Happy Belated Valentine’s Day

We’ve all been there. A person we’ve been around for quite some time, or at least long enough for some kind of familiarity, yet we don’t know their name. Well, more than ever, particularly in the week following Valentine’s Day, I’m suffering through with very little sensitivity to the parties opposite me in this quandary. You see, I know who you are, luv. I might even know your exact breast size, or the specific way I can please you, I just don’t know your name.

Thank god that this year the celebration of sex and romance fell on the weekend. It enabled me to have two early Valentine romps, one Thursday, one Friday (which quite annoyingly carried into Saturday). On the actual day of celebrating the Saint, I engage in sinning with two lovelies, who seemed very content to share in my prowess. After all, sharing love and sweaty affection is the essence of the day, right? Not leaving out Sunday, I was able to extend myself into yet another moment of debauchery, this one appropriately including loads of chocolate, though not much of it was eaten (well, at least in the way you one would traditionally do so). But I digress.

The following Friday, I was approached by a fantastic ginger, who seemed quite angry with me for not seeing/calling/sexing her on the aforementioned day of affection, which I found odd, because at first glance, I was certain I did not know her. At second glance, a quick peek at the flesh under her left hip bone, revealing a bite mark (mine, to be exact), I understood that I did know her. But, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I did not know her name. And you’d think I would say, that I did not REMEMEBER her name, but that would be a lie. I never knew her name from the start. I don’t find this to be shameful, per say, but I am a bit embarrassed by it. I mean, knowing a woman, in the biblical sense of the term, should preclude that I have a general idea of what to call her when engaged in public or non-sexual situations.

I do have a defense, if you care to hear it. When we met, she would not tell me her name. Soon after, when we engaged in skin-to-skin combat (the reason for the bite mark), she was adamant that I call her Pet.

She had enjoyed my compliance so much that she wanted to see me again, and again, and again. She was quite pissed that I did not call her. So there I was, standing at the bar, apologizing, and saying, Happy Belated Valentine’s Day…whatever your name is.

Juice