Last night, BFD postponed dinner because he had to dash off too early this morning out of town for a meeting . . . and whatever.  Now we’re on for Thursday, workout and a brief dinner (“with no heavy conversation” . . . he’s so freaking weird sometimes).

Instead, I went to a party, which ended up pretty lame, and then to my new favorite bar in town.  Well, it’s my new favorite now.  I’d been wanting to go, and it was right there, so W and later JF and I went.  The bar was amazing — great space, great location, great staff, cheap prices, and a hands-on owner who bought us a round.

On an empty stomach, I had two drinks before switching to water — good local vodka (now available nationally) and soda — and only toward the end as we walked back to our cars did I really feel inebriated.

And I really felt it.

Now, the good thing is that the bar is in my neighborhood, about 5 blocks of twisty roads, but super-close.  The second good thing is that I have a convertible, so I dropped the top with the fresh cool air aiding in my alertness.  (Thanks, BFD!)

I made it in and upstairs safely, and then realized I was drunk.  And feeling a little frisky.  After last Saturday’s lunch with Brawny during which we got a little carried away after I had two margaritas (seriously, two drinks and I am making out with him in his car and on my sofa), I realized I have zero tolerance on liquor (I usually drink champagne or wine) and that it makes me a little friskier than usual.


As it was only about 9, I called first LP.  There was no answer, so I sent him a text: “No need to call. Happily driving home from an evening of events, I heard something and it made me think of you so I wanted to share. Hope you’re well, hon. xoxo”  A little effusive, but I am comfortable with it.  I try to balance hot and cold with him, so the message was, I am happy (without you), but thinking about you and concerned about you.  What I was really feeling: I want to drive 12 blocks to your house and fuck your brains out.

(I am such a lady.)

The fact that at no point did the words “trace your chest with my tongue” make it into text feels like a win.  The message was deliberately low-key, I miss you but I have a life without you.  The only off note to me: “hon” but it’s how I felt.  It was chatty and conversational.  No need to call . . . I was out . . . but thinking of you.  No I miss you.  No I want to see you.  I am giving him time and space.

Even though it’s hard.


For reasons unknown to my conscious non-alcohol addled brain, drinking makes me want to hook up with Brawny.  He’s hot and handsome and a winning combination of conservatively freakish who loves to kiss me in public and gets adorably aggressive, though not in a way that scares me.  So I called him next.  No answer.  Thank goodness.  I texted him and we exchanged texts late.  I was really tempted by him last night for no reason, except that he’s hot and I wanted to sleep with LP and couldn’t.


My third call was to BFD, but it was not a typical drunk dial.  I wanted to convey something specific to him . . . an industry related convo I’d had at the bar.  He seemed genuinely please to hear what I had to say and did not appear to pick up on the fact I was drunk.  Whew.

Super Nice Guy

My final call of the night was to the Super Nice Guy I dated in February.  I called him to say “I just want you to know that I know that I made a huge error.”  I did not walk it back, and I told him I would not, but I wanted him to know.