But He’s Gay!

Have you ever had one of those nights when you ask yourself the following day, why did I do that?  

Not only did I have one of those, but so did my favorite bartender.

“He just didn’t seem like your type, Celebrity.”

No, he wasn’t my type.  But, not to worry, because the only thing I was found guilty of was talking to someone for too long at my favorite Irish pub.  I know it must be hard to watch the owner’s sister walk in and sit at your bar and not feel responsible for her. Therefore, I apologized for making my friend and bartender (The Belfast Bartender) worry about me that one night.

I confess, I was bored that night and of course there was beer.  Did I mention I was bored? It was just one of those evenings when I had nothing to do and I didn’t want to go home and sitting next to me was a young guy who was also alone.   It happens, because in an Irish pub, it’s customary to have a conversation with perfect strangers.

I know how to handle myself.  When the guy pressured me for my phone number, at least I’m smart enough to maybe accidentally on purpose given him the wrong phone number when I left.


“I know. I was clearly a little bored that night.  I know you have my back and that’s why I like coming here. Moving forward, in case this ever happens again, I’m telling you right now that I’m giving you full permission to break up anything you think is out of character for me, okay?”

Which leads me to my next story….


“You look great tonight, Celebrity,” Belfast Bartender said as he walked around the bar to give me a hug.

I felt great.  I was happy to be out of the house and it was a perfect autumn night to slip into my favorite pair of jeans and break out my favorite tall boots. 

Plus!  I had JUST washed my hair.


I ordered my beer from Belfast and stood at the end of the bar near the waitress station.  To my right, half way down the bar, I couldn’t help but notice a group of people.  I didn’t recognize any of them, but it was hard to see with the lights being turn down so low — you know, for ambiance.

(Who wants to be in a brightly lit bar?  Not me.)

“Oh, geez,” I said to the waitress. “We have a Stage 4 cling-on situation at three o’clock.  Do you know who that is staring at me?”  

“I’ve never seen him before. But he is definitely starting at you.  Good luck with that,” she said and walked away. 

The fact that I was there by myself, and my friends hadn’t showed up yet, made me feel just a teensy-weensy bit uncomfortable.  I reminded myself that as long as the Belfast Bartender was working, I knew he’d have my back.

There’s never anything one can do about someone staring at you, so I decided to have a seat at the bar.  Just as I started to walk towards the stool I had picked out, the man who was staring at me yelled over to me with a thick accent, “My God, baby.  Come over here.”

It was more like a pur than an accent.

But, whatever it was, it was sexy as hell.

So, I played out my response for a second.  

You know the, who me?

Oh, you meant me? 

As if I didn’t know…

With my best model walk, I slowly moved past the few people standing at the bar and walked toward the man.  

He greeted me with a huge smile and perfect teeth.

“Yes, baby…hello….where are you from?  My God you are gorgeous!”

I was gorgeous? 

He was gorgeous! 

But it was his sexy-ass accent that totally had me captivated.  And, even with my 3.5” high heeled boots on, he was still slightly taller than me.


“You are too funny,” I smiled coyly at him. “Where are you from?”

With a twinkle in his eyes, his velvety voice purred, “I’m from Costa Rica, but I live in Florida now.”

We stood there smiling and admiring each other.  It was one of those rare instances where you meet someone and just like that you click. 

Call it chemistry, mutual admiration, or what you want, but it was definitely there.

“My God, baby.  Are you married?  Single?!  Whaaaat?” he said eyeing me up and down like a flamboyant artist who just unveiled his masterpiece. “I can’t believe someone like you lives here…”


“Yes, yes, well thank you.  I grew up here,” I started to explain, which probably sounded more like an apology than a reason.  “But, I actually really do love living here.” 

“You don’t look like you are from here.”

“Thank you.  I used to live in New York City and Los Angeles.”

“Why would you leeeeeave, baby?”

But the real question was, what was he doing here in my small New England town?

I didn’t get too far contemplating a reason why this gorgeous man was in my small town. My thoughts were quickly interrupted by the short woman standing next to Mr. Costa Rica.

“Hello,” she said while extending her hand toward me, “I’m his realtor.  He and his husband are looking to buy property here.”

And there it was, the potential fun-factor had just been dialed down to a big, fat zero. 

….or so I thought.

Having a husband and being gay apparently wasn’t going to stop Mr. Costa Rica from flirting with me.  Instead, he laughed off his realtor’s announcement and continued to make my night by making me feel like the most gorgeous creature on Earth. 

“Yesssss, my husband is a doctor and we’re looking at investment property up here…..my God, you are gorgeous!”

Gay or not, one thing was for sure, he had an air and style that only came from living in a big city. 


I turned to look at Belfast Bartender standing behind the bar. “Would you like another beer?  Everything okaaaay?

“Everything is great,” I said beaming back at him. “And, I’m great with the beer I have now, thank you.  I don’t think I should have another one.”

I turned my attention back to Mr. Costa Rica who was still admiring me.

And just like that, it happened. 

Our eyes locked.

I felt his strong hand slip around my waist.

He stepped in closer to me…

….then he looked down at my mouth…

….and looked back into my eyes…

….slowly, he tilted his head…

….and looked back down at my mouth….

….leaned in…

….just like in the movies…

….parted his lips and put his beautiful mouth on mine…


….and it was fantastic!!!!!

In the middle of this slow make-out session (mind you) in the middle of my brother’s bar, I heard the slam of Belfast Bartender’s hands on the counter and my nickname yelled out loud, “Celebrity!”

“Hey!” the realtor shouted, as if trying to break up two dogs in heat.

Reluctantly, I pulled away from Mr. Costa Rica and with my head swirling with the surge of endorphins, I managed to say, “Oh my God that was fantastic.”

“But he’s gay!” the realtor shouted at me. “And he’s maaaaarried!”

She made me feel like a child being scolded, but I figured that as long as my brother was nowhere in sight, and not working, I didn’t really care.   As far as I was concerned, I was in the clear.

(Look, I’m not one to makeout with a stranger in a bar–that’s definitely not my style. However, not having had a proper makeout session with a man in months….possibly years, I figured the slight embarrassment that I had just caused myself, and possibly my brother, was well worth it.)

As we stood there smiling at each other and taking in the moment we just had, I could tell the realtor was about to do damage control. 

Because as fast as it started…

It was over. 

Looking pretty damn miffed, the realtor grabbed her client’s hand and quickly dragged him out of the bar. 

