It's July, the month of exponentially increased sweat production, exponentially increased air conditioning bills, short skirts and tube tops at all times, constant leg shaving, flip flops (but only in the park!) and afternoons that last until 9 p.m. There's a lot of daylight happening out there, kids, and I'd like to think I've been soaking it up. And that takes a lot of energy.
|I'm so tired|
I've been spending my summer enjoying what a friend delicately referred to as a Trampage (tramp + rampage = Trampage). I prefer calling it, "Celebrating My New Blonde Pixie Cut and Softball Tan," but her phrasing has a certain (more accurate) ring to it. And while I'm by no means averse to being the aggressor in a given encounter, I have to admit that it would be seriously dreamy if he'd just take the initiative and plant one on me.
I'm not sure when the onus shifted onto the ladies to make the first move, but I'm gonna go ahead and act my age for a minute and resent the hell out of it. Call me old fashioned. (Actually, don't, but if you want to go make me an Old Fashioned, I'll be right here waiting. Seriously. Take your time.) Call me anti-feminist. (And then run for the fucking hills, because few things make me stabbier than the implication that "feminist" and "romantic" are mutually exclusive.) Call me a dying breed. (Hell, that might even be true.) But nothing gets me hotter under the collar than that moment when a dude leans in for that first sweet, sweet kiss and all I have to do is tilt my head a little and mentally high-five myself. After all, don't we all fancy ourselves irresistible?
Don't answer that.
I hope I haven't misspoken: rapey "can't take no for an answer" dudes need not apply. But if the vibe is strong and the moment's right, nothing murders the mood more than a guy who won't go for it.
|I wore my favorite red lipstick for this?|