How She Lived Was On Her Lips
A SINCERE APOLOGY
to everyone, man and woman alike, who has read this hub. Why am I offering this apology? Well, the simple reason is this. I know that by reading such a sad, heart-wrenching episode taken from the dark days of my single life that you might have shed a few tears, and for that, I am sincerely apologetic.
I just cannot help how lonely I was in my single days or how unsuccessful I was in getting dates with girls as easily as my buddies, the jock's, class president's, and sons of merchants who were in my class.
There she stood. Like an angel from the upper-realm of Heaven. She was hardly moving allowing herself to be savored by the men who frequented this restaurant where she said we would meet.
She was enjoying the moment. As if she were the master-painter and the atmosphere was the canvas. I could barely detect that she was breathing as her stationary-pose took the image of a fine piece of sculpture that if I were asked, would name her, “She: The Masterpiece.”
The moment had finally arrived. I had spent the last $500.00 on my American Express Card for this night of untold pleasure, ecstasy and things of taboo that would rock the nastiest pulp-fiction writer’s very soul.
The white dress she was wearing had to be of a designer somewhere in France for how the fabric complimented each delicate curve of her Godly-chiseled body.
Her tanned legs so long and smooth were only made the more-seductive by her snow-white six-inch heels.
My breath was labored. My heart beat a tune out against my ribcage. I couldn’t move a muscle. My entire being was paralyzed by this female creation that was going to be with me for the next twelve hours.
Then with one magical glance, “I” caught her attention. She managed a slight, alluring smile on her full, red lips. Her eyes met mine across the smoky restaurant and said to me, “hurry up. Let’s get out of this dump and head for your bedroom.”
“She” didn’t walk across the room. She was gliding along the fine, marble floor. Her hips in perfect rhythm seemingly akin to waves of daffodils being caressed by the early summer wind in a undiscovered meadow.
I checked my pulse without her seeing me. This girl was all-woman from head to toe and needed a “real” man for the night.
We spoke few words, exchanged few smiles during our dinner. There was a reason. I was mesmerized at how she “finished-off” her Ceasar Salad; ten-ounce t-bone, green beans, garlic bread and a piece of cake, so there was no way that I could get a word in edge-wise at the top of her head bobbing up and down a she gnawed her food and chewed it like a southern sawmill.
Even the three bottles of vintage champagne didn’t free her of her female inhibitions. I wasn’t worried. I knew a girl who was playing “hard to get” when I seen one.
An hour or so passed. “She” placed a cigarette in her red, pouty lips as a sign for me to give her a light. Although I had quit smoking two weeks back, somehow I found a half-empty Marriott matchbook in my right suit pocket.
“She” had no more than took the first drag of her Virginia Slims cigarette then crushing out its fire said, “babe, “my” fire needs putting out. Can we go?”
I almost stumbled all over myself as I lunged to pull her chair out for her. She smiled a hot, sexy smile and as she rose from the chair, gave me another delightful-glance of her perfect, tanned legs in those snow-white heels.
What a game of pre-planned seduction, but when you are both a man and a loser all rolled into one body like me, you cannot take chances. You don’t wait for romance to find you, you pay for it.
So what if tomorrow morning she would think my name was “Marvin?” She and I would never lock-eyes again.
During the short cab ride, I couldn’t help but to “drink-in” how she sat, her legs crossed, perfect posture and allowing me to enjoy the expensive body wash she was wearing, and all for my benefit.
The walk upstairs in her apartment building was short. But again, being the gentleman, I allowed her to walk up the stairs first and talk about having a near-heart attack. Her hips in perfect sync underneath her slightly-tight white dress did make my chest heavy, but who cares? When you are about to make love to a goddess, little things don’t matter.
When she entered her luxurious apartment and flipped the lights on, my eyes almost burst from their sockets. I stood still as she walked slowly toward the bar across the room.
“whiskey straight, right?” she cooed.
“uhh, yeah, whiskey straight,” I replied still amazed at the condition of her apartment.
I didn’t let on that I noticed her apartment made a pig’s sty look like Buckingham Palace. Making a complaint at this strategic point might not be too prudent on my part.
We sat. We sipped our whiskey straight’s. And she did the one thing that women do that drive me crazy. She gently and slowly kicked-off her snow-white high heels and folded her shapely thighs and feet underneath her taut butt. And then stared at me like an anaconda who had cornered its prey.
“why don’t you, babe, stay here and relax and I will, if you don’t mind, get out of this hot dress,” she softly giggled allowing her tanned thighs to brush against my leg as she arose from the couch. My chest hurt. Really bad at this point. I thought about “making a run for it,” but my bud’s at the office would call me a gay for such a stupid move, so I sat still.
While “she” was out of the room, I made a mental inventory of just how sloppy her apartment really was. And when I say “sloppy,” I am being compassionate.
There were underwear everywhere--on the backs of chairs, the couch, on the ceiling fans. A collection of both men’s and women’s underwear--briefs, thongs, bra’s, panties, tee-shirts all laying as if when thrown, they stayed in that one place.
Her kitchen was deplorable. Un-eaten cans of vienna sausage, pork and beans and a few slices of molded pizza set atop the trash pile on her vintage dining table.
Along with the uneaten “food,” were several ashtrays that were spilling-over with Pall Mall, Winton and Virginia Slims cigarette butts. Throw in a half-smoked cigar or two, and you had a horrible-looking (and smelling) kitchen.
I gagged at that moment for I have a nervous stomach. I have been in outhouses, or “privies,” in better shape than this apartment that “she” called home.
I barely heard her say, “ba-be, why don’t you take your shoes and clothes off so when I get out there, we can relax together?”
