tl;dr- some drunk Uber chick kissed me and tipped well. Yay!
I wish I knew your name. You “loved” me the minute you got in my car. You said so. Often.
Probably even before you even got in.
Maybe it was my name. Maybe it was the tequila. Maybe only the gender of your driver mattered.
You just melted when I said, if not for driving, I would be spending NYE with my kid(s). I wonder if your date for the evening realized it then.
You probably just wanted someone to pay attention. You probably don’t love me, despite saying it eight or nine times. You probably were ready to love the uber driver, whoever he was.
You also probably expected me to turn my head and give you a cheek when you moved in to kiss me.
F*** that noise. It’s New Year’s
Eve Day. I am otherwise mostly all out of options.
If you only wanted just a low stakes cheek, it was up to you to take it. When you did for the rest of your emphatic kisses, I knew this was merely a moment of grace and kindness in an otherwise bleak and friendless night. Forgive me for hoping the encounter would end with me writing “dear penthouse forum, I never thought I would be writing, but…” Anyway, I was not going to make the same “turn my head when she moves in” mistake twice in two months. Those moments are too scarce to pass up lightly.
So yeah, maybe tonight you didn’t “love” love me, but you did love me in that moment. You looked at me as if you saw me as a man, and not just the Uber guy. Thank you.
For my part, I probably didn’t “love” love you like
Superstar one of the sirens I might still pine for. But I did love you in that place and that moment. You were cute. Happy, not mean; warm and not bitter. Kind, when kindness was the only thing that mattered to me.
So I guess, maybe there’s hope for me after all: horny, drunk chicks with money.
And, if nothing else, with that fat tip I can
buy some meth and get a handjob in the alley,. buy some health insurance, buy a super beef burrito and a tank of gas.