A true lady, so the old saw goes, always knows when it's time to leave. Implied but unspoken is that a woman who isn't a true lady usually ends up saturated in cheap booze, looking like a bag lady, and being rolled out the door at 2 am as she tries to mount the bouncer. I'd love to tell you I'm a true lady, and most of the time I can identify when I should leave. But go figure: I'm an advice columnist who never takes her own advice. It's always more interesting to see who slips out with whom at closing time, and what that bouncer does when the boozy broad throws her boobs at him. So I am, conditionally, a verified true lady. It helps me sleep at night.
My question of the week arrived just as I was about to hit the shut-down button on my laptop. It was written by an anonymous guy who dubbed himself "Too Long-Distance to Lick." His complaint was simple, his problem common: TLD2L was moving away from his girl and hoped to stay loyal, but wanted to know how he could remain sexually satisfied. I was going to give him a deliciously dirty solution . . . like the horny heroine I am.
But for a moment I drew a blank, while my own emotional baggage demanded first-class service. The sexually-frustrated bitch in me wanted to tell TLD2L to stop complaining. At least there was a reason he wouldn't be getting any -- there'd be 500 miles between him and his bed buddy.
My main lay, on the other hand, lives 10 miles away and works in my office. But conflicting schedules kept preventing intimate contact. I knew it was getting bad when I started riding the T, just to feel the vibrations. But there was light at the end of the tunnel. Because tonight I was meeting Jason, the office BF, for drinks at the Kinsale. A plan was beginning to take shape: somewhere between a second round of booze and our long-awaited fuck-fest, I intended to tap his brain about booty-efficiency in a long-distance relationship.
Aside from being overscheduled, Jason and I had hit a rut, and our dates had become recipes for danger. Take one neurotic twenty-something female, wearing a black mini and her highest pair of hump-me heels. Add one irritated, overworked guy in jeans and flannel. Pressure-cook in an office-relationship setting. Then marinate until moldy
Mold or no mold, I was determined to save us. With black lace lingerie that left nothing to the imagination, I went to the Kinsale armed for battle.
Forty five minutes later, Jason and I had consumed two bourbons (him), two scotches (me), and concluded a heated debate about FEMA that unexpectedly turned personal. We lapsed into a vengeful silence. I was insane with frustration. I'd spent serious travel time on the Green Line and for fuck's sake I'd shaved. But Jason never took part in I-hate-you sex and we hadn't arrived at the point of make-up sex, so that basically left me with one option: no sex.