I was left standing there feeling speechless…

….and warm all over.


Dazed, I looked over at Belfast Bartender who was leaning on the bar with both hands, slowly shaking his head in disapproval, as if to say, what am I going to do with you?

“I’m sorry!” I blurted.  “He just grabbed me and started making out with me.  How is this my fault?!” 

If Belfast Bartender knew anything about me…he knew that was code for: Please don’t tell my brother!



The Best First Date

First dates generally suck.  I usually dread them because they are so predictable.  Guys either take me out to dinner or take me out for a drink (or five).   There is no originality anymore–just take a look at how many guys have taken me to dinner recently. (Please note, I am not complaining–just making an observation because every struggling writer enjoys a good meal once in a while.)




  • The Teacher — He took me apple picking.  (He got big points for that idea.)
  • Red Sox Guy — He took me to a Red Sox game. He got 10 points for that, but lost 20 when he expected me to sleep over after the game!  Jerk.

Personally, I think first dates should be fun.  Recently, I received an email from a fan who told me she was going on a first date with a guy and was really happy about it because she hasn’t had a date in 18 months.  (That’s a long time without a date.) I was truly excited for her!

Until she told me they would be meeting for lunch.


Lunch? For a first date?  That’s as exciting as a root canal.  Maybe I should have suggested something a little more…let’s say…exciting.

Here would be my top three suggestions for a fun first date:

  • Bowling
  • Mini Golf
  • Indoor Shooting Range

But, that’s just me.  I prefer creating something to talk about instead of going through the usual game of “Twenty Questions.”  Plus, what’s there not to like about adding some fun and a little competition to make your date more interesting?


Imagine winning a game of mini golf on a first date…think about all the gloating one can do. Okay, only do this if your date is a good sport and he can take a few sarcastic jabs.  If he’s a sore loser (assuming that you kick his ass in mini-golf), then he doesn’t get a second date.  See how that works?  Having dinner with someone doesn’t give you this kind of opportunity to see someone in a more natural and relaxed environment.

Plus, it’s practically guaranteed you won’t drink too much and wind up in bed.

So, speaking of really great first dates (this is where I go down the rabbit trail) the other day I finally went on a first date with The Smoker.

THE SMOKER:   Sooo, the 23rd. There’s a chance I might need a date for my friend’s wedding.  Ever date a reverend?

CARRIE:  The 23rd of?

THE SMOKER:  Um, June?  Reception is at the Shaskeen if that makes any difference.  Week from this Saturday.

CARRIE:  Can you handle seeing me in a dress?

THE SMOKER:  Can you handle watching me officiate the ceremony as an Internet reverend?  I think fun time might be had.

CARRIE:  Holy Lord.  Okay, I’m in.  Kelly green dress or polka-dots/40’s style dress?


CARRIE:  Ha ha.  The green or dark blue dress???  Both are hot.  Sexy.  Hot.  Meow.

THE SMOKER:   I would need pictures, but without them I’d have to say yes.

CARRIE:  Cheesy picture, but I was excited to have a new dress.

THE SMOKER:  I think that one wins so far.

CARRIE:  The Kelly green is equally yummy.

THE SMOKER:   Pictures or I’m coming by for a modeling session.

CARRIE:  So, how is your public speaking?

THE SMOKER:  We will certainly find out….*crosses fingers*

CARRIE:  What time is the wedding?

THE SMOKER:  Great question.  Will find out. One second…

THE SMOKER:  3:00pm

CARRIE:  So, I get to see you shaved and in a suit?

THE SMOKER:  At least one of the two.  Perhaps both.  Bought a new suit tonight.  Half way there…

CARRIE:  Where’s my damn picture??

THE SMOKER:  I was falling out of it.  Hardly a photo op. Tailors for the win.

CARRIE:  Lame.

THE SMOKER:  Green dress and we can talk.

CARRIE:  You can’t handle the green dress!  *said in Jack Nicholson’s voice*


CARRIE:  Here’s the green dress.

THE SMOKER:   Oooh, sexy.  I like it.

CARRIE:  So dots or green?

THE SMOKER:  Tough call.  What color are the polka-dots?

CARRIE:   Dark blue dress with red dots.

THE SMOKER:  I think I have a tie for the blue dress.

CARRIE:  Oh, so we are going to be the matching couple?  How sweet.

THE SMOKER:  Hell, ya.

CARRIE:  Got lifts?  I will be wearing heels.   Or, don’t you like your women Amazonian sized?

THE SMOKER:  Flats or the deal is off.  😉

CARRIE:  Heels…you’ll love it.

The day of the wedding arrives.  It’s a hot, sunny day and because I live in New England, it’s slightly humid.  A perfect day for big hair.  Not a perfect day for wearing a polyester dress.  But because I loved my new dress so much, I decide to suck it up and wear it anyway.

I meet The Smoker at 2:00pm at my favorite pub as planned.  (Okay, it was actually 2:15pm, because my super-sonic hair dryer couldn’t dry my super big hair.  A constant problem I have on humid days.)

There’s a sign out front of the bar that says: “Private Party. Closed to Public.”  I walk in and nobody is there except a few people standing at the bar – one of them is The Smoker.  His face lights up when he sees me and so does mine.  I was pleasantly surprise at how well he cleaned up.  He obviously spared no expense in buying his dark blue suit, because it was really nice.


We greet each other and he gives me a quick hug, and tells me I look amazing.  Behind the bar are my two favorite bartenders:  Megs and Belfast Bartender.  I put my clutch down and notice right away the two empty shot glasses sitting in front of me and my date.


Megs doesn’t even ask me what I want, she just walks over with the bottle of Jack Daniels and fills the two shot glasses.  A quick toast is made and I down the shot like a champ, grab my purse and ask my date if we should head to the park where the wedding is going to take place.

“Wait, Carrie, you’re doing another shot,” Megs announced.

How do I say no to this beautiful face?

At first I fought it.  “Look, Megs, I’m not a professional drinker.  I can only do one more shot, but only if I can have a Coke back.  I haven’t eaten lunch and I really don’t think anyone wants to see me barf at the wedding.”

She pours.

I drink.

The Smoker and I leave right after the second shot and drive a few blocks away to a beautiful.  As we walked onto the lawn towards the ceremony, I silently thank myself for not to wearing my spiky high-heels that day.  I knew I was going to be hot in my synthetic dress. I didn’t need to also worry that I was also aerating the park lawn with my shoes.  That’s never fun.

