Nothing saddens me more than the sight of a full grown man trotting though Victoria Secret while uncomfortably cradling a purple Coach purse.

2) The ‘Whipped Guy’. Yes, I am of course referring to the token guy or 6 that tend to develop a rather hefty vag after entering a relationship. In some cases of marriage for example, the extremely unfortunate men don’t only develop female genitalia, but a serious looking F.U.P.A as well. This is most likely due to the allure of a hearty home cooked meal; a rather clever scheme to promote home-confinement. 

My favorite part is when they refuse to admit they’ve become a complete slave to a she-beast that rules their lives.   The household dictator, which decides everything for them, from the underwear they wear in the morning to the amount of special tissue time they are allotted each week. This sad fact of life is particularly evident when the whipped man schedules to go out with his group of friends. The pattern is always the same. For the weeks prior to the engagement he’ll pretend to have full intention of meeting you over the weekend. He will most likely even show more enthusiasm for these plans than any other person set to attend. And of course, all this build up is almost always followed by a last minute phone call. 

”Yeah turns out I can’t make it tonight after all. Something came up. Blows to be missing it, but I’ll catch you next time for sure.”

And although to them their excuses always seems to be just plausible enough to save face, to the rest of us it all sounds exactly the same:

 “Blah blah blah. I’m a BIG vagina. Blah Blah Blah. She-beast locked me in the basement again. Blah Blah Blah I’ll call you when I get off my period.”

 In short, we’re not dumb. All your single friends are well aware of the fact that unless your she-beast keeper has been mistaken for cattle and slaughtered earlier in the week, you never had the intention of actually coming out and you never will. We are all very well aware of the fact that your balls made a nice little garnish to the roast beef (or something equally offensive) she cooked up for dinner once again. Furthermore, to be completely and utterly honest we only keep the whipped guy around to make fun of him and his string of perpetual yeast infections.

3) Public Fights/ Bickering

. Listen up. Unless one of you decides to go Chris Brown/ Rhianna on each other, I don’t want to see it. If a couple decides to fight out in public among their friends, there better be a sharp left hook or round house kick mixed in there somehow. In short, if it’s not UFC worthy, my desire to witness this ‘fight’ is about as high as my desire to tea bag Hugh Hefner. In most cases, watching a couple bicker or fight makes everyone around them incredibly uncomfortable. We all sit there thanking God for our single existence. And while we’re at our prayer session, we are also willing him to make time go faster. 

There is just one exception to this window of time in my life I’m never getting back. The exception is of course the presence of crying, now that’s what I call a fucking show! In fact, the site of tears almost always makes me plop my ass right in front of you to see more. I will be sure to be facing you square on, hands propping up my chin, and grinning from ear to ear. I am just PRAYING for someone to step up and start crying with sound. Simply because any kind of whimpering or sobbing coming from the chick (but especially the guy) is MONEY! Perhaps this little sick pleasure of mine makes me an insensitive bitch. But one must admit that watching two grown people bicker and cry over who forgot to clean out Mr. Jingles litter box earlier in the evening is absolutely hilarious. 

So unless there is an intense physical fight or some serious Lifetime Network worthy crying involved, I don’t want to hear it. Do us all a huge favor and conduct your catfights on you own time and in the privacy of your own homes. And for Gods sake leave Mr. Jingles out of it!

4) Over-Sharing About Their Sex Lives

. Plain and simple, my life was just fine without the added knowledge of the fact that my friend Bill enjoys the occasional finger or two in his asshole or getting his salad tossed. And I’m certainly not sleeping any better after finding out that Jessica gets off on getting gagged and beaten with a studded belt. Chances are that the sight of either one of the two in leather or ass-less chaps is enough to give me nightmares for the next 6 months. 

I’m clearly all about talking about sex, but there are certain detailed secrets that are best kept locked up in that naughty drawer. Along with the anal beads and the penis pump.

5) Insisting On Doing EVERYTHING Together

. Nothing saddens me more than the sight of a full grown man trotting though Victoria Secret while uncomfortably cradling a purple Coach purse. All the while he’s making sure to always be looking down. God forbid his 5’2″ female ‘owner’ catches him looking at a picture of Adriana Lima sporting the newest push-up bra. He’ll be raised and granny panties will be thrown in a fit of fury. There is no reason for a man to be subjected to this shopping ritual. And quite frankly, their broad frames are usually blocking my view of the lace thongs. (Which I happen to collect as enthusiastically as some horde stamps.)

