The next day I woke up late with only a few hours to lay around before work.   He texted me though and wanted to see if I wanted to hang out afterwards. Afterwards for both of us meant somewhere near 4 am.  Gotta love being a closing cocktail waitress and bartender.  Getting out before 4 on a Thursday or Friday and 5 on Saturday is considered rare and lucky.

Around ten that night, I managed to spill my first martini on the job. Where did it go? Oh, just down the front and back of my strapless, black dress, down through my tights we have to wear and into my shoes.  I still had six hours of work ahead of me. I was thrilled and sticky.  As soon as 2 rolled around and we got to kick all the drunks out, I immediately ran to change in the bathroom. However, as predicted it was 4 when the place was finally clean and we could leave.  I ran to the back of the kitchen where the elevator is and took it to the bottom floor, where his restaurant is.  I leaned heavy and tired against the wall of the elevator as it slowly descended one floor down.  The metal doors slid open and he was standing there.

“I was just coming to look for you,” he said while smiling and looking down on me.  He offered to carry my four inch, black heels and we walked out together to our cars.  When I had told a friend or two of mine before work that I was hanging out with him later that night, they both questioned why I was seeing anyone at 4 am in the morning, surely that was simply a booty call.  But when your daily schedule begins to look a little more like wake up at 1, go to bed at 6, rather than wake up at 9 go to bed at 2, times mean different things. Especially when you both simply were working until that time.

We headed back to his house, which is so convenient to work, compared to my thirty minute drive home.  There were a few lingering Magic Hats in the fridge from the cookout, so we went straight for them and then found a spot on his couch.  My legs ached from running around in heels all night, my arms still sticky from residual martini and my messy sweaty hair shoved up into a fedora.  I can’t imagine I looked too pretty, but he told me otherwise.  We sat around drinking and talking with his roommate, who also works with us until 5 or 6.

I was planning on going home, planning on keeping to my plan, but when 6 came around, my thirty minute drive seemed far too long and arduous of a task and instead I followed him to his room.

“So, you’re staying over?” he asked with hope.  “Yeah, I can’t drive home now, I’d fall asleep on the way.”  I kept my jeans and shirt on and climbed into his bed.  Usually one for sleeping in nothing but boyshorts, I was determined to uphold the plan.  The plan that had not determined an end date yet.  An end date that would end up being a lot sooner than I had imagined.

He pulled me in close to him, my jeans on his boxers, my black fitted shirt on his bare skin.  My head found the space between his neck and shoulder and we fell asleep immediately.  He is the first guy that I can successfully sleep spooning with.  Usually, I give them ten to fifteen minutes of requisite big spoon time, then hastily push them away.  I don’t usually like the feeling of being smothered.

I first woke up at nine, half-asleep, both of our hands wandering. Something I hadn’t realized we had been doing in our sleep.  And while I could feel pants breaking again, we fell asleep again before anything happened.  My circadian rhythm kicked in at 11 and woke me up again, which in turn woke him up.

Since moving away from Greenville, I’ve forgotten what it’s like sleeping in a room creeping towards 90 degrees and immediately complained of the heat.  With eyes closed, he mumbled, “well you are wearing all of those clothes…” I nodded and thought about it.  Surely, only keeping some clothes on would not hinder this self imposed plan too much, so off came the shirt and pants, leaving behind a black tank top and strategically chosen underwear. I may have had a plan, but I prepare accordingly anyway, because I guess even I know my plans are usually rendered useless before they have even begun.

This time with eyes open he smiled and pulled me closer, our legs tangled in each others.  His hands found my boobs, which were spilling out of my tank top as usual and were never part of the plan.  Please those are like consolation prizes; everyone gets one. He proceeded to tell me how sexy I am, a line he now tells me daily and has subsequently added to my already soaring self-esteem.  He began biting my ear and his hands found themselves moving south.  “STICK TO THE PLAN! STICK TO THE PLAN!” my head yelled.  The Almighty Vag laughed in retaliation and said, “fuck off.”  Everything else in between didn’t know what to do, so after sheepishly brushing him off twice, I stopped and gave in. Plan? What plan? Who plans anything these days, anyway?

Now despite that I had somewhat given in, I still wasn’t planning on sleeping with him just yet.  I mean, hi, this could just be some good ole high school kind of fun, right?  We can just forget the fact that we’re laying in his bed and I’m kind of a nympho. Eventually, with little to no coercion at all, he convinced me to lose the rest of my clothes. I turned to him, raised my eyebrows and looked to his boxers.  He wasted no time…but this still didn’t mean… fuck.

He climbed on top of me, all 2oo pounds, brushed the hair out of my eyes and started kissing me again.  Ok, just because he’s lingering all of two inches away from me doesn’t mean the plan is foiled yet. We laid like that for a long time, just talking and making out, all the while, if he had pants on, they would have been massively broken.  I wasn’t stalling and he wasn’t pushing the subject–verbally or really physically–but I guess when I finally realized my plan had not only burned out, it had been smothered, I gave in and pull him in.

The Almighty Vag cheered, my head said, “Goddammit.”  Everything else in betwen was happy.  Now one would think that with a standard such as mine…nothing smaller than at least 7 inches…that sex would never be painful, especially after conquering the Photographer, but for some reason that day, it felt like my virginity had reinstated itself.  It had only been three weeks since Baseball Player, what the hell!?  I grinned through the pain for as long as I could, I participated as much as possible and I didn’t lead on to the fact that my Almighty Vag went from cheering to crying, much like that day back in November with Baseball Player.  Seriously, IT hates me.  Eventually, he noticed that this wasn’t the kind of pain I was talking about on the porch a few nights before and asked what was wrong.  I explained to him that sometimes I just have to work up to guys and this has happened before.  He felt bad and stopped.  I felt like an idiot and worse for being a giant tease with a plan that had been completely shot to shit.

I would find out days later that the pain that reviveled that of the time with Baseball Player would be for the same, my vag hates me, reason.

We both laid there, covered in bad sex and glimmer of regret.  When the clock inched towards 2, I got up, found my clothes and said I had to get to work soon and went home.  He kissed me goodbye and said he’d see me after work.  I nodded and left.  Pissed that I gave in so easily and fearful that I may have just fucked everything up…

to be continued…