Nineteen Ninety Mine

Within minutes of her arrival, she had corralled the MILF’s and disappeared outside; presumably to discuss cock capturing methods and who’s in the running for this year’s pink Cadillac. 

I was chatting with Droid when they decided to feign interest. There’s just something about that kid. He’s low key cool and doesn’t give two shits about trying too hard. 

I’m not sure if he had forgotten to mention or she had forgotten to ask or if she just talks to everyone like they’re in the fourth grade, but Droid is an adult. He may not look old enough to slam whiskey and bang hoes, but he is. 

“Where does the garbage go?” 

“I’m not sure?”

“Don’t you help your Dad take the garbage out when you stay here?”


“You don’t do chores?”


“Don’t you think it would be nice if you took the garbage out?”

I’ll give her credit for trying to establish dominance early with the whole maternal thing, but I know a few things about dominance. It’s going to take a lot more than a trip to Sephora and a bottle of Kirkland sangria to rattle me. 

The fact finding phase began with #1. Good effort, but I could read her like a book. A Dr. Seuss book, but a book nonetheless. 

“If I was [sic] a wine glass, where would I be?” 

Seems innocuous on the surface, but the question was designed to determine my level of kitchen familiarity. 

I was still a little cranky. 

“Top right, middle shelf.”

“How did you meet the Red Dragon of Fun?”

RDOF was the only other single person aside from myself and Sleeves. If I were his guest, #2 would have had nothing to worry about and everyone would’ve been happy. 

Also, RDOF is his actual nickname. People call him that. 

“A friend of a friend of a friend. I just trade food for the view.”

True. He is a friend of a friend of a friend. The view part was just me being snarky. The use of “trade” versus “traded” implied this was not my first foray into the world of food/scenery negotiations. 

#2 decided to toss nuance aside for a more direct approach. 

“Oh, that looks amazing. Did you cook it here?”

“I did.”

“Damn girl, you must’ve been cooking all day!”

“Nah, it was pretty easy.”

The Director wasn’t fucking around. She was on a fishing expedition and had no interest in macaroni and cheese preparation. She wanted to know who she was dealing with. Smart. 

“I think I know you. Where have I seen you before?”

“I get that a lot. I have no idea.”

In that moment, I would have sold both kidneys to have M breeze through the front door, bust out her weed pen, and put this shit to bed. Seriously. Both kidneys. 

Halfway through the evening, Two had already managed to kill half a bottle of wine juice and post roughly 700 photos to various social media outlets. Of those photos, exactly zero included me. I guess that’s what happens when you whore out your culinary skills in exchange for a water view. Noted. 

“Where are you parked? Will you need to move your car?” 


“Will you be staying the night?”


Her relief was palpable and I was thrilled to finally be finished with the inquisition. The rest of the evening progressed without incident; slightly uncomfortable, but like anal, I got used to it and eventually had a good time. 

I try to be a nice girl. I am the girl who compliments your shoes and gives up my place in line when you have to pee at 1:30am, but if I lick it, it is mine. I’ve licked it, a lot, but I put aside my pride for the greater good. I’m not looking for a parade, but her last move left me wondering how good she really was. 

She excused herself from the fire pit and asked to speak with Sleeves upstairs. Apparently she was facing an early morning  (baseball) and wanted to be well rested. Totally normal. Judging by her appearance, she hadn’t jogged the 45 minutes to his house, yet she insisted she take a shower prior to sleepy time. Not totally normal. 

Being the consummate host, S offered the master bathroom, provided the necessary linens, and reiterated her sleeping options. She was given her choice of the couch or the pull out mattress before he left to rejoin the party. 

This is not a large home. The shower cannot be more than 30 feet from the couch, yet somehow she managed to get lost. I can only imagine how terrifying it must have been to be alone and so disoriented that the only option was to climb into his bed. She was also petrified of the dark. Thankfully, the lamps in his bedroom made it virtually impossible to miss the outline of her body as I made my way up from the beach.

On my fucking side. She was in his bed on my fucking side. 

As I drove home just before sunrise, I wondered, what if she had been right? What if we were new or getting to know each other? What if I had liked him? What if he had liked me back? There’s not a chance in Hell I’d have pursued anything after seeing her, freshly showered, in his bed. She could’ve ruined something real. He had gone out of his way to be kind and honest and even risked my hurt feelings in order to spare hers and she chose to reciprocate by being petty and presumptuous and downright rude. 

On second thought, maybe she should just stand still, look pretty and leave the important shit to the grown-ups. 

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