On the other hand, another disturbing sight, which fits into this category, is that of a woman at a sporting event she clearly has little to no interest in. This one I find particularly offensive because on more than one occasion my enjoyment from a perfectly good hockey game has been dampened by the yapping coming out of someone’s female counter part. This raping of my ears always tempts me to politely tap them on the shoulder and announce:

”Um excuse me ma’am would you mind kindly shutting the fuck up seeing as your grocery list is about as important as your husbands desire to live at this point.”

Sporting events are sacred to those of us who actually care. So I suggest either learning how to sign to one another, or shoving a sock/cock in it!



If any of these 5 characteristics sound like you, please seek help immediately! Re-evaluate your priorities, or don’t be at all surprised to find your tires slashed, or your beloved Mr. Jingles missing for that matter.

You guys have anymore you want to add? FIRE AWAY in the comments!

Recently in the news, a woman was murdered by her jealous husband who had been enraged after misreading her Facebook status.  
The very idea of the “status” is a double-edged sword. For an established couple, there is no issue with the labels; “single”, “in a relationship”, “married” and so forth; please don’t get me started on my “it’s complicated” as a status option tangent… aren’t they all?). But be warned; if you are in a new relationship be careful forcing a status change. The publicity of it inevitably alters the dynamic between people and breaks down some of the intimacy you may be trying to build.

Chris: My ex hacked into my Myspace and found out that I was “talking” to another girl and used that as a reason to break up with me. True story.

I remember when I was going through a breakup in my mid twenties and was consumed by checking the status of my ex’s page. I even went as far as giving my Mom my password so that when I was away from my computer she could check to see if he had changed his status.  I mean in those days, there were no internet phone options so what else could a girl do?!). We had already ended the relationship, but the idea that it would be blasted all over the Internet for others to see felt like it would happen all over again. I shortly thereafter cancelled my account. Years later, much more mature, I opened a new account on a rival site. Yet as my latest relationship drew to a close, there I was again afraid of the upcoming “status change” sting. My own personal status says I am in a complicated relationship with my female friend. Granted she is quite beautiful and I would be a very lucky woman, but alas I am not interested in women.  Although I am sure this image created excitement for all the men who got my updated status, only problem is, she is happily married. So, I am also a hypocrite in all of my riotousness about the ridiculousness of status and postings.

With all that being said, why would the simple click of a mouse still alter the current state of my mood? I thought for a moment about the distinguishing feature of a public forum, about my sensitivity surrounding the comments posted on people’s walls and about the man who killed his wife over the words she wrote. Most harmless natured comments can be taken offensively when they’re through text, email, or heaven forbid the World Wide Web and not spoken. This entire article can be misconstrued, but the fact that one is posting it “on a wall” or “on a page” rather than in a private email signifies that they want mutual friends or chosen strangers to see what they are writing.
How much do you really want to reveal to your 10,000-networked friends? Think of your motives and the motives of those who may be pissing you off! With all the words and changes, it is just as likely that they want you to see what they are writing. I surveyed how people use these sites, (via Facebook “note” application of course) and this is what I came up with;

Julia: Ha. I don’t think I can get an ounce of work done without having Facebook at my fingertips. I even downloaded it onto my blackberry. But then the BB started acting funny so I removed the application. I think the real point of this is doing combine the crack-berry with the Facebook pipe!

Chris:  My ex hacked into my Myspace and found out that I was “talking” to another girl and used that as a reason to break up with me. True story.

Julia:  I don’t even know. Honestly most of the time there is nothing new to check. I mostly like looking at pictures of people. I never read people’s walls because I think it would be boring!

Lisa:  Call me a narcissist, but I come on and check out my own stuff……I never look at anyone else’s. I hate applications, don’t care what people are doing except for to send them a message and what not. It has taken me over 2 weeks now to come up with 25 random things about myself (still got the window open, I think I’m on #4) because every time I start typing it, I come up with something better to do……or I just don’t know 25 fascinating things about myself in which I wish to share with the cyber world!!! Facebook is creating a society of over reactors in which people say things without thinking, think the world cares what they’re doing every minute, badmouth people on each other’s walls (whatever happened to getting your ass kicked at the maple tree for talking shit) and oh yeah, when putting up a status for the entire internet world to see, please make sure the spelling and grammar is correct, or take 3 minutes away from Facebook and peruse dictionary.com!!!!