We stood in the shade under the canopy of large oak trees. The Smoker was an absolute gentleman and introduced me to a lot of the guests.  And, as promised, he officiated the ceremony in less than two minutes.


By the time we get back to the pub, the place is already packed with wedding guests.  The Smoker and I end up sitting at the end of the bar, which faced the room and is known as the best seat in the house to people watch.  While we sat there talking and drinking our beer, his big man hand slipped gently into mine and, naturally, I leaned in closer.  There was something about him that made me feel safe.

I’m not sure how many shots I did or how many pints of beer the bartenders poured me that night, but I do remember already being drunk when this really pretty girl and her husband from Vermont struck up a conversation with me.  Don’t ask me what we talked about, because I don’t remember.  What I do remember is her being completely hammered.  But, in her defense, at that particular point of the evening that description fit a lot of people. Or was it still afternoon?  Again, I don’t remember, but what I do remember is her announcing that we, as in her and I, were going to do a shot together.

“Neal, give us four Chocolate Cake shots, please.”  She turns to me and says, “Wait until you taste this.  It’s so awesome!”

“Does it have Jack Daniels in it?”

The chocolate shot had me worried.  I know better than to mix my Jackie with anything else, well,  besides beer.  Jack usually plays well with beer, but it didn’t matter because the Vermont girl ignored my question and stood there with a shit-eating grin on her face, waiting for Belfast Bartender to mix the shots.

As soon as I saw Belfast pour the clear liquid into the shot glasses, I knew I was in trouble.

“Hell, no.  If it’s not Jack Daniels, I’m not drinking it.”

Famous last words.  Down the hatch it went and, as instructed, I sucked on the lemon garnish – hoping to get the chocolate effect started in my mouth.

“See?!” she exclaimed.  “Doesn’t it taste like chocolate cake?”

“No! And, now, not only do I hate myself for trying it, but I’m going to be hating you in the morning for making do this shot.”

After that, I started drinking water.  At least I’m smart enough to know when to stop drinking and when to start imbibing on water.   I know my body can only take so much and, God forbid, I’m ever that girl who had to be carried out by the bouncer, or I’m the one barfing in the bathroom.

Look, everyone enjoys getting drunk, but the key is to know when to cut yourself off, because dignity and grace always win, ladies.  Sloppy is never cute.  Remember that.


Somewhere between 5:00pm and 11:00pm The Smoker finally kissed me.  Or, did I kiss him?  Either way, it was a nice kiss.  No tongue.  Just lips.  It was sweet – not too pushy, just a nice little kiss – just the way I like it.

At one point during one of our canoodling sessions he turns to me and announces, “Just so you know, I actually mentioned to your brother last week that I wanted to take you as my date to the wedding.”

“You asked my brother if you could take me as your date?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly ask him – it was more like I brought it up …”

“Same difference.  Awww…that’s so sweet.  Nathan was okay with this?  Wow.  He must really like you.”


Yes, The Smoker got points for asking Nathan if he could take his sister to a wedding reception at his bar, absolutely.  I mean, look, when you’re a bar owner and you have a sister, who is single, you’re going to be concerned about who she dates – especially if it’s a customer.   Nathan has been a bartender for years and knows everyone, which includes how people handle themselves when they drink and how many women he see them leave with…

Around 11:30 pm my date and I left the party.   I don’t remember saying good-bye to my brother but at 4:31AM he sends me this text:

NATHAN:  Where are you and what condition are you in?

I’m not sure what kind of party animal he thinks I was, but I was fast asleep when I replied.

CARRIE:    Bed.  Home.  Ouch, my head.

A few days later, I was sitting in my office (the corner booth of the bar), discussing the wedding reception with Belfast Bartender.

“So, how was the kiss?” he says in his Irish accent.  “On a scale one to ten, what would you rank it?”

I really had to think about it for a few seconds:  He only kissed me a few times that night, but it wasn’t like it was a heavy make-out session or anything like that.  No, it was more like a gentle kiss, but still worth grading.

“Uhm, I would say…an eight.”

Belfast leans in and asked, “Were you drunk?”

“Well, ya….But you got me that way, remember?”

“Well then it’s a seven and not an eight.”  As if he were pleased with himself, he crossed his arms and leaned back into his seat. “Sorry, but you have to deduct one point for being drunk.”

Maybe so, but The Smoker got a “10” for first-date originality.  I really had a good time and, as drunk as I got, he didn’t even try anything.  Nothing.  During the whole evening, his hand didn’t even slip down the small of my back down, and onto an ass cheek.

Not even once.



Pin Me Up Against the Wall and Kiss Me, Please

Uh-oh…  I’m feeling a little bit like a crack addict right now.  The crack being sex, and my pusher is “The Painter.”

The last time I saw him, he was sent away with blue balls. (See “The Dog is a Problem.)  Honestly, the way we left it, I really didn’t know if I would see him again.

(We all know how my track-record has been.)

I do, however, have some good news:  I did hear from him.  A few times.


But here’s the bad news:  He was hitting me up late in the night, via text, which we all know is a big red flag.


I know, I know.

The two times he did text me late at night, I was already fast asleep, so not only did I not answer them, but I didn’t hear them come in, which was probably a good thing.

I know what you are thinking, and so was I: Texting, late at night, only means one thing:  It’s a booty call.  And we all know I don’t do booty calls.


If I was to be honest with myself, then I will freely admit that I was lusting after this man, but when I read the obvious signs he was giving me, it put me in a crossroad.  These tell-tale signs were putting all of my insecurities at a full tilt. The Painter’s actions were definitely leaning towards “booty call” and yet I had a hard time talking myself into the idea that I needed to remain on course with my own theory about staying away from men who only wanted one thing.  BUT! I also reminded myself that it had been a long-ass eight months since the last time I had sex.  And the fact of the matter is, I knew I would have great sex with him.

Or, maybe it was just wishful lustful thinking.

Or! Maybe he could be a perfect candidate to work out some of my sexual frustrations, so that I could relax a little bit and be a little more discerning instead of feeling like I’m about to climb the walls all the time.

Do you realize how hard it is to abstain from sex as a mature adult?   I wouldn’t wish this on anybody.  It’s even harder to hold out when I know I could easily go after a young and unassuming twenty-something-year old and just have a one night’er.  It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.  But, again, that’s not me.  Been there, done that.  It was fun, but I would much rather have sex with someone my own age.  The only problem with that is, everyone my age is already married.

