I met him for her at Stone Rose. “Him” was Dirty Dave, and “her” was Pediatrician Patricia. I was sent into relationship battle, clutching nothing more than my dirty martini. She saw him from across the bar, whispered she thought he was cute. "So go over and say hello" went over like a fart in church. "It’s not a big deal. Man, do I have to do everything in this relationship?" So I approached Dirty Dave on her behalf. Who wears a leather jacket indoors? Who wears a leather jacket, period? Thankfully, it was an overcoat, not a leather blazer. I’m sorry, but seriously, who would sell a leather blazer besides some man store version of Express or The Limited?
When I approached Dirty Dave and his friend Sven, yes Sven, I asked him about his outerwear. "So are you cold in here or what?"
"Not anymore, now that you’re here." Oh Jeez.
"Sven, what do you think of Dave’s outerwear?"
"I don’t." What a great answer. I had a friend for him, too.
"Boys, come meet my shy friends."
"I’ll meet your friends but only after I meet you." So we met, which consisted of a handshake, a smile, and a glass of Chardonnay for me. Yeah right—a glass of “anything but Chardonnay.”
Dirty Dave is news anchor handsome, but please, I was on a mission for bashful Pediatrician Patty. "Don’t go passing me off to your friends there Miss Stephanie. I know you saw me waving at you earlier." I hadn’t seen him wave, and besides, who waves? The same man who buys a leather overcoat, clearly.
Handshakes and smiles are extended before we spring into who’s your favorite Fraggle Rock character. “Boober. Sometimes I call Linus Boober because he’s obsessed with laundry, specifically my dirty panties.”
“Say dirty panties again.” Oh Dirty Dave. You’re from Tennessee; I so didn’t see this coming.
Now I’m fast-forwarding to the good part. Drunken Dirty Dave insists on walking me home. The part I skipped was when Patricia took off with an ex-boyfriend, and my other friends went home. During this time, I’ve learned Dirty Dave is very intelligent and attentive as well as handsome. I’m actually really looking forward to the walk home. Oh, and that’s where we get into the goods.
“So I know you’re writing this racy book, but I have a story for you.” Okay, I hadn’t asked for this, but okay. “I was walking down this very street over the summer, and right here—“ He stops walking and points toward a parked car. “Right here, I was just walkin’ by, minding my own P’s and Q’s—“ Who says P’s and Q’s? (Though I do *love* that it stands for Pints and Quarts) “When I see this very attractive black woman naked in the back seat of the car, rubbing herself. I mean, really attractive. Halle Berry attractive. So I keep walking but then I kinda circle back.” He shows me how he walked, then he stops and opens his mouth for a while before saying, “Damn that’s hot.” My chaperone home then tells me how he climbed into the backseat of the car with her, and how her boyfriend drove them around town while they had seex in the backseat. For the love of God and all things dirty.
I walked the rest of our journey home in silence before finally saying, “And you felt the need to tell me that story why?”
“Cause it’s a good story.”
“Yeah, ‘good’ if you were going for the whole let’s see what I can tell her so she’ll never let me touch her thing.” And then I realized, that’s exactly what this blog does for me. I really am a Greek Tragedy.
Okay, I’m over it.