No, You Can't Have My Number. Ok, It's 212...

I think I've mentioned it before, but guys don't often ask for my number. Or out either, but that's a different issue...something about my body language...The first time I was about 21 and was so surprised I acted like an ass. Hmmm...I think the next one was during a trip abroad. Two actually. Two men from different countries, with little to no knowledge of English, both asked me for my number within an hour of one another. Apparently Europeans have no problem with my body language. Next was the cute, young one with an accent.

A few weeks ago, I had my sixth asking. Heh. My friends and I were at a bar and he randomly came over a few times to participate in the conversation we were having. The third time he came over, he chatted for a bit before moving his position to stand next to me. I, having consumed as many alcoholic beverages my body allows, was a little toasted. Here's a reinactment, as accurate as my addled mind can replay:

Him: so...here's the part of the evening where I completely embarass myself and ask for your number.
QV: um...
Him: in front of all these people-
QV: well...
Him: let's just say I am definitely intrigued.
QV: (intrigued?) I don't really give out my number. But I'll give you my email address. (what? what am I saying?)
Him: ok here. (hands me his phone. I type in my address and give it back. He hands it back to me.) I'm sorry, but you'll have to give me your number. It won't save unless you do.
QV: ok. (what? what am I saying?)

Unable to think straight, I typed in my real number. I didn't want to give it to him. But I did.

And here's the kicker.

He never called.

Or wrote.

So why did he ask?

Yes, yes, I am glad he didn't because if I'm being honest I probably would have blown him off. I was drunk and not really acting like myself. Or rather I should say, acting like a louder, more self-involved self. The only thing I can remember about him is that ridiculousness of a conversation above. And specifically the word intrigued. I guess he just wasn't intrigued enough after the hangover finally passed.

So the point of the story is, if you ever meet me and want my number, hand me a vodka cranberry and tell me your phone won't save unless I give it to you. Apparently I'm a sure thing. And if you call and I actually answer, you must be.

A Bedtime Story

I cringe whenever I hear someone say, "get laid". I'd almost rather hear "get f***ed". Almost. So it would go without saying that you'd never hear me say, "I need to get laid". However, lately I'm kinda thinking...I need to get laid. uuueeeehhh.

I had a dream in which my virginity played the lead. Very strange. It began with a large group of friends driving me somewhere. There were all kinds of blankets and bedding around so I figured it was going to be a big camp out sleep over. We pulled into what looked like a defunct, or at least closed for the season, amusement park. It was dark outside and I started to feel creeped out. Because I was with friends though (none of who had familiar real world faces) I tried to see it as an adventure.

We parked near two lines of trees leading up to a stage. They began to set up beds under the trees which I thought was odd but hell, it was an adventure, right? I walked over to someone setting up their bed and some other friends pulled me away. They lead me toward the stage on which I could now see was a canopy bed. Someone was draping material over the canopy to enclose it. Privacy in a public place I suppose. Even my dreams are ironic.


"Your first time has to be special!" someone said. And then I realized all the chatter that had been going on was about me.

Apparently losing my virginity was the evening's entertainment. Thing was, I never got the feeling they actually wanted to watch, they all just wanted it to happen. They set it all up to make it special.

Weird.