It seems like all the good men are already married or taken.  Certainly, there have been a few men who piqued my interest over the last few months, but not one of them qualified as a suitor.   By “qualified,” I mean they needed to be single.

One of those men is a FBI agent.  (Hot, I know.)  My brother laughed at me when I told him who it was and then he added that I must be attracted to men with power.  (Which, by the way, is innate trait for women, so there’s nothing wrong with that even if I am, which is definitely true.)  I actually denied it at first, citing this man’s over-the-top intelligence and charm, but then I realized that it was a combination of two things:  His height and his confidence.  Two things in my book, as we all know, that makes a very lethal combination for Carrie.

I met the FBI agent at The Shaskeen on evening and within minutes of being introduced by his friends who I casually knew, I was completely intrigued.  Not only did he have a magnetic presence, but I felt like his smooth, hypnotic voice was slowly seducing me.

I don’t know if it was his energy, confidence, or his gentlemanly ways that sucked me in so fast and so hard but, suddenly, it felt like he had cast some sort of spell on me.  I tried to shake it off and, certainly, not to be out-done, I channeled my inner 1940’s movie star coy charm and asked him some challenging questions.

He replied to my questions in Russian.

Do you realize what that does to an intelligent woman like myself?  To hear a man switch gears from English to Russian without a blink of an eye?  I seriously almost lost my composure right then and there and, believe me, there’s not too many men that have that effect on me.   He had me right where he wanted me…

…and just when I thought the night was going my way, his friends yelled over to him and announced they were leaving, which meant he was leaving, too.  Disappointed, I looked down, only to catch a glance at his left hand resting on the bar, which had a nice gold band on his finger.



The other person who showed up on my radar was The Painter.  He’s another one whose confidence and presence make my brain tingle.  He’s not extremely tall, but he seems to be just the right height for me – oh, and where did he get the  nickname?  I found out that he’s a closeted artist, which I think is so damn sexy…  Meow.

And to clarify on my nicknaming, he is not the guy who runs College Pro Painting.  Jesus.  I’m a little more creative than that in my nicknaming skills.  There’s a reason for the nicknaming…and it’s not to make it obvious as to who I’m talking about.  I needed to make that clear as there were some local people who though Hot Dog Guy was the guy who had the hot dog stand down on Elm Street.

I don’t discriminate, but c’mon, give me a little credit….

When I met The Painter last year, I was instantly attracted, but within minutes of talking to him, he told me he had been married for six years and had a 5-year old son.  The moment he said he was married, it took the wind out of my sails.  I was disappointed, but I figured I could include him in my ongoing discussion and ask him what he thought about relationships and dating.   Much to my surprise he had a lot to say and I was all ears, which left us sitting at The Shaskeen for a few hours that night.  He talked about his marriage and it came to no surprise to me that it was a very sad and unhappy marriage.   I felt bad for him and gave him a new perspective to think about.

I was proud of myself that night.  I didn’t flirt with him and I kept it very platonic.  I was in full therapist mode, which kept me thinking about giving advice and not ripping off his clothes.  He clearly wanted me to keep talking with him, because every time I was about finished with my beer, he was quick to ask me if I wanted another one, but he never waited for my answer.  He just ordered it.

I love a man who takes control.  Meow.

He was buying and I was drinking.

Why not?  I was intrigued that someone, who seemed so tough on the outside, could easily open up about his marriage in full detail.

“You’re so easy to talk to.  I never tell anyone any of this.”

“I’m a good listener.  It’s what I do.  People tell me I give good advice.”

“They’re right.  You do.  So far what you told me is true and you have a good way of looking at things differently than I do.”

We all need someone to talk to. Who was I to not accept another pint of beer and deny my inner therapist an opportunity to possibly help this man…who was easy on the eyes?

Not me!


So, how did I end up having a hot and heavy make-out session on my couch the other night with a married man?  Well, it wouldn’t have happened had he not told me that he was separated from his wife and was now living on his own.

After that, two hours later we were on my couch.


But that night, he left me craving for more.  Much, much more.  Did he even realize the large order he was signing up for?  Would I hear from him again even though I ended up sending him home with blue balls…

I knew I didn’t want to sleep with him too soon.  We connected on a sexual level, but could we still connect without the sex?

I was left wondering about it – assuming the worst.  Assuming I wouldn’t hear from him again – and then the late-night texts started  to come in.

What. The. Hell.

Things like that don’t fly with me so, in my usual Carrie style, I called him out on it.

CARRIE:  What is with the late-night texting routine?

PAINTER:  Ha.  Seems that way.  I’ll make it up to you Wednesday morning.

CARRIE:  Are you being serious or facetious?

PAINTER:  Serious.


PAINTER:  Are you up?

CARRIE: I’ve been up since 7AM, but I have a doctor appointment at 10:30AM.  Joy.  Come over for coffee if you want.

I really didn’t think that he would show up, but 20 minutes later he was sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee with me.  As you can imagine, I was a little beside myself, because, it had been three weeks since the night of the heavy make-out session on my couch.

Sitting there and talking over coffee, we really only had 45 minutes together before I had to dash off to my doctor’s appointment.   But, it was enough time that I felt I could  bring up a very awkward subject.

“This is very difficult for me to bring up, because I do not want to put any pressure on you and me…”

“Whoa, wait, Carrie.  I just got out of a marriage, I’m not looking for another serious relationship right off the bat, you know?”

“No, I get that and that’s not really what I’m trying to say here.  My concern is – yes, you just got out of a long-term relationship and so I am assuming that you probably want to make up for lost time, you know, sexually.  And, if you do, that’s okay with me.  It’s just that I don’t want to be number three on your roster of women.”

“No, no.  I’m not like that – it’s not like that.”

“Okay, what I’m saying is that if you do want to see other people and we are having sex, then just please tell me.  Please be brutally honesty with me, which I know you can be.  You’ve never sugar-coated anything and you’ve always been very honest and upfront. I just want to keep it that way.  I know you are fresh out of a relationship – you have a lot on your plate and so do I – I just want to see where this goes without having any expectations.  I have no expectations.  We obviously have sexual tension between us, so I just needed to mention the fact that if we have sex…”

“I get it.  You don’t have to worry.”

