Page 7 of Pining for Pierce
I doubted they would. It wasn’t as though I was doing wheelies up and down the street at three in the morning, and I shook my head as she invited me in.
“Sit over there,” she said, pointing to the couch before she brought me a beer.
I don’t really like beer, but before I got the chance to tell her that, she sat beside me and told me she’d already ordered our pizza, and it would arrive in ten minutes. That set the tone for the evening, and at the end of it, although I tried to tell her I couldn’t stay, it really wasn’t an option.
“I want you,” she said, holding out her hand. I felt it would be rude to actually say ‘no’, so I let her take me upstairs and positively drag me to her room.
I won’t say it wasn’t enjoyable. It was. And while I’m all for women telling me what they want and how they want it, there are ways of doing that… ways that don’t sound like I’m being issued with a series of demands. Demands that might have consequences if I question them, or – God forbid – refuse to obey.
Even as I was getting dressed, telling her it was impossible for me to stay the night because I had to work the next day, she was instructing me to remove my pants and get back into bed. I ignored her, deciding that nothing was worth that level of subservience. Not even those captivating lips…
Again, I hadn’t given her my number, and again, I was grateful for that.
Prior to Bellamy, I dated a woman called Robyn. We went for drinks one weekend, and then dinner the next, beforeshe invited me to her place for our third date… once again, remarking on the bike as I pulled off my helmet.
“I didn’t realize you were a biker,” she said, letting me in.
“Is that a problem?”
“I’ve never really liked them.”
“Bikers or bikes?” I asked.
“They kinda go together, don’t they?”
I felt that familiar sense of disappointment… because I liked Robyn. Okay, so I didn’t really know her, but I liked what I’d seen so far. She had dark blonde hair and green eyes, and the most exquisite body, which she thrust in my direction not long into the evening. We’d kissed at the end of our first date… and our second. But this went beyond kissing. It went beyond my wildest expectations.
We’d been drinking, and we took the wine to bed with us, Robyn quite rightly pointing out that I couldn’t ride home, before she pushed me onto my back, rolled a condom over my dick, and gave me a very good reason to stay.
Hours later, we fell asleep, mutually satisfied, and although I could still recall her doubts about my bike, I wondered if I might have met someone for whom I was willing to make an exception… for once.
I dismissed that idea the next morning, when I woke to find the bed empty. That wasn’t a problem in itself. Neither was it an issue that she was in the kitchen, wearing nothing more than a t-shirt. In fact, I kinda liked that…
What I didn’t like was that she started talking… and she didn’t stop. That’s not an exaggeration. I’m serious. She literally didn’t stop talking.
How had I slept?
Did I want eggs for breakfast?
Would I like bacon with them?
Would I like coffee?
She had tea, but only fruit tea… would I prefer that?
Did I wanna stay for the day?
I wouldn’t have minded, but she didn’t let me answer. She just went on… and on. Sure, it could have been embarrassment or nerves making her mouth run away with her, but I got the feeling it was more than that.
I was also a little scared she might suggest that now we’d had sex, we should start planning the wedding… or at least the engagement. Or maybe who was gonna move in with who.
It felt as though she might be leading somewhere like that, so I raised my voice slightly and told her something had come up, and I had to leave.
She was understanding, and waited while I got dressed before seeing me off. I noticed her grimace when I started the bike and knew I’d done the right thing. She hadn’t asked if I’d call, though. I think she just assumed I would. But as I also hadn’t given her my number, I never found out.
Because, even if I’d enjoyed the night before, the morning after was too much for me.
And therein lies the problem, it would seem. No matter who I date, or sleep with, or spend the night with – because one thing doesn’t have to lead to another – there’s always something wrong. They’re either too demanding, too demure – which has been known to happen – too ditzy, too draining… or just too dull. It’s never perfect. And I’m looking for perfect. I don’t care how long it takes me to find her, I know the perfect woman is out there, and I’m not gonna settle for anything less.
