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I met the fabulous guy I’m currently dating at a party. My third party of this particular (Thursday) night, actually. Pizza and beer with the girls in the Village, followed by karaoke in Koreatown, all to prepare for a work party I wasn’t too excited about. The work party ended up being wilder than expected, and, to my surprise, I discovered a cute co-worker I had never noticed before. He was hanging out near the dance floor, and, as the 90s rap mix blasted, I realized this white boy from Wisconsin was rapping along to every word. And not just the overplayed top 40 hits. Wu Tang. Method Man. I was smitten.
So we started to chat, and spent the rest of the night joking, dancing, and eventually making out. I took him home with me, and here’s the part I’ll never tell my mother: I slept with him. Then, I let him sleep over. He found me on Facebook on Friday, and asked me out on Saturday. Several months later, we’re planning our first vacation, and have yet to hit any major obstacles.
The part that would really kill my mom is that all my relationships have started this way. Well, sometimes I meet the individual in question more than three hours before sleeping with them. And I’m not always three screwdrivers in when I meet them. That said, I’ve never hesitated to hook up with someone I was into, and it’s always worked out surprisingly well, despite the fact that everything we’ve ever been told emphatically assures us that happy endings never follow from, well, happy endings.
Here’s my two cents.
What did your family fight over at Thanksgiving dinner? If the answer is “Transphobia in the gay community and questions of when, if ever, it’s ok to out someone” then you were probably at the same party I was. If not, allow me to share the finer points of this debate, and maybe next year you’ll find yourself discussing gender and sexual identity issues as your dinner digests and the wine really starts flowing.
This year was the first time in 29 years I didn’t spend Thanksgiving with my family, but like many millennials living in an adopted city who grew up watching Friends, I have discovered that a group of wacky peers can be just as good. So, I spent Thanksgiving singing karaoke at my coach’s house with her family and any teammate who couldn’t travel home (including one Brit who was thoroughly confused by our holiday, but enjoyed the pie all the same).
Somewhere around 1:30 am, as the last of the people with a designated driver left and those of us too inebriated or sleepy to drive were about to turn in, the conversation turned to a discussion of a night that I had missed over the summer. Then, before anyone had any idea how it happened, we were screaming at each other about pronoun usage, political correctness and tolerance. Funny, because my conservative Uncle Jerry* wasn’t even there.
It started as a joke. A few of my dearest best friends thought it would be funny to get me some novels for my fifteenth birthday. I was presented with a selection of four extremely hot historical pirate romance novels (Sabrina Jefferies’ The Pirate Lord, Gaelen Foley’s The Pirate Prince, Johanna Lindsey’s A Pirate’s Love,-though I prefer Gentle Rogue- and Virginia Henley’s The Pirate and the Pagan) complete with the giggles and jokes that naturally accompany explicit sex scenes. I had already been a huge fan of Young Adult historical love stories (and even Becky read my favorite trilogy – Jean Ferris’ American Dreams) but this, THIS was amazing. My collection quickly expanded from those four to the over five hundred or so historical romance novels that I have today. My four or five book a week habit can get expensive, but it is nearly as vital to my existence as food. Thank goodness I like to re-read.
Naturally, you think I must be a lonely, sex starved woman with only my cats for company. You. Are. Wrong.
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