So my big goyish date and I are at the restaurant, and when he jostled the table the salad fork fell into my handbag. I didn't notice, entranced as I was with his long disquisition about the Sharks. My eyes always glaze over like that when I'm thrilled. I may snore from joy too. Please ignore it.
He had too many mojitos. Bad move, dude, women do not like men who smell of rum. And the mint thing is just nasty. I am suprised at how sober he acts when we leave for the movie.
I should've known better than to let him choose the movie, but I thought it would keep his mind off manhandling me and his hands in his lap. I was wrong. Even the big monster truck could not prevent him trying to put his arm over my shoulders. I squirmed and growled. His arm was still there. I growled loud enough to make people turn around. His arm disappeared.
Five minutes later his hand covered mine. Let it stay, at least I know where it is. Fifteen minutes later, while I'm rooting in my purse for tissues (saddest part of the movie: big monster truck bursting into flames. Dammit, I liked that truck!), his hand starts moving.
Instead of tissues, I found the fork. His hand found my inner thigh and squeezed.
I let him have it with all three tines. Hard.
When I got home I could hear my room mate waging world whore three with her ape-like beau in her room. I went to bed alone.
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