My Best Date(?) Ever.

Honestly, there are guys in prison right now who are having better dates than me. In fact, my romantic liaisons of late have been so tragic, I almost expect to hear the theme music from John Carpenter’s “Halloween” start playing the minute I ring my date’s doorbell.

However, there is one “date” I’ve been on recently which I’m awfully proud of. Only… it really wasn’t a “date” per se. But it did involve me and a woman and dinner and drinks, and it left me with a happy feeling I’ve not felt in years. So I guess it counts.

But first, to set the stage, a bit of backstory:

Anyone who’s read me atLustMongers knows I’ve long been regarded as the office perv. The guy whose head swivels like a county fair carousel when a hot intern crosses his path. Who lingers a bit too long in the lush company workout room when there are female co-workers present. Who once hired a girl whose resume noted that she was the reigning “Miss East Coast Fitness” and could fit a Buick Skylark in her mouth.

So one of my career path objectives is, quite frankly, to be less like that guy.

Thing is, I’m starting to realize that being “that guy” may have comprised the bulk of my already limited appeal. To illustrate, back in April, my boss informed me that I’d be spending the better part of the month working at our office in Virginia. That was not a bad thing, as I saw it, because Kristy, the woman who ran that office, was not only a good friend of mine and spectacular drinking partner, she was also the owner of one of the most majestic derrieres I have ever encountered in the corporate world. And she was quite aware of this last point, no doubt in part due to my alcohol-fueled odes to her expertly-sculpted buttocks, which she took with a smile and a nod and, I’m sure, a quiet note to have me shot, beaten or fired at some point in the future.

So when my boss gave me my assignment, I nodded and accepted it, silently doing cartwheels in my mind. That is, until she added, “Kristy’s excited about it too, because she said when she hangs with you, you make her feel like a rock star.”

And that was the slap back to reality. Because, seriously, that’s all I was doing. Hanging out with these slightly unhinged office chicks, getting sauced and revved up, blathering on and on about how hot they were, and pumping up their egos. Suddenly, I understood why HR meets regularly to discuss “the Ken problem,” and I was determined to change my ways. I was going to Virginia, and, goddam it, I wasn’t gonna say one word about that ass.

My first day in Virginny, Kristy picked me up at the airport, wearing a skirt so tight that as she bent down to get into her car, I shielded my eyes from possible denim shards. And I never mentioned her ass.

Second day, she greeted me at the office wearing pants so tight it looked like she painted herself black from the waist down. The same pants she wore that night when she took me out for after-work drinks. And I never mentioned her ass.

On my last night there, she took about eight of us out on the town. Everyone got sloppy and, one by one, fell out of the ranks. Soon, it was just me and Kristy. And she’s dropping things, bending over left and right, shaking her ass to the music and doing that thing that hot white women in their late 30s do when they’re drunk and not quite sure what else to do. She even pulled the classic “did I sit in something?” maneuver–always a favorite of mine–and shoved her ass in my face for inspection. I gave it the once-over, gave a thumbs-up, and ordered another drink on the company tab. I drank it, thanked her for the hospitality over the last few weeks, and wished her a good evening. Then we got up, got into her car, drove to my hotel, and she dropped me off. And not once, over a three week stretch, did I say anything about her ass.

Sure, once I got back to my room that night, I masturbated furiously for roughly four hours thinking about her ass–to the point that I swore I’d fractured my wrist. But I never said a thing. I stared directly into the ass of fear and never batted an eye. Never broke down. Never set my tongue wagging like they all expected I would.

I didn’t break. I didn’t falter. And I got a big chunk of my pride back.

And that, my friends, is what made it the best goddam date I ever had. Even if it wasn’t technically a date.