Guy:  Real insecurity issues it seems with those Facebook stalkers. Explains why lots of them are ex’s.

Brian:  Because it helps us justify the amount of time spent on a computer “interacting” with others, instead of actually interacting with other?

It seems everyone I asked, from 15 to 35, had either a horror story or funny quip about their ex and their madness on one of these two sites.  I imagine if we continue to ignore the good old face-to-face encounter this is the burden we will have to bear. Technology is fantastic, but we are still human apparently. So, it’s our decision how much we want a fad created for and by young corporate America to alter our perception on our own realities.

The fact is, I get annoyed easily. I’ve been raised that a man should be a man. Being a man comes with certain responsibilities, including, but not limited to, acting your age.

What it boils down to is this: there are some things a man should never do in my presence past the age of 7. Call it bitching, call it neurotic, call it what you will but if you continue to show your ignorance, you can be certain you will not be calling me.

I personally have graduated with a college degree, and most of the men I hang around with have also graduated; perhaps not from college, but at least the 5th grade. When you start sending me texts with words like “wat” instead of “what” and “wit” instead of “with,” I get a shudder that starts in my toes and ends with a vaguely nauseous feeling.

I recently had a guy text me after I told him I was having problems with my family. His response was a text that read, and I quote: “I sawry”. This man, I kid you not, is 33. You’re sawry? Fantastic! I feel so much better! Without that ‘sawry’ I wouldn’t be where I am now! You have dragged me from my depths! Saved my life!

Listen. My 10 year old cousin has better grammar and spelling than you. Compared to you, his 4th grade essay could possibly be the next Great Gatsby. Don’t act dumb when we know you’re not.

And while we’re on the topic, what is with the baby talk? I don’t want the man I’m seeing to talk to me like I’m his child. Do you really want to be doing the same things to a 3 year old that you do to me? I didn’t think so.

Men please, I don’t mean to be harsh, but you’re educated, well meaning men! Act your age! And if you think I’m being bitchy, I sawry.

My Mom has loved (almost) all of my boyfriends…that is, until they fuck up.

Things get complicated when you’re in your relationship with both your boy/girlfriend and their kick-ass family. At first it can seem ok to keep in touch with parents or siblings. Especially as we get older, we’d like to trick ourselves into thinking we’re all mature enough to stay close with an ex’s family, but here’s the thing: there’s always ulterior motives at hand! Either you’re hanging on to a hope that you still have a place in this family or they’re hanging on to the idea that their son/daughter/brother/sister will win you back. It gets foggier when you delve into the reasons for the break-up but the bottom line is once you move on his/her Mom isn’t your buddy anymore. My Mom has loved (almost) all of my boyfriends…that is, until they fuck up. Then, she’d gladly remove their nuts with an icepick. Any good family member would do the same. Blood is thicker than semen (I think…), the bond between you and your former lover is hardly comparable to a bond between family. They may have liked you a lot, but at the end of the day you’re a thing of the past. You can’t take it personally, and neither should they. Don’t fret, there’s plenty of other moms’ out there whose cooking you can pretend to like.

After the usual breakup banter, I stiffened my upper lip and acquired my antidote of choice: a bottle of merlot, which I decided I would single-handedly finish before sunset and see where the rest of the evening took me.  After popping the cork and mixing a few anonymous narcotics with my vino, I was beginning to get sloppier than a threesome involving Lindsay Lohan, Courtney Love, and an 8-ball of blow.

About three-quarters of the way through my bottle, I took a swig and completely missed my mouth, sending a waterfall of red wine down my neck and onto my crisp white V-neck tee.  Normally, something like this would throw me into a fit of rage, leading to the destruction of home furnishings and possibly ruining my night.  However, when I went into the bathroom to change my shirt, what I discovered was a surefire sign from the Gods.  Looking into the mirror, I saw that my spill had left a stain on my shirt in the shape of a nearly perfect exclamation point.  Intoxicated and excited, I snapped a picture.

I knew I was truly fucked when Jack on the rocks was going down like apple juice on the rocks.

Now, far from angry and reaching a nearly perfect level of inebriation, I thought, “Fuck it, this is awesome, I’m not even going to bother changing my shirt.” I polished off the remainder of the wine, admired my miracle stain one more time, and stumbled out of the house to go meet up with some friends before heading out to the bar.

