Let’s get into something terrible together
Nerves bubble up within me and I feel hypersensitive to my surroundings. A black and white floral dress clings to my substantial curves.
My hourglass figure has the top heavy and bottom heavy halves held together by overflowing hips. I sent a picture of what I was wearing to my best friend. A man who I trust to know where I’m going if I head downtown and I might get into purposeful trouble.
“The curves are out in that dress. He doesn’t stand a chance, MD,” NY texts me back.
I cover my mouth as I giggle. I sit within my car and the air conditioning is on full blast. There’s this thing I do with meeting someone up that I hide in my car until I get the text that they are here. I find being in public, purposefully searching for another is like being a raw, exposed nerve.
“I’m at the wine bar right now,” KW texts me.
My painted pink lips turn into a suppressed smirk. I bop outside my car and make the trek over to our meeting destination. It’s an underground foodie paradise in a hipster like atmosphere. Plants adorn the walls like living wallpaper. I take a few shots of the photography on the inside and then head precariously down the steps.
I have on my fancy shoes, which actually aren’t high heels and have a slight wedge to them. It still is enough for my body to wobble with them since I’m used to sneakers always.
My eyes scan the territory and there is a burrito, crepe, and an Asian place. Buckwheat crepes cooking on a griddle wafts across the small space. My gaze falls and stops at a random wine bar scanning the inhabitants for a familiar figure.
KW haunches over his phone and I sneak over to him. His long hair covers his intense eyes as they stare down. I creep up to him like a jaguar looking to devour her prey. My fingers find their way into his sides suddenly in a playful jab and he jumps.
“Hey, you. You scared me!”
“That was the whole point. How are you?”
“Better now that we can see each other. I figured it’d be a week between seeing you and then that Hurricane destroyed that plan,” KW replies.
I can’t help grinning at his remark. He’s so unlike me, a genuine feeler, a man that wears his heart on his sleeve. I rub the back of my neck as I fully take him in.
KW got his nickname from it being an abbreviation of one of his favorite artists. He has long, wavy black hair and a longer beard that adds to the richness of his face. His eyes are this brown that is intensely beautiful. They are a deep coffee cafe color with this inherent intelligence I could see from the first picture that I stumbled across.
I don’t have a ‘type’ when it comes to men. KW couldn’t be more different than the three other men I know and find gorgeous, intelligent, and so much fun to be with.
He asks me what I’m drinking and I decide on a five dollar wine. I’d choose whiskey, always, but unfortunately this is only a beer and wine bar.
“So, you ended up missing me, huh?” I ask him.
I bump shoulders with his. I’m already an odd sort of affectionate with this man. It’s his openness with me, the lack of playing text or phone tag games. I appreciate it and so it allows me to show my body to him through texts in a different kind of exposure.
“Dude, you have no idea. And dear lord, those pictures you keep sending me. Shit,” KW says.
“Have you ever had a woman do that before?”
“I mean this one girlfriend, it was like one. Maybe. But you? Wow, that is amazing.”
He runs his fingers through his hair. I can’t help it and I bring a hand up to his head. My fingers gently chase through his wavy locks and his eyes blissfully close.
We talk about a number of things, the Hurricane, his family, our kinky and sexual ways. He’s always been the one accused of making a relationship nothing but sex. I’ve had the same fate as I’m a woman with a high libido that never ceases to be satiated.
Our conversations rarely have a quiet pause and it isn’t in the least awkward. We bounce from one subject, to the next, and I enjoy learning even more about him.
As I down another glass of wine I spin it by the stem. We’re talking about how I’ve opened myself up to so many people this year versus him trying to close himself off.
“I don’t let many people in. I don’t like being vulnerable. Maybe that’s why I like being tied up? It forces me to give up control, to give in completely. Just the guys I’ve been with don’t know what to do when they restrain me which is discouraging.”
He throws back his head and his hair flies back with the movement. We’ve shared so much laughter with each other which I love.
“I can’t even believe that someone wouldn’t know what to do. I would do so many things with you tied up,” he says with a laugh.
“Terrible things?” I ask.
We look at each other with a sizing up gaze. It’s been a constant joke that the word ‘terrible’ is used to talk about sexual activities. Since the first time we met I stopped being well behaved and kept repeating I was being that.
“Oh, so terrible. Come on, let’s grab something to eat.”
I slide off the high stool and wobble like a foal taking her first steps on solid ground. I’m sure it inadvertently causes my ass to shimmy in a way he doesn’t mind.