So the other night I meet a female pal of mine for dinner. As we sift through the appetizers, she tells me how her lovelife's been pretty lame of late, and with each successive glass of booze, she gets a bit more descriptive as to what it is that's got her bummed. Apparently, the last few guys she's dated haven't gone down on her, and she's absolutely "dying" -- her words -- for a bit of tongue-lashing.
This being a long-time pal of mine, and quite a hot little number to boot, I assure her that those guys must be crazy or perhaps even a bit queer to not want to work her over, and that everything will likely change with the next boyfriend.
And she starts to explain how she just needs to be sucked on so badly that she's just looking for someone -- anyone -- who'll go down on her with no strings attached. Just so she can remind herself of what it feels like.
And I tell her again that the next man who comes into her life will probably be the guy for the job. I also add that if all she really wants is a little downtown action, I'm sure any guy in any bar in any part of the country -- provided, y'know, he swung that way -- would be more than up to the task.
And she says, no, she doesn't have the time to filter out the psychos and sissy-boys and Dave Matthews fans. She needs someone she can trust. Someone who'll just do the job like it needs to be done. As she puts it, she literally just wants to lay down, get eaten like there's no goddam tomorrow, and put this cursed drought behind her.
So I, fueled purely by alcohol and a prolonged look at her derriere when she got up to use the ladies room, lamely offer my services, seeing as how she almost seems to be steering the conversation in that direction. Hell, I'm always down to go down, as the Cub Scout Mantra dictates.
And that's when she quickly changes direction. "Oh god, no," she says. "We couldn't do that."
But at least I offered. And perhaps that all she wanted to hear.
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