Too Much To Stomach

Mason and I were introduced through one of my colleagues when he crashed our company’s happy hour. After conquering our Q3 goal we were a rowdy bunch certainly ready to tie one on for the evening.

With platinum blonde tresses and juniper hued eyes, this New Hampshire-born web designer had me smitten from the get go.

After chatting for several hours it was to my dismay that Mason left the event sans my contact info.

I continued celebrating into a blacked out oblivion the rest of the night, and by morning Mason was merely a figment of my imagination.

Until he messaged me on Instagram.

After exchanging several coquettish messages via DM, he invited me to a light show at the New York Botanical Garden, and I was back to being rather smitten with Mason once again.

We perused the illuminated exhibits of ethereal splendor that were displayed for the public and commented on the work of each artist. We enjoyed some vodka cranberries along the way along with some light bites in between our rather pleasant conversation.

As the show concluded we cabbed it back to the Upper West Side to continue our alcohol consumptionĀ conversation.

Mason and I finished off a bottle of Shiraz, and though I very much enjoyed his company and wanted to see him again, I decided going home to my apartment alone would be the courtly thing to do.

He gently took hold of my chin and pulled it toward his face for a kiss.

Minutes later we remained on the corner of 79th and Amsterdam somewhat passionately engaged in a full-on make out session.

Mason reached up my blouse to touch my stomach. Having a pretty good prediction as to where he was going with this I removed his hand from the direction which it was headed.

“Not so fast,” I giggled coyly.

“You don’t have to feel uncomfortable,” he said.

“I’m not. I just don’t want to be felt up on a street corner. That, and I’m not into moving that quickly,” I assured him.

“Oh, I thought you were uncomfortable because you have a little bit of a tummy, which I actually like.”

“…” (floored expression)

“Seriously though, I am not interested in your body. All I am really interested in is your soul. I just want to know your soul.”

At this point I was having severe difficulty trying to figure out whether I was more offended by him commenting on my supple midsection or creeped out about him seemingly wanting to consume my soul, but I decided it was time to hightail it home.




Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *