Dear Dickhead,
I wanted to write you this letter of thanks for the most memorable; if not the most unique blind date experience I have had in my entire socially depressed life.
The wonderment of it all began the moment you drove up in your rent-a-wreck car??? {I'm sorry, but I'm not familiar with recognizing the models the car manufacturers deemed "losers" and discontinued after their first year's assembly line run}. Pulling up to the curb with the exhaust spewing enough pollution into the air to kill off all plant life in the neighborhood didn't help me recognize what you were driving, either. I couldn't see clearly through the fallout, but I DID manage to find it as I followed the sound of the horn you incessantly were leaning on. I thank you, as do all the neighbors within a three block radius, for the air raid alert. FIRST IMPRESSIONS LAST –yours certainly will be branded into my memory banks well beyond my retirement years.
I truly believe our date started off "with a bang" {or was that the tailpipe problem again?} as you tromped on the accelerator and peeled away leaving half the rubber of the tires embedded in the street for miles. That was very clever of you actually. In that way, if I was to get drunk {as were your intentions from the start}, and I couldn't direct us back to my house after our night on the town, you would be able to retrace your steps – like Hansel and Gretel dropping the trail of breadcrumbs in the forest- and safely and politely dump me at my front door. ALWAYS THINK AHEAD – that's my motto!
As you drove warp speed through the rush hour traffic – weaving – no, more like crocheting – in, out, around, and almost through eighteen wheelers, I must confess to you I was not paying attention to your futile efforts at conversation. I wasn't hanging onto your every word, but onto the dashboard for precious life, since not only were you obviously trying out for your stealth pilot license in your let's play make believe world, but having the top down on the car??? with the wind roaring through my hair at cyclonic speeds and the radio cranked at upper atmospheric decibels, made it just a tad bit difficult to hear you. I apologize for my ineptness to do several things at once - keeping a vise-like grip onto the dash, gulping air down into my lungs for survival, and savoring the Rhode's scholar level of oral exchange I am positive you attempted with me. For these brash acts of selfishness in my will to live, I am truly sorry.
I have to admit, though, it was very thoughtful of you to have gone to all the trouble getting advance-seating movie tickets for what I know was a well thought out choice for our mutual visual enjoyment: "Mean People Suck - Nice People Swallow". I can't begin to tell you how much I learned from that triple X flick! The film was produced as an educational tool, I gather, judging from all the men in the theater mimicking what the porno hunks were doing on the screen. I still had some audio difficulties, though, since I missed some of the dialogue through the moans and groans of the male patrons. I take the confident liberty to say "male", as I remember distinctly I was the only woman in the entire theater – imagine that! And, once again, I have YOU to thank for making me feel like one in a million – well, at least one in 15 or so.
Your obvious enthusiasm for the back alley epic left a lasting impression on me, too. I stole a glance to my left and saw you diligent in the pursuit of happiness in your own perverse way. Nice going – or should I say, nice CUMming!!! If I were grading your cumshots {and actually, I was} and "10" was the highest score, I would give you a "9" – taking off one point for poor aim {you really should have cleaned up the back of the seat in front of you before we left}. Remember to FOCUS ON THE TASK AT HAND – or, should I say, IN hand, next time to earn a perfect score. Anyway, congrats on a {hand} job well done!!!
Our dream date continued as we climbed back into your car??? and headed off to dinner – a grimy, greasy spoon that hadn't seen a mop, dust rag, or window cleaner in as many years as was the owner of the dive- a crusty, musty old codger that was, naturally, the cook and bottle washer – no, nix the bottle washer title; we've already established there was nothing washed in the dump. To be honest, I had pictured in my mind a quiet, romantic dinner by candlelight; some wine, maybe a little dancing to live entertainment. As it were, we conceded to a naked light bulb hanging dangerously close to the top of our heads, beer that was so flat it rivaled the terrain of The Great Plains, and music? Well...the music MAY have been alright; if not for the static emitting from the plastic radio that sat precariously on a shelf above a single door marked, "The Shitter" – let's not even go there.