The conversation didn’t go as smooth as I wanted, but at least I got it out.  At least he knew that I didn’t want to be one of many, which is so common.  I have standards and if I was going to give up my penis-free status for him, then the least he could do for me was to not put me on a roster.

The minutes flew by and it was getting close to the time I had to leave for my appointment.   We both stood up and as I went to kiss him he said, “Cancel your appointment,” and then pulled me closer as we continued to kiss.

“I really can’t.  If I don’t go now, I have to wait weeks for another appointment.”

And that’s when it happened.   He pinned me up against the wall and kissed me hard and deep, causing me to question everything I ever said about holding out.   I mean, look, since the day I met him seven months ago, he had been in the back of my mind.  And, now, here he was standing in my kitchen, pinning me up against the wall with his big man hands and, for a minute, I didn’t have a damn care in the world.   All I was thinking about was taking him upstairs to my bedroom and having my way with him; over and over.

But, alas, I went to my doctor’s appointment instead.


Some days I really wish I didn’t have so much self-control.


The Dog is a Problem

My dog’s name is Campbell.  His full name is “Campbell Soup.”  If you met him, you’d understand why he’s got such a goofy name.

I first met Campbell when I was living with my roommate, Anthony, who had two dogs: Campbell and Agnes, as in “Agnes of God.”  (Yes, that was her real name. I’m not lying.)

After Agnes died, Anthony decided he didn’t want Campbell anymore and was going to try to find him a new home.  The dog was crated all the time, so finding a new home for Campbell was a good thing.  I offered to help Anthony and told him my friend, Beth, recently said she was looking to acquire another dog.

Perfect.  This should be easy.

On the day I brought Campbell to Beth’s house, things were looking good.  Not only did Beth like Campbell, but he got along great with her other two dogs.  But, at the end of the day, she said she didn’t want him.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because, look at him.”

We both looked down at Campbell who stood next to me, leaning up against my leg.

“Carrie, he thinks you’re his Mamma.”

“What? Oh, no,” I said waving my finger at her.  I’ve been a dog owner before and I don’t have time for a dog.  Beth, I do not want a dog.”

She let out a little chuckled, “Maaa-Maaaa…  C’mon, just look at him.”

Campbell sat there, staring at me with his big, brown eyes,  as if to say, “Don’t leave me.”

“Mamma!”  Beth started singing, pretending that she was the dog.  “Mamma, Mamma, Mamma, Maaaa-Maaaa…!

“Shut up, I am not his mother.”

Irritated with her observation, I walked away from her and the dog.  Without missing a beat, Campbell was right on my heels.

 “Mamma!” Beth yelled, “Look at him follow you.”

That night, as I was up in my bedroom getting undressed to go to bed, I looked at Campbell sitting on the floor looking at me with his big, sad puppy eyes.  His crate was all set up in my room and ready to go, but I decided that he could sleep on the floor for the night.

But, as I got into my comfortable bed and pulled up my cozy, down comforter, I looked down at him laying on the floor.  It just didn’t seem right that he had to sleep on the floor  when I got to sleep on a big, fluffy bed.  There was plenty of room for the both of us, right?

I gave the bed a pat with my hand and said, “Campbell, up.”

That was 2.5 years ago.   Life is ridiculously more fun now that he is my little companion.  We go for long walks during the day and at night he spoons with me – gently waking me up in the morning, sneezing in my face or kicking me as he stretches across my bed.  Those are hard kicks, too, but how can I be mad at this puppy face?

Campbell has been a welcomed addition to my single-girl life and I’ve never had a problem with him until the other night…

I am out and about, looking all kitty-kitty meow-meow and chatting away with some really great people.  Where else?

I was having a wonderful time, as I always do, schmoozing and chatting away until I noticed when he walked in:  The Painter.

Oh, holy hell.

I had met The Painter 6 months earlier.  We briefly talked to each other, but then I ran into him again a month later, only to end up having a three-hour conversation at the bar.  There was definitely *ZING-ZING!* going on between us, but, unfortunately, we never exchanged phone numbers that night.  Dumb, I know.  But, like Nathan always said to me, only desperate women give out their numbers first, and those phone numbers, at least for him, end up in the trash can.  I’m old-school, so I never give out my phone number unless asked for it first.


I figured that if The Painter was truly interested he’d eventually find me.   I mean, I only hang out at one place, which is where I met him, so how hard could it be finding me again? Apparently, it was pretty hard, because it took him the next five months to find me…


“I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about you as well.  It’s been a while since we last saw each other.”

“You know, I did look for you.”

“Really?  I’m not that difficult to find and you know approximately where I live and what I drive…  Good thing you’re a painter, because you really suck at detective work.”

He laughed at my jab, then added, “I did find you on Facebook.”

“Then, why didn’t you contact me?”

“I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you.”

We continue to talk..talking, talking, talking…and after we exchanged phone numbers, we both realize we didn’t want the night to end, so we go back to my place.

My place…

Holy crap, when was the last time I had someone back at my place?


Oh, wait, I do remember.  It was September 8th, 2010 when one night out of nowhere DC Dude showed up on my doorstep.

I really need to work on my love life.

DC Dude.  Him.  Yes, well,  I won’t have to worry about him popping up into my life anymore unannounced and unexpected because, instead of changing my phone number, I blocked him from calling or texting me ever again.


Getting back to my story – so, there I am, racing back to my house to make sure I had left it in decent shape.  I get home and find that I left my curling iron out, make-up all over the counter and a few dishes in the sink.

What was I thinking this morning when I left the house?!

I frantically put things away and let Campbell outside to pee.  “Make it quick,” I tell him and I continue with my quick clean-up.

Campbell came back into the house and did his usual happy dance, which included excessive tail wagging and follows me around the house, no matter where I go, including the bathroom.   It didn’t take too much time after I let him inside that my cute, needy, furry companion, was probably going to put a big damper on my evening with The Painter.

“Crap!  What am I going to do with you?”

I thought about putting him upstairs in my bedroom, but then remembered when the hot fireman came to my house, the dog cried the whole time while the EMT’s worked on Mom.  So, that wasn’t going to work.

I never had to deal with this situation before.  Do I lock him upstairs and put some loud music on so we don’t hear him cry?  I couldn’t do that to my own dog, so I decided to let him roam around in the house and hoped for the best.

The Painter arrive about five minutes later and, remember, this is the guys who I had been pining for, for months.  And now here he was sitting on my couch.

