18 Oct 2007 › 11:55am
In case you’re wondering, Bloke and I got along like a whorehouse on fire. The date was gooooood. Good to the point of goofy little-girl smiles creeping across my face at inopportune times for days afterwards. We made out like a couple of ecstasy addicts
again, this time on my stoop. I think both of us knew that if we took it inside we’d tear each other’s clothes off – and maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.
Now, you might be thinking, “Wait CG, I’ve been reading you for a while now, so I know that you are…er… how shall I put this? More than happy to shtup complete retards, so long as they look like extras in a Strokes video.” And you, loyal reader, would be correct.
The thing is, if I really like a guy I tend to hold off. And no, it’s not some born-again-virgin act that I learned in a How-to-Trap-a-Man book. It’s that I love, love, love anticipation. That incredible, fluttery stomached, shaky handed, rush of junior-high energy that precedes the deed itself. To be honest, when I get all sappy and reminisce about the times I’ve fallen in love, it’s never about the moment he told me he loved me. It’s always about the period before, when I was waiting… wondering which one of us was gonna cave first and blurt it out. I guess I’m an anticipation addict! I mean, once it’s gone, it’s gone – right? So I might as well savor it. I’m not saying it’s easy. Let me tell you, Bloke definitely got my Virginia talking, and she does not support my decision one bit.