Upon my arrival, I was greeted by more booze and three scantily clad young women, none of which I was acquainted with, and none of which I would classify as strikingly attractive.  I was quickly introduced by my friend and more than likely made a few inappropriate drunken comments.

Right off the bat, I realized I was heavily intoxicated and was probably going to make a bad decision with one, maybe even two of these girls.  Luckily, one of the skanks made it easy for me when she started to eye-fuck me like there was some sort of twisted staring contest going on and began calling me “Stephen.”  I told her my name was Ryan, but she insisted on Stephen, which, in a borderline blackout state, confused and angered me.  Eventually, I realized I didn’t give a shit what she called me, because I had forgotten her name no more than three seconds after I was introduced to her.  However, I would later find out that she was calling me Stephen because apparently, after ingesting enough alcohol, I bear a striking resemblance to that douche bag named Stephen (go figure) from Laguna Beach, one of the most putrid displays in the history of American television.  Whatever, at least one good thing came out of that stupid fucking show.

After more unnecessary drinking, my mouth began leaking obscene phrases like a sieve as we made our way to the bar.  Phrases such as “mmmm, I’ll ream you out like a drill sergeant,” and “come on baby, let me fist that ass” were a sign of where things were heading.  When we got to the bar, drinks, as well as ridiculous verbiage, continued to flow.  I knew I was truly fucked when Jack on the rocks was going down like apple juice on the rocks.  In my drunken stupor, I started to actually respond to the name Stephen and began engaging in physical interaction with the Laguna Beach groupie.  I was forcefully grabbing her ass, and at this point she could have been wearing a soiled diaper and I wouldn’t have recognized the difference.  Right around this time, I blacked out.  I’m pretty sure the public displays of affection were limited to me digging into her ass cheeks like I was kneading dough, but I really can neither confirm nor deny what happened.

Finally, my friends and the sexual predator managed to drag me out of the bar and into a cab.  They put me in the front seat, and, after hanging my head out the window claiming I was the Joker and nearly clipping my cranium on a side view mirror, I was pulled back into the cab and immediately passed out.   I woke up when we came to an abrupt stop outside of my friend’s place.  Drunk and confused, it took me a minute to realize that my head was resting on the cab driver’s crotch for the entire 20 minute ride home, and I’m pretty sure I drooled a little bit.  Why he didn’t wake me or, at the very least, move my head off his cock, baffles me.  Anyway, I apologized for using his phallus as a pillow and started to make my way out of the cab when I felt a hand grab the back of my shirt collar.

I was forcefully grabbing her ass, and at this point she could have been wearing a soiled diaper and I wouldn’t have recognized the difference.

“No, Stephen, you’re coming with me!” I heard from the back seat of the cab.

“What? Huh? Where are we going?!” I asked, legitimately scared and puzzled.  I desperately wanted to go home, and I tried really hard to fight off her kung fu grip and escape, but to no avail.

“We’re going to my house.  Get back in here!” she said as she dragged me into the back seat, where I once again passed out instantly.  I don’t know what was going through this girl’s head, but if she actually thought I was going to perform any type of pleasurable act, she was drunker than I was (which would have been an honorable feat, considering I was blacked out like Amistad).

We could have taken the cab another five blocks or driven half-way across the country and I wouldn’t have known any different.  When we got to her place, she led me inside like a seeing eye dog and began to, hmm, what’s the word…?  Oh yeah, rape me.  I have a vague memory of her yelling, “Come on Stephen, fuck me like I’m LC!” and trying to ride my flaccid dong for about a half hour before getting really angry and giving up.  I’m pretty sure I then rambled on about how I just broke things off with a girl I had been seeing and that my penis hadn’t adapted to the change yet.  Or maybe I told her I was gay and perhaps if she grew her mustache just a tad longer I’d be a little more turned on.  Whatever I said or did (besides the impotence) really pissed her off, and she started yelling and grunting like a fucking injured rhinoceros.

“Ahhhh!  Grrrrrggggg!  RAAAAA!!!”

As if things weren’t fucking weird enough, this girl apparently transformed into a Velociraptor after failed attempts at raping Laguna Beach look-a-likes.  The oddest part was she wasn’t really even yelling at me.  She was just lying in her bed, face down, throwing a tantrum.  It was like The Exorcist, literally.  I took her ear-piercing shrieks as a sign that I had overstayed my welcome, so I gathered my shit, making sure to grab my exclamation point T-shirt, and snuck out while she was still in the midst of a mental breakdown.