The usual self-doubting suspects were swirling around in my head as I went into the kitchen and grabbed us both a beer.  It was obvious we both wanted to sleep together (it has been a long seven months since I last had sex), but did I even really know him?

I handed The Painter his beer and sat down next to him.

Just when our conversation gets going and both of us were getting comfortable on the couch, Campbell jumps up, right in between us.  Clueless that he is interrupting my time with The Painter.   Like as if it was any other time with me on the couch, Campbell does us usual circle and then lays down and adds a touch of cuteness by putting his head down on The Painter’s leg.

Yup.  That’s my boy.

Feeling a little embarrassed at my dog’s poor behavior by being on the couch, I said, “Um, does the dog bother you?”

“No.  Actually, it’s kind of comforting.”

I love my dog, but I knew he was killing my chance to have a make-out session with The Painter, which was long over-due.  The dog had to go.  I don’t even remember how the dog got off the couch or why, but the next thing I know, I was finally kissing and breathing in the man who I had been in my thoughts for months.

Kissing The Painter was great.  But, let me tell you something…as an adult, it is extremely difficult to stop the natural progression of tearing off each others clothes after having a passionate make-out session.

“What are we in high school?” he said as I stopped his hand from making its way my skirt.

Hey, I don’t blame him for trying, but this is the second time I’ve heard that line after stopping a guy from making the moves on me.   And, unfortunately, a comment like that only heightens my fear that the guy I’m kissing only wants to get laid.  As a rule of thumb, and this has been confirmed by many of my guy friends that, men in general, just don’t have any respect for women who sleep with them too soon.  Girls that do that are just a dime-a-dozen.


I may send guys away with blue balls, but at least I still have my self-respect and dignity still in hand.  To me, that means more to me, than getting laid.

Boring, I know.  But, like with the other guy who I had the heavy make-out session with in my car the other night, who I could have easily slept with, but again, I sent him away with blue-balls, too.  I figured if he was truly interested in me, I’d hear from him again.

Guess what the outcome of that heated make-out session was?  That’s right!  He never called. I was a little surprised, because this guy had a lot of enthusiasm for me, so I imagined that he probably had a girlfriend.  And that makes him a douche bag for making out with me.  Can you imagine how shitty I would have felt, if I had slept with him?

So, ya, I’m all set.  I don’t mind holding off on the sex…again.

Look, this is not easy, but saying “no” is a hell of a lot easier having the idea that no man would take me serious because I slept around a lot, and believe me, I live in a small town and everyone knows everything.  Besides, I’ve got all the time in the world and it will be time that will tell me if The Painter truly had an interest in me, or if he just had an interest in getting off.

Until then, I’ll be happily curled up with Campbell Soup every night…


And that’s exactly what I’m going to keep telling myself, as I think about what it would have been like to have crazy, wild sex with The Painter.


I Got Your *ZING-ZING* Right Here!

Okay, I get the chivalry thing and I do expect it from guys if they want to date me, you know, like picking me up for a date and opening doors.  But let me tell you something, nothing turns me off more than a guy who asks permission to kiss me.

For instance, I’m hanging out with a bunch of guys the other night at The Shaskeen, most of them older and married and all them off-duty government employees with badges.


As a single girl who has a lot of girlfriends, it’s nice once in a while to just hang out with the guys, especially older men, because they know how to have fun and still be gentlemen.  In other words, they don’t get their BVD’s all twisted in a bunch just because a tall, attractive red-head is hanging out with them.

This particular night was a blast, because their humor was in full swing that night.  After a few hours of laughing my butt off and watching these guys whoop it up, it was decided that we would go down the street to The Strange Brew.  Not my favorite place to hang out, but who was I to say no?

When I got to the bar, apparently everyone left to go home except me and two other guys.  Out of nowhere, as I was being handed my Jack & Coke, I noticed a cute, short, petite girl had joined us.   I wasn’t quite sure who she was or where she came from.  She just sort of appeared.  Was she the short guy’s girlfriend, friend or what?  Whoever she was, she was a lucky girl, because the short guy, who was completely into her, was super cute and had a killer smile.  So, that left me with the tall guy, who was very nice and fun to talk to but, for me, there was no love connection.  I just wasn’t feeling the spark.

But he wasn’t really picking that up, which was odd, because I’m pretty sure that when two people like each other – it’s not only obvious to the people around them, but it’s obvious to them.

You know, there’s a little flirty-flirt going on…

A subtle touch here…

A lingering look there…

You sit really close to each other…

The chemistry is obvious, and *ZING-ZING!* voila!

But, what about when only one person is feeling the *ZING-ZING!*?  Does only one person know it, or do both?  I know I can tell the signs when someone isn’t into me, so why is it that this guy, and maybe guys in general, can’t see when I’m not into them?  Just because I’m talking to you, doesn’t necessarily mean I’m into you.  In other words, I may like you, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that want to swap spit with you.

I’m pointing this out because by the time the end of the night came, and even though I gave no indication that I was into the tall dude, he asked, “Can I kiss you?” from four feet away.

I know he was trying to be a gentleman, but where is the *ZING-ZING!* in that?  Asking for a kiss?

Look, Hasidic Jews use a sheet with a hole in it to have sex, right?  And, to me, that’s the equivalent of asking permission to kiss a woman – especially from four feet away.  Women want the man to take charge and, in my book, the rule is, “If you have to ask, the answer is going to be no.”

The night ended with me giving the tall guy a ride to his car and again turning him down as he asked me out on a date.  No surprise there, right?

Fast forward two days later…

My brother asks me to be his date for The Shaskeen employee party.  I was delighted because we hardly get to see each other and we really enjoy being together.   At first, I was a little hesitant, because I didn’t know if I could I do another night of drinking so soon.  But, I figured, by the time the party started my liver would have gotten a good 48 hours of rest since the last time I did the Waltz with Jackie.  So, I agreed to go.

A Christmas party definitely requires one to dress up, so I did.  I decided to wear a knee-length, black dress and a yellow cashmere sweater with high heels.   I was conservatively dressed, but the “girls” were definitely out.   (If there is anything that you take from my blog, I hope you learn that men love the conservative/sexy look.)  And, damn, was I rocking the ruffles, cleavage and cashmere.

Even Nathan said I looked really nice when he saw me.


(You know when you are doing something right when you get your brother’s approval – you know is true a compliment.)

