Okay, so he left, and I'm still alive. However fortunate/unfortunate that may be is up to you. But...eewwwww!!! And I mean that in the grossest possible way. All right, finally details. I understand that when a guy goes over to a chic's house, he expects something. I do; I get that. And they have every right to be disappointed when that doesn't pan out. Fine. So he rents a movie-a SIX HOUR miniseries. Right away, what impression do I get? Oh, yeah, he's expecting marathon sex night. Fortunately for me-however unfortunate for him remains irrelevant-I know that's not going to happen. He thinks he's smooth, though, putting his arm around me to "protect me from the scary parts." And I pretend to be scared; I know how to play this game. Was I surprised when his hands started to wander? No. No, I wasn't. I just very casually shrugged him away. So he puts his head on my shoulder. Okay, let's pretend we're at this level of comfort with each other-I can visit "LaLa Land" every now and again. After all, we each of us live in our own personal bubble, I'll check out his deluded one and let him keep his head there. BIG mistake. Next thing I know, he's asleep (I think, I'm still not sure about that part) and DROOLING down my arm. I mean, this nasty, putrid fluid is going down my shirt! And he thinks I haven't noticed because he (very casually, in a not at all casual way) wipes his mouth and my arm. I think I've had my dose of disgusting for the week, thank you. The end of the story is, he's not the brightest crayon in the box; in fact, I think he'd be something like "puke green." He left with all his parts intact-by a very slim margin, I might add-and I crossed him off my list of "ever again this side of hell." And I am now going to take another shower. Another six or seven, actually.
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