Once I was out of the room, I ran down the stairs and tried to remember where the front door was.  I made a quick left and dipped into her living room to get dressed.  I threw on my T-shirt and got an idea.  I tossed my pants and shoes to the side, whipped out my love-sword, and began pissing on her white carpet.  I steadied the stream and, with a reservoir worth of urine, crafted an exclamation point in the middle of the room.  I admired my work for a minute, smiled, finished getting dressed, and went home, but not before putting the exclamation point on the night.

You have been broken up for a month now. It’s time. “Oh, no! Not yet. You have half the length of your relationship to mourn the loss of that relationship”—ERRR, wrong! Stop moping. A wise man once told me that you can’t get over someone until you get UNDER someone else. While hopping into the sack with a stranger is not going to mend your broken heart, lovingly gazing at old kissy pictures of you and your ex are not helping your cause either. A month is fine. Take your month to grieve. By then your friends will stop telling you he/she wasn’t worth it and start telling you to get the f*ck over it, and they’re right. Step one is ridding your life of all those pictures, reminders, mix cds, love notes, saved text messages, and hoodies that still kinda smell like this person that got away. Besides, the last thing a potential suitor wants to see at your place is a shrine to who was there before them.

Get rid of that crap! Tear it up, burn it, flush it, do whatever you gotta do, but get it outta there. Was your former lover a gift giver? Have a yard sale! Put that shit on craigslist, make a buck or two. DO NOT give it back, it’ll make you look pathetic and crazy, like you just can not bare the sight of their tokens of affection. You know what else is fun? Setting shit on fire! Getting over someone is hard enough without constant reminders like old photographs. Now, if you MUST you can save one or two to show a friend “that asshole” or “the one that got away” but keep it out of sight. I suggest drawing a funny mustache on them to remind yourself how silly they were for dumping you in the first place.

That all ran through my head on Saturday night when I traded a few semi-casual/semi-seductive stares with “her” across the bar at one of Philly’s premier after-hours venues.

Ok, so maybe we have known each other for a while, maybe we have shared a few laughs, and maybe there were a few brief moments of “potential” flirtation, but nothing quite like this!

“THE LIP BITE”

If you have ever given, or received, this sultry form of non-verbal communication while you were in a bar, the message is as clear as the Evian in a glass made of Swarovski Crystal.

“SExXx”

Ok well maybe not directly sex. But it’s pretty apparent that something sexual is being suggested. Don’t kid yourself and act as if the lip bite can ever be misinterpreted.

“Last night we made direct eye contact across the room, she gently slid her tongue over the lightly shimmering lip gloss, and then seductively bit her bottom lip…”

Imagine if my Facebook status currently read, “Last night we made direct eye contact across the room, she gently slid her tongue over the lightly shimmering lip gloss, and then seductively bit her bottom lip..”

Every single one of you would be extremely tempted to give me a “Likes This” thumbs up…Or comment as an inquiring mind to either the identity or the outcome…The reason being, subconsciously everyone has some sort of oral fetish, or consciously even an abstinent bling man can see that there is something sensual about the lip bite…

Allow me to restate that passage for those who are visually impaired:

“Last night we made direct eye contact across the room, she gently slid her tongue over the lightly shimmering lip gloss, and then seductively bit her bottom lip.”

See it sounded even hotter the second time, don’t lie!

If I were to elaborate on the detailed outcome of this encounter, let’s just say this website could go from brokeup.com to strokeup.com pretty quickly. (Do not even Google that because it’s probably is a site, and I don’t want to think of what content it would host…)

Anyway, I have to be honest. Not every Lip Bite necessarily ends in fireworks. But the fact is, I dare someone to say that the Lip Bite is not the damn equal of flicking lit matches at a box of M-80’s. It’s fiery, it’s explosive, and it has the potential to lead to much more….

So I find myself chatting casually with friends, trying to determine, is there any form of non-verbal communication that is more suggestive then the infamous “Lip Bite?”

If so, I am dying to see it….

Your thoughts?