The party was great. I spent the evening chatting with The Shaskeen eclectic crew, hung out with my brother, and waltzed with Jackie.  I was definitely having fun.  Shots were definitely in abundance.

Towards the end of the night, four young guys walked in and join our party.  Nathan knew who they were.  (Who doesn’t he know?)  But to me, their crew cuts and muscular build gave them away, as it was obvious to me they were also all off-duty government employees with badges.  (Apparently, there are a lot of them in my town.)  I caught the tallest one in the group looking at me a few times as I was huddled in the corner talking with Nathan.  And, as soon as me and the tall guy caught each others glance, it was on.

Having a little bit too much liquid courage, me and Jackie eventually walked up to the off-duty guys and I introduced myself.  I end up talking to the tall guy who was very handsome and acted more reserved than his friends.  His friends had a touch of the Jersey Shore thing happening, so the fact that the tall, cute guy who had caught my eye was much more quiet than the rest of them, was a good thing in my book.

My conversation with the tall guy continued as we decided to sit at the bar…which brings me back to my previous point about *ZING-ZING* and flirting:

A subtle touch here…

A lingering look there…

Oh, it was on alright.  As we sat at the bar with his friends standing right next to us, the tall dude’s feet happen to be touching mine.  There was very little space for two pairs of long sets of legs, as I tried to cross my legs and squeeze them in between us.   Honestly, I couldn’t tell if my feet were invading his space or if his were invading mine – but we were touching and neither of us moving out of the way.


As the party was ending, tall dude gave me his phone number.  I looked for Nathan, but he was nowhere in sight, so I walked outside with tall dude and his friends.  Then his friend asked if him if he was going home with me or with them.  (Typical Jersey Shore assumption.)  I told them I had to go straight home.

My reply obviously fell on deaf ears, because his friends ended up ditching him as he walked me to my car, so I had to give him a ride.  (I know that this is something a group of girls would never do.  Is this what guys do so they can help their friend get laid? I’ll have to ask Nathan about that one.)

I just went along with it and was kind of glad I got stuck taking him home.

We walked out to where Red Rocket was parked underneath the parking lot light. We both stood there trying to see if we could find his friends, but we weren’t really trying that hard.

And then it happened.

As we were standing face-to-face, we both stopped talking and all I can remember is staring at his beautiful mouth and then we kissed.  It was a wonderful kiss, because it wasn’t like a let-me-thrust-my-tongue-in-your-mouth-to-show-you-how-horny-I-am kiss.  No, it was the kind that was so sweet and sexy, because he took his time, standing there in front of me, so that I could feel his breath on my lips before his lips even touched mine.


As I stood there kissing him in the parking lot, underneath the stupid parking lot light that was illuminating our make-out session, I could hear the other bar patrons as they walked to their cars, but I didn’t care.  There was no way in hell I was going to stop kissing him.

Eventually we got into Red Rocket and I drove him home, which only took about 5 minutes.   But in those 5 minutes, a million thoughts ran through my head.  I had gone a long time without nookie, did I really want to give it up for this hot stud who I didn’t even know?  Nah.  It would have been nice and the thought did run though my head, but knowing how long I had gone, I knew going a little longer wouldn’t kill me.  So, when he invited me to come inside when we got to his house, I declined.


But that didn’t stop us from continuing our major make-out session in my car.  That was fantastic.  It was getting late and I knew that if he was really into me and not just trying to get laid, that he’d be in touch with me again and we could continue this at another time.  So, I wrote my phone number on his arm (to be sure he wouldn’t lose it) and kicked him out of my car.  It was really late and I really had to get home.  But, before leaving, he asked me to text him when I got home.  I told him I would, gave him another kiss and drove off.

Points for him, right?

Yup, I thought so, too.

Days later, it came to no surprise that he never called or responded to my text I sent him that night.


Oh, well.  It was definitely fun.  But, I’m glad I used my better judgment and left when I did.  Besides, if all he was interested in was a one night’er, then I’m all set.  I’m not going to be anyone’s “Tuesday night girl,” even though a lot of women out there are okay with just being that.  Sorry, but a case of Herpes, HPV, or whatever else you can contract while still wearing a condom, just isn’t worth a night of sex to me.  And, I’m certainly better than being your average girl who is on somebody’s roster for a hook-up.  Just take a look at the statistics!  Yup…I’m all set.

Because, I’m better than that.



That’s NOT How You Kiss!

MR. VERMONT:  Correct me if I’m wrong…but I get the feeling that I’m not a “match” for you?

(If you forgot who Mr. VT is – click here.)

I figured if the man had the guts to ask that sort of question, then he deserved an honest answer.

CARRIE: Yes, you are correct. I have been struggling with the fact that I really like you, but I’m not feeling the “zing.” I was going to tell you tonight after you got out of work. *sad face*

MR. VERMONT:  No problem! Good luck to you, Carrie. It was really nice to have met you. 🙂

CARRIE: I’m sooooooooo sorry. This is the part about dating I really hate and I certainly didn’t want to do this by text! I want you to know that you have renewed my faith that there are still good men out there!

MR. VERMONT: I can always use a good friend…so feel free to stay in touch!

And that, my friends, is how you break it off with someone! The key is to be honest and gracious. The truth may sting, but it’s necessary, because nobody likes to be left hanging.


Later that day, I was writing in my favorite corner, at the Shaskeen, when I got a text from someone who I thought had blown me off: Finance Guy. Why that particular nickname? Well, from what he wrote…it was obvious he was a finance guy!

His first email to me went like this:

“I liked your profile…sounds like you love travel like me. I’m from Danvers, MA but I am actually staying in Laconia NH while I ponder living in Boston, Manchester NH….or New York, City. I returned from Asia two months ago (spent 10 months living in Singapore and Shanghai on a semi-sabbatical from real life) and before that was in technology investment banking. I’ve lived in NYC before (law school at Columbia and now a grad degree from NYU) and if I do choose to live in Boston or Manchester, I will probably buy a place in NYC anyway, because I love visiting my friends there. I ran my own firm for 7 years before my break and made some successful investments. I’ve got a great family too and most of them are spread between northern mass and southern nh.”

Talking about a sales pitch! He intrigued me, so we went back and forth with a few email exchanges, but once I went off to my 10-day trip to Florida, all communication ceased. I got nothing from him, except he asked to let him know when I was back from my trip. Really?

That confused me.

