ONE NIGHT STAND WEEK: The Escape Artist

It was his eyes. The eyes will do it for me, every time.

It probably also had something to do with the three or four tumblers of Vodka Tonics I'd consumed. (Bartenders are so irresponsible these days.) Honestly, at that point, I think I was seeing stars in just about everything, so I may have mistaken the Devil in his eyes for a "twinkle." All I knew is that I wanted to go skinny dipping in those eyes - eyes as blue as the deep blue sea...

They were fuckin' sexy, is what I'm trying to say, alright?

But I digress. The year was somewhere around five or so ago (give or take), and it was probably a Tuesday? In other words, the mood was just right for an evening of sweet, sweet love making.

Or super ghetto fucking, as it turned out. Dude wore a gold chain necklace that kept knocking me in the chin with every thrust he made. With each, "Oh, guuurrl" I was instantly aware that I was too conscious for this experience. And then God threw me a bone and I blacked out.

When I came to the next morning, Dude was no where to be found. I breathed out a heavy sigh of relief as I rolled over on to my side, but my bliss was cut short. That's when I saw it: his pile of clothes AND his wallet on my bedroom floor. He's still here… FUCK.

Photo courtesy of the inklingsoflife.com

But the place was quiet. Too quiet. I reluctantly rolled out of bed, and - wrapped in my bed sheet - began a room-to-room search for Mr. Thug Life, taking an inventory of any missing items… And that's when I discovered I was short (1) cat-hair covered blanket, and (1) pair of flip flops. Also, Homeboy was LONG the fuck gone.

Yes, apparently I'm that good in bed.

I never did get opportunity to thank him for breakfast...