Dragging out of my car, I’m fumbling, heels in one hand and keys in the other. I shove my key in the lock, jiggling it until it turns. I stumble up the stairs. Finally. Home again. Alone this time, albeit the morning after. Not a bad night, but they never really end up how I dream them up to be. Oh it’s completely my fault this time. But really, do I need to ask myself this again? Why do I ever expect more from a woman when I go home with her?
Rubbing my head, I know I’ve got about another 10 minutes to drink some water before the throbbing starts. The past twelve hours may be a bit of a blur but as always a barely remembered time means it was a good time, right? Ugh, my stomach is churning, not sure if it’s grumbling in agreement or begging for a reprive from the hangover that’s inching its way closer.
I take a swig of water in a cup that’s been hanging out on the countertop for who knows how long. The stale water does the grumbling no good not to mention my dog barking incessantly. He’s missed me all night, and really just wants to go to the bathroom and to eat. He's great for making a girl feel special - even he doesn’t want to share breakfast with me.
Reluctantly, I make my way through the house, back to my bed, and struggle to create a clear picture of last night. As my face hits the pillow, my recollection of last night begins swirling around in my head...
Singing along with my iPod and jumping around my room modeling my favorite lace thong and animal print bra, I am so ready for tonight. I've felt the need to go out with some new friends for a while. The only part missing is the new friends - you know the friends you make on your own after a break up? The ones that don't care where you've been or who you are but just want to get shitty and have fun. Those friends are the best when you're single.
I manage to throw together this outfit that exudes an air of sexy confidence that a femme only dreams of, a bit of punk and sass without seeming slutty, trashy or trendy. My skin tight black leggings, reminiscent of riding pants that hug all the right curves - oh yeah, they’re just a bit drool worthy - with a wife beater and a cropped black satin trimmed jacket, topped with my favorite black stilettos in their four inch peep toe glory. Wait.. are wife beaters even in anymore? Shrugging my shoulders as I look in the mirror, I don’t particularly care, it hugs my curves so sweetly who gives a shit. No no no... not sweet, but rather sexy, and a bit raunchy and raw, but not quite slutty since you can’t really see my bra through it.
My eyes shift over to the iPod playing and I notice the time. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” I start yelling while I’m running around my room, rummaging through my closet searching for my favorite stilettos. Mind you, I can barely walk in them, but they are by far my favorite. They really do look the best on me and they’re the shoes you just wanna leave on, if ya know what I mean. Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean. These are my pair of shoes that are just so hot you want to leave them on, even if they hurt, and even if they make you taller than most of the girls because they give you a good four inches of height to your already taller than most frame of 5’ 6”. These little black suede peep toes are the best damn $10 I ever spent. I have never bought myself a single drink since I’ve worn these shoes, they’re like my ruby red slippers, my secret weapon, well at least the one that’s readily visible. Ha! I kid, I kid.
“Ooo! There you are little babies! You can’t hide on me. I know you love me just as much as I love you!” I purred, sliding
them on my feet. I glance at the clock and realize I’m already thirty minutes late. Thirty minutes past that fashionably late arrival time. Pushing my luck, I grab the necessities - keys, phone, cards - spring out the door.
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