I cannot remember the answer I gave, but no sooner than I had removed my pants, “she” waltzed back into the living room wearing only a thin negligee, black lace panties and black high heels.
“you like?” she whispered as she gulped-down the last of her whiskey then reached the glass to me for another drink.
“you bet, I do,” I said springing to my feet to head to the bar to prepare us two more drinks.
When I returned to the very-ragged couch, springs showing, holes from cigarette burns, I couldn’t help but notice that “she” wasn’t cuddled-up on the couch, but was sitting with her legs apart, just like a man who is deeply-involved with Monday Night Football.
She all but grabbed her drink from my hand and finished it off with one attempt. Then sat up and belched like a hard-working construction worker and said, “what?” You got a problem, ba-be?”
“Uhh, not really,” I think I said.
“hey, take a load off and let’s unwind,” she advised as she lifted her right leg and broke wind like male athletes do in their locker room for laughs.
“hey, I know,” she barked. “go into my kitchen and get that half-bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken in the refrigerator. I could really go for a drumstick for all of this socializing has made me hungry. Again.” she said fighting-off another manly-belch.
Then she caught me gazing at her in disbelief.
“something the matter?” she snapped. “did you expect a dainty girlie girl for $500?” she added slapping my gnonads with her hand and laughing.
“you got to take the slop with the banquet, honey,” she said with a wink.
“is there more hair under my arms? Doggone it! I thought I shaved them last week,” she complained.
“ready for rocking-good night, buddy?” she said slapping her hips as she arose from the ratty, out-dated and worn-out couch.
“uhh, just a moment. I think I left my ‘you know what,’ in the car. I will be right back,” I said as I leaped toward the front door.
“suit yourself. I go without a rubber or with one,” I overheard her say, then belch again, as I flew down the three flights of stairs and hopefully never to see “her” again.
But all in all, and it all nasty, the “one” things that I did learn was . . .”How She Lived Was On Her Lips.”
See by this list if you don’t agree. And ladies, you are invited to read along with your husbands and boyfriends and inject your opinions as to if “I” am right or wrong.
This hot girl eats like she lives
1. If a Girl Eats Like a Hog -she probably lives like one too. You already know about this one from the story above.
2. If a Girl Takes Little Bites and Chews Slowly - she is a confident, organized woman and will have a role in leadership soon. And her home is so clean that you could eat lunch off of any floor in her house.
3. If a Girl Takes a Bite, Then Stops to Listen to You Talk - she is not only courteous, but keeps a super-clean home. FACT: if she has people over, she “first” cleans and tidies-up her home before she gets ready herself.
4. If a Girl Eats Like a Jet Engine - gobbling down food like a starved wolf, then she too, has a home that is not well-kept. Her priorities are such as “her” pleasures come first, then if there is time, maybe a little vacuuming and stashing some dirt underneath the nearest area rug, to round-out her day.
This girl does NOT care
5. If a Girl Takes Hours to Eat - then imagine how long it will take her to clean her house or apartment. I know that “patience is a virtue,” but please, can’t you for once, speed-up with the dusting. Some of your friends may have allergies.
6. If a Girl Takes Her Time - to show-off how confident she is with her mastery of the fork and spoon, then she is this way in her relationships--never getting in a hurry. Actually in “this” girl’s case, relationships are more important to her than removing her bra’s from the shower rod in the bathroom.
7. If a Girl Nibbles and Picks at Her Food - I find she is very indecisive, hard to come to a decision. It’s as if she is mentally saying to her plate of food, “now whom is first, peas? Carrots? No, the greens. Yes, I will eat my greens first, but hey, the roll might be sensitive, so I will take a bite of him first.” If you are waiting for her to join you in the “next level” of your relationship, hope you brought a book to read or a Kindell Fire.
8. If a Girl Does Not Use a Napkin - during a meal, do you really need me to tell you how her home looks? If “you,” have to constantly remind her, “hunee, there’s a piece of pie crust on the end of your nose,” then do not go home with this girl if you like neat places to live. Her domain will give you fits.
Now "this" girl, go on. Look at her
9. If a Girl Eats One Bite of Her Meal - then pushes her plate off to the side, then she only cleans her house “just enough” to get by. I mean that she may take-out the trash and wash the dishes, and stop. As it doesn’t take that much food to satisfy her as it doesn’t take that much housework to make her happy.
10. If a Girl Offers You a Bite - of her meal, then when it comes time to clean her home, “you” will not only be invited, but expected to take part in this mundane-but-important ritual. Be careful or you might become “this” girl’s lover and housekeeper.
11. If a Girl Takes One Bite - then dozes-off into space, then she can’t focus her attention (on you) or her house for any length of time. She lives by the saying, “if my housework gets done, it’s done. If it don’t, it don’t,” so imagine you and her on your honeymoon wedding night. See what I mean?
And guys, be looking for a girl like this . . .
12. If a Girl Chews Her Food While Enjoying One of “My” Hubs - then she's a “keeper.” A “real find.” I whole-heartedly advise you to form a lasting relationship with “this” girl. Girls like her are rare. Not that girls who don’t eat while reading “my” hubs are not good too, but a girl who loves to be with you, enjoy a good meal and read a hub that I have just published, well do what it takes to get and keep her for she is a special girl.
Coming soon . . .the sequel to “this” piece: “You Can Tell a Man’s Story From How He Eats and Drives.”
More by this Author
A purist is someone (like me) who doesn't need fanfare, glitter or fame to survive. And my life is rather quiet, but very streamlined as a purist, I might add.
(Just) talking about meddlers and busy bodies is not enough. It is time I did something about them.
I cannot hide my life any longer.