Double Standard
Last night as I was on my way home I was snookered into getting a drink (OK, OK they asked, I accepted) by three male friends. Of course I have always been more comfortable around men and so certain conversations that would normally be avoided around other women were indulged in. Sean (not the Sean from the last post, but a different one) offered a lengthy dissertation on why Irish girls can't give blow jobs. Another friend offered a story about working with an actress who had, ahem, hemorrhoids. And you're probably thinking "bunni what the hell is an intellectual like you doing with a bunch twits guffawing over hemorrhoids?" Well, I spend all day trying to bring enlightenment to others. I don't have a tv. So basically they are my version of mindless entertainment. Not that I don't have genuine affection for them, but they serve a purpose.
Two of male friends left leaving me with Charlie. Charlie is one of the few successful writer actors I know. He is quite short ( sound familiar) which has prompted some of my friends to call us "potentially the cutest little couple" emphasis of course on the little. ( I love how other people assume that I should be with a guy based on height specifications.) To be sure Charlie has large intense blue eyes and freckles. (The blue eyes always get me. Oh sure large brown eyes are sympathetic, but if you have those intoxicating blue eyes you just hit all those little Portnoy's Complaint can't be an aryan so let me molest them buttons in me.) Charlie also pulls off the urban hipster well dressed enough to be sexy, messy enough to show he doesn't put in effort, and just off kilter enough to know that he's straight look very well with just a touch of pimp daddy. ( Incidentally Charlie has been to this blog, so lord knows what will happen to me when he reads this description.)
So Charlie turns those large blue eyes on me and says, "Did I see you making out with some guy on your front stoop last weekend?"
Oh. The. Shame.
OK so I met a guy while I was playing pool who walked me home, and I kissed him good-night. And then discovering what a good kisser he was decided to continue kissing him on my front stoop. I'm sorry, I like kissing. And there are very few true masters of kissing. Even UDR could have used some improvement. But this guy had talent-perhaps he was a prodigy, who can say? And so I stood there, freezing my little ass off, kissing him until, I kid you not, the sun began to rise. I tend went inside crawled under my blankets and fell asleep.
Now considering some admissions I've made about my private life, sending a guy home after an hour of kissing is my version of being a puritan. But I did. I resisted temptation and sent the poor scoundrel home. (Incidentally he called me sunday night, and we set up a date for this friday which hopefully I will avoid fucking up.) But really kissing on a front doorstep, hardly incredibly slutty. Maybe not the best manners, but not slutty. If I lived in the country, I would have done it in a car, but I well it's NYC.
Anyway, I copped to it. Really not all that embarrassing until Charlie said, "Well at least you are getting some." Right, right because I would be freezing my ass off on my front stoop at 5 am if I was going to roll around in my bed with this guy. Charlie would not be dissuaded from believing that I had taken this guy to bed. Now having read my Paris posts Charlie should know that if I take a guy to bed, I admit it. Mistakes, I've made a few, but I admit to them.
So you tell me how kissing on a front doorstep de facto leads to "she's fucking him"? It would seem to me that if you are kissing on the front doorstep it indicates that you aren't getting some. I mean, christ, apparently I could have kissed him inside, been warmer, and avoided observation.
Damn it. This is what I get from the company of men.

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