even after he’d stopped smirking at me. My favorite detail though is the way his eyes looked when he said he already missed me and asked if I might want to come over and watch a movie. It was a mixture of earnestness and hope with the right amount of playfulness and a hint of sexy. It’s the look that comes before you even realize you’re going to fall for someone. All but imperceptible in the moment, but looking back there is always THAT look. I didn’t take the look for what it was at the time, but I do recall feeling a now familiar whoosh of desire flood my body in response to it.
We walk to his car and when we reach it he automatically goes to opens the door for me and tucks my coat in so it doesn’t get caught (really? REALLY?! I’m so fucking you in the near to moderately near future). On the drive to his place my leg twitches nervously. It’s been exactly 2 months 9 days and 17 hours since the biggest relationship of my life ended and all the lying my ex did to hold it together came to light – there is no way in hell I was ready to have even a mild case of the feels for anyone just yet. None. I’d only even agreed to hang out with Chef because I was determined to bully myself into doing anything other than what I wanted to do. Which, obviously, was still wasting my life sitting at home and crying into multiple pints of Ben & Jerry’s. But it’s just a movie, right? Certainly I can handle a movie.
We get to his place and when he takes my coat there’s another moment where our eyes meet and I swear to god I can feel my pulse directly in my lady business. He smirks at me knowingly. Light eyes sparkling. I want to rip his freaking clothes off. “No. Movie!” I tell myself, “we are going to WATCH a MOVIE”. Chef ushers me to the living room and makes sure I’m comfortably situated on his couch with a plush throw and the remote to his swanky ass media set up with which I am given carte blanche freedom to select for us whatever movie I want. He disappears into his kitchen. He emerges with a beautifully arranged, make shift, dessert tray. Dark chocolate, strawberries and some kind of cake. Reason 154312465433537502502 that chefs are infinitely bone-able. Not only are they catergorically really passionate people (seriously, ask one about the last great meal he either made or had and watch his eyes light up and his hands dance around animatedly. Even the shy ones. They are really, really, really into what they do and THAT is sexy). They are forever trying to feed you amazing things. It’s pretty hard to feel bad about your life when a hot guy brings you creme brulee he torched himself just seconds ago, an assortment of lavendar, earl grey, and chamomile flavored shortbread cookies he just “decided’ to make to see if he could, or homemade bourbon infused truffles in bed directly after going all Iron Chef (and winning) on your vajay. I’m just saying.
We’re sitting there talking about the movie I’d put on. He says something witty and I toss my head back to laugh. Hysterically. Probably because this part always makes me nervous. I can feel him staring at me. Once I’ve calmed my laughter to a giggle, I dare to make eye contact again. There it is again – that look. Coco Chanel in heaven, what am I going to do?! Before I can talk myself out my first answer, he kisses me. It’s one of those kisses where you’re certain you’ll forget your own name by the time it ends. I melt into it for what feels like an eternity. Then my stupid bitch of a brain tries to cock block me. “You’re still hurt” she whispers, “This is too soon”. Chef kisses my neck. It feels amazing and I realize I’d forgotten how fun it is to not cry and actually like someone. Especially someone who kisses like that.
“Yep, I’m definitely still hurt, but you know what brain? FUCK IT!”
I straddle chef and return his kiss. I feel high and drunk and really, really, alive. There’s the same nervous excitement in the pit of my stomach as the one you feel when you’re on a roller coaster and the car is climbing higher and higher and higher and then you’re sitting at the apex of a huge drop just WAITING for the real action to start. I love that feeling. The moment before the drop. I hold my breath, bracing for the fall. He kisses me – hard – hands moving from my waist to my hair to the button on my jeans and back again. He bites my lip and yanks my hair just a little as he pulls me in closer. He tastes like the chocolate we just ate and the scruffiness of his face feels incredible against my own soft skin. He stops for a moment and looks at me with the same softness of expression as when he invited me over. Earnest. He doesn’t say a word, but there’s a question in his gaze. We can stop now, no hard feelings. It’s totally my call.
We banged on his couch, coffee table, floor, on top of the island in his kitchen, and then, just for good measure, his bed . . . twice. Leave it to a chef to eat his spinach. Ha ha. Dear god, homeboy was healthy. Zero regrets for skanking out and sleeping with him on the first date. ZERO. He’s still the best sex of my entire life. Hands down. Also, a geniunely amazing human being. When recounting the details of my night of passion to the bestest in a fashion only Sebastian can muster, he bestowed the single most amazing nick name of all time. It’s how I’ll refer to Chef in all future posts.
Everyone knows someone, who knows someone, who knows who I might be. I’m smart. I’m funny. I’m reasonably attractive. I’m willing to spend more on shoes than, say, the gross national product of Uruguay. And yet, I am deeply, deeply, single. Read my other posts on The Broad Collective.
These posts are graciously syndicated from The Broad Collective, please consider donating to their fundraiser for their new makers space in Athens, Georgia.