Or will he just go off one morning.
He’s not like any other guy I’ve ever met.
I mean, he’s a cowboy. In New York City. That alone makes him unique, ya know?
All I know is that if he stays, then he’s my lobster.
I would be so freakin’ happy. It’s no question I’d ride on his “saddle” all day till the sun goes down. And straight through to sunrise. And then sunset again.
Geez…I'd need a horse after that because I won’t be able to walk.
*** It's the cute single girl versus the cowboy in this seventh installment from Mona Cox. Guaranteed to be sweet, sassy, steamy, and fun. No cheating or cliffhangers. Happily Ever After? Always, babe ***
62
Carla
I sip my Long Island Iced Tea, glancing out over the city. Even though it isn't nighttime, and really, that's when 230 5th Avenue is the most breathtaking, the view is still awesome. Who wouldn't love sitting in a rooftop garden, the city stretching out in every direction?
Can I just say, it’s way cooler than listening to Lisa and Ashley drool over their boyfriends, and their ginormous engagement rings that astronauts are probably checking out right now. I have to wonder if they’re going to get armed guards to follow them around and protect them from thieves. Those fuckers are massive.
I’m not jealous … just a little worried about someone jabbing an eye out. I mean, talk about a safety hazard!
Not able to stand another minute of their gushing, I finally blurt out, "So I went out on a date last night!" They quit comparing engagement rings long enough to turn and look at me.
Finally.
"It was a bust, though," I admit, taking another sip of the tea, letting the pungent alcohol soothe my nerves. Really, who could expect to be happy after such a date?
"Awww ... honey. What happened?" Ashley takes a sip of her drink, her ring flashing in the sunlight. We were under an umbrella, blocking out direct sunlight, and of course I had on my Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, but still, the light seemed damn bright to me.
I ignore it. I can't exactly ask Ashley to take off her ring—her symbol of her undying, eternal love for her CEO. Blech. How boring is that? I can't imagine loving a CEO. I might as well fall in love with a banker.
I am not falling in love with a banker.
"Well, I met him at Flash Factory – you know, that dance club over on West 28th Street? Anyway, he was pretty hot and heavy with me all night, bragging about how big his dick was, and then we go back to my place, and ... you guys." My voice breaks with disgust. "His dick was three inches long! I've never seen such a pathetic thing in my life!"
They just bust up laughing and the alcohol in the Long Island Iced Tea allows me to relax enough to laugh, too. It's funny. Now. Twelve hours later.
At the time? Not so much.
"So he's one of those real dicks–" they start laughing again so hard, I have to shout over them, "who won't even go down on a girl," and of fucking course, they stop laughing abruptly, trying to hear what I'm saying, so I end up shouting that into the hustle and bustle of the restaurant. Everyone stops.
Dead silence.
All eyes on me.
I close my eyes, doing my best ostrich imitation, but only if an ostrich can turn about seven shades of red.
What.
Ever.
Finally, the restaurant employees and customers resume their own lives, chatting, and laughing, and working, and my eyes spring open. Leaning forward, I shout whisper, "So he's refusing to go down on me, and I'm not about to touch that ... thing, so there we are in bed, and like, what the fuck was I supposed to do with him then? I threw him out, told him not to come back, and then I had to finish the night with a good round of Slick."
"Slick?" Ashley asks, befuddled. "Who's Slick?"
"My 8-inch dildo, remember?" I say, reminding her. We'd all gone dildo shopping together. She'd been there when I'd bought my best friend. Surely she remembers.