Wasn’t it obvious that I was a hot commodity on the market? Hello! Finance Guy…I’m a tall, smart, pretty red head, never married, no kids. If you asked me, I would think that’s a pretty rare find these days. I’m sorry, are people like me really that abundant? How could he not realize that another guy could easily come by in a 10-day span and capture my attention? Which, by the way, is exactly what happened – Mr. Vermont came into the picture and stole the show, until I met him in person for our first date.

So, there I was, sitting there in my corner at the Shaskeen, surprised to see a text from Finance Guy. But, really, after what I’ve been through over the past few years, nothing surprises me anymore. Screw it. I’m just going to go with the flow…

FINANCE GUY: What are you up to?

CARRIE: I’m in my office cubicle at the Shaskeen, writing. You?

FINANCE GUY: I’m driving by your town right now, do you want me to stop by so we can meet? I have to meet my brother at 7:30pm, so I can’t stay long.

CARRIE: Of course!

FINANCE GUY: OK, I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

I grab my purse and make a mad dash into the Lady’s Room to freshen up. My face looked a little dewy the summer humidity, but it looked fresh – glowing even! However, my mane of red hair was not looking so good as it was doing it’s own thing and having Frizz-Fest. I knew I couldn’t do anything about it – it was just going to have to do.

Walking back to my corner in the bar, I pass Megan, the bartender, a fellow road-grimy single female like myself.

“You are not going to believe this,” I tell her, “I’m meeting another guy here in ten minutes.”

I sit down and try to keep working, but we all know that wasn’t happening…

When Fiance Guy walked into the Shaskeen, the first thing I notice was his build. Six-foot-two and 47-years old…wow, lookin’ pretty damn good for his age. He had a very square face – typical Irish features – oh, and very short hair and blue eyes and, of course, big man hands…

I’m interested!

We sit down at a table and we both order a Harpoon UFO – my favorite. The conversation was flowing and the attraction was mutual. Nathan arrives for work and came over to say hello to me. I introduce him to my date, and they ended up having a brief conversation. Nathan is good like that – he’s always gracious and eager to talk with anyone who walks into his bar. (Personally, I really think he should run for mayor, because he’d definitely win.)

A half hour later, Finance Guy announces he has to leave. It was an awkward moment as we stood there. Do we shake hands? Do I hug him? I could tell he wanted to hug me, but he hesitated and said, sounding a little panicked while looking over his shoulder at Nathan,”Your brother is over there.”

Coyly, I replied, “So what! He’s not looking now,” and gave him a kiss on the check.

Three days later we meet in Boston for a drink. Boston! I had not visited the city in years, so I was really excited to be there.

We meet at the Westin Hotel bar. He was staying there because he was flying out of Logan Airport to Washington DC the following morning to pick up his two kids so he could have them for a week. Originally, our plan was to have a drink in the lounge and then go watch some live music, but our conversations just kept going, so we ended up staying at the bar.

Two beers and three hours later, he invited me to his hotel room for a glass of wine. I knew he just wanted to get me to his room so he could kiss me. So, I agreed but, only on one condition – that he behaved himself! Shortly after he poured the wine, he went for the kiss. The whole evening had gone well, so I wasn’t expecting what happened next.

Slowing he brought his mouth up to mine and then without warning, without even kissing my lips, he stuck his whole entire friggin’ tongue in my mouth!  Making things worse (I know…what can be worse than that?) is the fact that at the same time he was shoving his huge tongue in my mouth, I had instinctively reached around his 6’2″ frame and put my hand on his back – only to feel something crunchy under my hand. It was a double whammy. Oh, God noooooo…!!!!! Pulling back, I gently said to him, “Can you please not use your tongue?” and then proceeded to try to kiss him, thinking that, maybe, I could show him how to kiss properly…

Fat chance.

He was a hopeless case, and because I was so grossed out by the fact that my hand touched what might have been a very hairy back just pushed me past the point of no return.

The sirens and fire alarms were all going off in my head.

Please step away from the man and find the nearest exit. Carrie, this is an emergency. Please find the nearest exit and leave. Do not walk – run!

Look, there is hair on a man’s back, which, hey, some men have it which I don’t mind – and then there is this guy’s back! I was horrified. No, I was horrified, grossed out, and beside myself at the same time. How in the world could this man have been married for ten years. Ten years?! I couldn’t even get past the first kiss with him – never mind shacking up with him for ten long years!

Trying to be cool and not show my utter disgust, I left, but he insisted on walking me to my car, which was in the garage a few blocks away from the hotel. It was raining, so once we got to my car I told him that I would give him a ride back. I know, I can’t help myself…I’m too freaking nice…even after someone shoves their whole tongue in my mouth.

Ick! Ick! Ick!

We got into my car and as I drove up to the garage exit and the automated parking attendant announces that owe $30. Thirty dollars! And wouldn’t you know, Finance Guy…yes, that’s right, “Mr. I Shit Money”…didn’t even reach for his wallet. So, I’m out of money and I get assaulted by his nasty tongue…

God has a horrible sense of humor and, believe me, I’m not laughing.

The ride home felt like an eternity, because all I could think about was how much I wanted to wash my mouth out with Listerine.  Scope wouldn’t have cut it.  I needed the heavy-duty Listerine and, of course, lucky me, I didn’t even have a bottle of water in my car, or even one measly stick of gum. Nothing. I even dug to the depths of my purse and frantically searched all four corners hoping to find something.



Seriously, if I had found a used wad of gum stuck inside a crumpled-up wrapper that had been there for months, I would have popped that sucker right in my mouth and happily chewed it like it was the freshest piece of gum I had ever had. But, why would I have such luck?

Lesson learned: Never, under any circumstances, leave the house without gum.  Ever.

The following day I told Beth about my horrific date.

CARRIE: Can I break up with him via text?

BETH: Yes.

CARRIE: Sweet! 😀

BETH: What are you going to say?

CARRIE: “Although I really enjoyed our first date, I don’t feel as though the chemistry is there for me to go on a 2nd date…”

BETH: Oh – that’s perfect.

CARRIE: “….because you don’t know how to kiss and you shoved your big NASTY tongue in my mouth and it MADE ME WANT TO VOMIT.”

BETH: STOP! Now I gotta vomit!

Next time a guy decides to shove his tongue in my mouth like that, I’m taking my friend Lisa’s advice and I’m just going to bite the thing off!

Next! Next! Next!