Life, Liberty & Pursuit Of Your Boyfriend

Against my better judgment, I invited Shady McShadester to meet up with us on Saturday night. The hilarious part of the story: I have no clue what he looked like. On Halloween, he was wearing a blonde wig as part of his costume, and I was beyond drunk, so I had no idea as to “hair, no hair?” and essentially what he looked like.

So, he had to look for me at House of Blues – where my phone did not work. I texted him beforehand with my outfit ensemble, hoping he was not color blind or anything (”Excuse me, Miss, is your shirt red?”). It was well into the second set of “Who’s Bad?” that he found me at the bar.

“Are you supposed to meet someone here tonight?”

I turned around to someone that was probably a little too hot for me. And fucking tall (that much I remembered). I was impressed with hair (ok, I have a hot hair thing), his shirt under a black cord jacket (a little GQ-ish, but I loved his fucking shirt — yeah, it was striped – the douchebaggery is still out at this point), his shoes (ahem, big). But then he fucking smiled, and I melted like probably every other chick to walk within 3 feet of him. My gut tells me this is very, very bad Mel because obviously, it’s basically me drooling over his appearance. I was sufficiently self-conscious, to say the least.

I still feel very guarded about him, but at least I learned all I needed to know in 20 minutes flat. Where he lives (not Ohio, of course, welcome to my luck — he’s staying here temporarily),  where he grew up, what company he works for, Catholic-big-family background… and more-than-I’d-to-admit-asking sexual history (I asked when he lost his virginity. Yes, I really asked. And I got that “that was a weird question” look. I really need to brush up on my conversational dating skills).

When my friends left HOB for Cadillac Ranch and Barroom, he almost immediately followed, coming up behind me and literally pulling me away. He took me to the dance floor to dance. I kept pulling away. He tried to kiss me. I pulled away. But somewhere in dancing and drinking, we ended at the bar talking. I was completely oblivious to everything and everyone around me (even losing my friend, in which I’m a total asshole for). I had become completely engrossed in “some guy” at some stupid ass downtown cheesy-ass 96.5 douchebag bar.

Then my dating and overall public decency behavior turned into morning-after humiliation. I started making out with him on the dancefloor. Against every standard I set for myself, we became “that fucking gross couple” in the bar.

And for that, I guess, the bright side: a good pump for my ego, in that I was (embarrassingly) making out with too-hot-for-me guy.

Awesome.