Code Red


I stalked a gal for a few days until I saw her walk out of her house. It was dark. She wore a leather jacket down past her rear. I could see the outline. Not bad. Enough for fun. A friend had mentioned her as a possibility. I called her, and we met for lunch. I had a party to attend on Friday night. She came with me. A bunch of beers into the night. She grabbed my hand and asked me to leave. We drove to my house and poured one last cocktail and sat on the couch. Not sure if I even took a sip before I ripped her clothes off. No foreplay. She loves to talk in the middle. I love it. She wants it harder. It wasn’t working. I stalled for some time. Too drunk. Fell asleep. Out cold.

At about 3am something is wrong. Code Red stands above me. She’s whimpering. Feels rejected. Fully dressed. Even wearing her overcoat. I had barely been with her. Only a couple dates. She expects what? So I’m drunk. I fall asleep. We’re far from married. Isn’t she supposed to be trying to land me? Best foot forward? The pressure. The best in bed are those who allow. They ask you to stop and try later. Code Red expects volumes. Immediately. Too much pressure.

She says she’s going to walk home. Completely outrageous. At least four miles away, and it’s bitterly cold. I jump into a pair of jeans and fleece. I told her I’ll drive her. We get to my car, and she cries harder. She asks why I don’t care. This is our first date. Can you imagine being married to this. No wonder why she’s divorced. I said flatly that she gets to make a choice. Come back to bed, or go home. She comes back to bed. I deliver a courtesy. She cuddles next to me for the remainder of the darkness.

I called her six months later on a warm sunny evening. A few scotches in. She was engaged after having known a guy for three weeks.

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