Continued, ridiculously detailed tale of my epic first meeting of PR . . . who I may date for another week or two.  Yay.

In the freezing cold, with no cabs around as it’s after 3 am on Christmas Day (technically, now it’s actually Boxing Day) . . . we hold hands and walk to his building, which is about 4 freezing cold urban (read: super freaking windy) blocks away.

I don’t really have a plan, but I did tell him the reason we were going to his place and not mine is so that I could leave more easily than I could throw him out.

By this point, we’ve been together for about 10 hours and I am convinced I can best him physically if need be, and find a cab or a car easily as he’s downtown. Also, as I am physically inhibited, I am not that worried.  Also, I am sober.  Also, I like him.

We walk into his place and it’s the entire dwr catalog, including the famous round table I covet. We kiss and he excuses himself for the bathroom and I wander over to his (of course) tower book cases and I am instantly smitten.  We have some of the same clever philosophy self-help books, plus he has interesting books on design and on music.  When he rejoins me standing in front of his books, I say a completely ridiculous thing to him that has now become famous to him and among my friends: “I would fuck you just based on your book collection.”

(Don’t judge me.)

He grins, of course, and asks . . . and I love him for this . . . “Which books?”  So I point out the three philosophy self-help books [trying to keep this ungoogleable, but I’ll email you the links if you leave a comment], and mention I travel with at least one of them . . . and one of them lives in my briefcase.  He struggles, sort of drunkenly, trying to remember the name of the best one, which he usually has but had lent out, so I say it for him and say, yes, I have two copies for that reason in my library.  I also point to his design stuff and the music books.  And we’re both feeling a bit smitten right now with each other’s brains as well.  We move to the sofa and kiss and talk and it’s getting later and later, so we do eventually lose some articles of clothing and then adjourn to the bedroom.

We’ve been kissing for hours, really just kissing, and the chemistry is amazing. He’s a weekend athlete, a little on the pudgy side, but I think he’s adorable.  [Side note: my friends think he is not nearly cute enough and have teased me about him being a bit of a fatty.  They know they can tease me about his appearance as I don’t really care at all about how he looks.]

Things get a bit heated and I am impressed by what he can accomplish without doing much. Eventually, sometime after 6, we fall asleep.  He wraps his arm underneath me and I nod off.  I awake after an hour and turn to see him awake with the most gorgeous blue eyes.  We start kissing again and then I excuse myself for the bathroom, and realize, to my horror, my tampon is somehow wedged, sideways, and I am unable to extricate it.

I have visions of emergency room visits, but I call to him, “um, honey, we have a problem.” With a good deal of work, he is able to get it, and we look at each other a bit sheepishly and know, hmmm, this will become a moment of lore.

Also, a moment of lore . . . somehow I have pink eye.  Eye swollen and weeping. It’s getting progressively worse. Neither of us know what it is, we just think my eye is a little infected.  It does not stop us from actively engaging in fun. He looks directly at me, and it is wonderful to look deeply into this man’s eyes and laugh to each other about an excellent celebration of boxing day, as we’re all about new traditions.  After a couple of rounds, we’re starving and the discussion becomes — go out, bring in, make something in. He has a specific craving for bagels, lox, etc., so we agree to hit the market to shop. He offers to go alone, but I ask to borrow a shirt (in case I bump into anyone) and join him. Black t-shirt, fit me beautifully.

As we walk down to the garage, he says with some obvious pride, guess which car…

I look and I know immediately that the supercar in the garage is his.  It’s not just any ridiculously priced 6-figure sports car: it’s the one craved by design junkies (which PR is), the only car I’ve ever fallen in love with (and from a photo in Private Clubs magazine, no less), and the one BFD wants.  That car.  It’s a piece of art on four wheels.  He smiles as I slide into it and he pushes the ignition that makes it roar to life.

Yeah, he’s that guy.  I tease him about owning such a car to drive 8 blocks to the market and 8 blocks to his office. It’s stupidly beautiful. I told him it’s the only car he should drive, as it speaks to the designer in him.  We listen to British rock on our drive and every moment of this is so surreal because it feels so normal and regular and yet it’s absurd that I am in this car (of all cars) with a man I don’t know heading to the market for brunch preparations on boxing day.  Why the hell not.

As we wander through the market, and if you know where I live, you know where I am, I mention to him that “among my particular skills is quiche.” He said, “great! You should make that!” So after a quick confer, we decide on spinach, mushroom, caramelized onion, and gruyere. We gather all the ingredients for his dish and for mine, and buy a pie pan, and head off back to his place.

I make coffee — French press, of course — and send him up to his loft to watch tv while I begin cooking.  He checks on me frequently, lingering in the living room adjacent to my on his ipad or coming behind me to hug and kiss me as I chop and saute, etc.  I finally say to him, okay, let me finish this, put it in the oven, and we can … while it’s baking for 45 minutes.

When I finally finish, he is sound asleep on his sofa, so I head downstairs and start cleaning up everything.  He finally rousts himself, and we head to bed, and then to shower together.  The level of comfort I feel with him is really amazing.  I am fully me, without a filter — an apparently intoxicating combination of extremely formal and extremely forthright about what I want.

Post shower, we have brunch, finally, his dish and mine … and both are great. He loves that I made quiche for him, and loves that he has it left over for all week.  (He said later it made amazing hangover food.)  Then we lay together on his sofa upstairs, again, I am in his arms, where I fall asleep soundly for another hour.

Once I am awake, now after 3 pm, we decide, yes, it’s finally time for me head home, and he drives me again in his ridiculous car, the 8 minutes from his building to mine.  We kiss a few times and he said, I am sure I will see you again.  I leave him with, eh, probably.

The next afternoon, I message him through fb to say, um, I am quite embarrassed, but in addition to all the excellent things I gave you (including quiche) I might have also given you pink eye.  He assured me he was fine. And then friended me.