You need to learn how to trust your instincts, and not let lack of trust ruin your relationship.There’s got to be a reason you question the fidelity of your bf/gf enough to start snooping. One of my close girlfriends is an out of control snooper. She suspected her boyfriend was a dog but it was a few late night texts that really got her going. He was smart enough to keep his text inbox empty which she discovered when she grabbed his phone while he was in the bathroom. She started counting the condoms in her boyfriend’s bedside drawer and became even more alarmed when numbers didn’t add up.  Instead of just asking him what was up, her curiosity consumed her. She left a post-it note in the drawer that said, “Where are these condoms going?”. The boyfriend said nothing. When she returned to the drawer to see if he’d gotten her little note, it was gone. He’d obviously read it.

If you have to look, then get out now!

She hit rock bottom when she dug through the trash to look for the note to make a stink about how he neglected to address it when she found a post-it. She grabbed it, figuring it was the one she had left. Victoriously, she sat down to read it. It wasn’t the one she wrote. Instead it read, “Leave the door unlocked for Meg, she’s staying here when she gets out of work.” Burn. Homeboy was leaving a note for his roommate to let “the other woman” in. You dig for dirt, and dirt you will find. Instincts told her that he was cheating, that’s what led her to the condom drawer in the first place. Instead of confronting him and saving herself the trouble, she let her crazy self get the best of her. You could say “Well, she snooped and found what she was looking for,” but that’s the point. If you have to look, then get out now!

Here’s the moral of the story, if you think so low of your significant other that you need to check his or her emails, the the two of you shouldn’t be together. If you’re feeling the urge to snoop and your bf/gf hasn’t given you just reason to do so, you’re just too crazy to be dating. It’s no fun feeling like you’re not trusted by the person you’re seeing. It’s even less fun to walk around all day feeling like you’re in the dark about something. Trust is very important so don’t waste your time with someone you can’t trust to keep it in his pants. Resist the snoop. Chances are you’re not going to like what you find. And even worse, if you snoop, find nothing, and get caught then you’re the one crossing lines and looking like a nutbag. Besides, why bother with that when you can have your friends stalk them for you.

Duh.

But this night in particular, I had a goal.  Usually I look forward to hearty chats with my friends while kicking back drinks at the bar.  But this night was different.  I wanted to hook up with a beautiful woman who could make me melt in an instant.  I was ready to get laid.

I pranced into my favorite lesbian bar, scouting the scene for eye candy.  Nobody caught my attention, and I was utterly disappointed.  Frustrated and defeated, I stepped outside for a cigarette.  As I puffed away, I resigned myself to the fact that I was going home alone tonight, contemplating which Penny Flame movie to entertain myself with before I fell into a blissful sleep.

She gripped my body tightly, breathing heavily in my ear.

To my dismay, a stunning woman walked up to the bar.  She was in her thirties, about 5’10 with blonde hair, green eyes, and a wicked smile that spelled “trouble.”  I met her eyes with a flirtatious gaze.  This would be my woman for the night.

I opened the door for her and followed her into the bar.  Viciously, I threw my cigarette on the ground, realizing that I had more important matters to attend to.  She felt my tap on her shoulder, and spun around as though she knew what I was going to say.

“Excuse me for being forward,” I began, “But you’re the most beautiful woman that I’ve seen all night.”

She smiled and gently put her hand on my thigh.  “Thank you,” she replied, “I’m not used to hearing that.”

She was lying, and she knew that I knew she was lying.  This was all part of the game.  I ordered her a Kamikaze, and invited her to join me for a dance.  Well aware that I could make any woman’s head spin on the dance floor, I took advantage of the fact that The Black Eyed Peas’ “Boom Boom Pow” was playing.  Holding her close, I swayed my hips to the beat and slid my ass in between her legs.  She gripped my body tightly, breathing heavily in my ear.  I swiveled around to face her, noticed the sultry look in her eyes, and leaned in slowly for a kiss.

Our lips touched gently, and immediately I felt my body heat rise.  Our tongues did a slow, sensual dance as I grabbed her hips and she pressed them against mine.  We stood there kissing, immersed in passion, completely lost in each other.  Finally, we both pulled away, and she smiled at me.  It felt as though gravity pulled me towards her, and I kissed her again, breathing harder, my body melting into hers.  “You’re coming home with me tonight,” she whispered breathily into my lips.  I happily obliged, chuckling at the fact that she didn’t even touch her drink.

We walked out of the bar, holding hands, and hailed a taxi cab.  Maybe this wasn’t love, but for the time being, it was close enough.