I nod too. “Got it. That’s really all you needed to say, baby.”
And then those lips that I love break into a big happy bang-me-up-against-the-wall smile. “Okay, then.” She scrapes my bottom lip between her teeth before moving down my jaw and nibbling my neck.
Then she whispers, “You’re going to miss the game.”
I shred her underwear and get what’s left of her dress out of my way.
“Fuck the game.” That’s why God gave us DVR, right?
She giggles wickedly. And looks me straight in the eyes.
“I’d rather you fuck me.”
Have I mentioned how much I absolutely adore this woman?
I lean back just long enough to rip my sopping shirt over my head. “God, I love you.”
Kate giggles again. And in her best Han Solo impression, tells me, “I know.”
***
Okay, ladies—what have we learned from this example? Keep it simple. Be broad but don’t bog us down with specifics. It’ll only confuse us.
You’re an asshole.
You’re a slob.
Stop being that way.
Any of the above should work just fine.
As for Kate and me? We had our first living-together-in-sin fight. A milestone. Go us. Overall, I think it went pretty well. In fact, if all of our arguments end like this? I won’t complain at all.
No. Wait. I take that back.
If all of our arguments end like this?
I plan on complaining a whole hell of a lot.
What A Difference A Year Makes
Dates are important to women. Particularly to women in relationships.
There’s all the major holidays: Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter. There’s the birthday—obviously. Then there’s the day you met, the day you went out, the day you dropped the L-bomb, the day you got engaged, the day you got married…
I could go on, but I really don’t want to.
Because here’s the thing—guys don’t give a shit about any of that stuff. When we pretend to care? It’s only to avoid the verbal ass-whipping that’s sure to follow if we act like we don’t. For us, there’s only one day worth commemorating. One moment that deserves recognition. The ultimate holy day of obligation.
I like to call it—the Fuckiversary.
It’s the day you first sealed the deal. Bumped uglies. Hit the homerun.
Or in my case—the grand slam.
I mean, seriously, you meet new people every day; it’s a common occurrence. But unless you have a stellar record like yours truly, you don’t screw a new person every day. So for guys, the first time you did the deed is definitely a day to celebrate.
And for me and Kate? That day is today, kiddies. It’s huge. One year ago, the course of my life was altered forever. The foundation of my existence was shaken.
And my bed frame.
That’s why I’m in the kitchen right now. See me? Whistling, slicing fruit, and squaring a variety of cheeses? They’re for later. We’re going to need them—gotta keep the energy up. Because, in my book, you don’t just memorialize a fuckiversary. You top it. And considering the Olympic-worthy high bar that was set that night? I’ve got my work cut out for me.
But I’m always up for a challenge. Pun intended.
I don’t want you to think that fuckiversaries are just about humping like dogs either. Although, that position is always fun.
But no, it’s also about tradition. Sentiment.
Presents.
For a first wedding anniversary, gifts are supposed to be made of paper or some kind of useless crap like that. My gift is so much better—Santa’s elves can eat their hearts out. Kate is going to lose it when she sees it. Her jaw’s gonna hit the floor. And her panties will be right behind it.
The front door opens.
That would be the lucky lady herself.
I left work at noon—had preparations to make—so I haven’t seen her since lunch. I walk into the living room. And there she is—bag in hand, a mid-length trench coat wrapped around her scrumptious little body. Her hair is down and shiny. Spiked black heels encase the tasty toes I like to suck on like a hard candy.
She smiles.
And as with every other time—it hits me like a punch to the gut.
“Hello, Boyfriend.”
“Girlfriend.”
Sickening, aren’t we? There’s a garbage can in the corner if you feel the need to puke.
I stalk towards her. “How was your day, dear?”
She puts her bag down, but leaves the coat on. “It was…distracting.”
I’m about to ask her what that means, but she cuts me off.
“What are these?” She’s referring to the lighted candles and rose petals strewn about the place.
Depending on your lifestyle, there are different definitions of romance. For some it’s classical music, a foot massage, or satin sheets. Personally, I happen to think a blow job during a Yankee game is ideal. But Kate is a more frilly, girly, kind of romantic. So these are for her.
“Candles.”
She smirks. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. I mean what are they for?”