Sitting down or sitting up?

There is just so much information one can give over a fist date. There is just so much you can talk about without disclosing too much, without putting into jeopardy a second, more amiable encounter.
They had met randomly, as random as a dating web page can be. They had talked a few times, emailed some more. He was fascinated by her, she was curious about him. He called her ‘babe’, she thought that was funny.
They met at a public place, as it should be.
He took her to dinner, not too fancy, but expensive enough.
She thought about all of this as she gulped down her third whisky, as she asked all the men around if what he had said was in some way, normal.
She thought about how much of a gentleman he had been, she reminisced how she had stared at his soft hands, wondering what they would feel like on her naked body, how many fingers he could cram into her, how he would kiss, if he was loud or not. He ordered some wine and she bit her lower lip. She wasn’t too sure about anything, but she was ready to find things out.
Their first encounter had been a bit of a height misunderstanding. Never ever wear 12 inch heels when meeting someone for the first time, she though as she gazed down on him. They laughed it off, and now he was pouring her some wine.
The usual questions, the usual small talk. Nothing at all.
Sexual tension, she asked him about his sexual preferences. She’d downed half a bottle of wine plus an apple martini, he had twice as much as her, it seemed like the perfect moment to unleash their expectations.
He pushed away her questioning eyes with his thumb, with his laughter. It was not the time nor the place. It seemed like a date was really a date.
He stood up, went to the toilet.
She wondered what was going on, what would happen next, licking her lips with expectation, excited, wandering wonderment.
He took longer than expected and as he came back, sat down and said, ‘well you see, I pee sitting down… always’. Where that information came from or why, she had no idea.
A night later, as she was questioning every male in sight about the normalcy of this confession, she still had no clue why he had told her that.
She gaped at him, didn’t know what to respond, and told him that well, she knew how to not touch the seat, she had traveled a lot, and was rather flexible… so she could pee standing up.
Needles to say, she didn’t see him again, although a friend did say that she would never encounter the ‘toilet seat down’ problem with a guy like that…
She decided she didn’t want to know more, and still today, she asks her male friends if men do really pee sitting down… the only normal situations she has gotten for this seating arrangement to be accepted has been, too much alcohol, too much lack of sleep, or too sick.
No, her curiosity was great, but not as big as to let herself be taken on a second date to find out what other bathroom etiquette he could spring on her. And so the blind date and the bathroom preferences end with two lonely souls going to the w.c. by themselves without sharing their toilet paper exploits.

the park and a bag

Two gin tonics. Three beers. Four whisky shots, Jameson, of course. I think that was it. His conversation? I don’t remember much of it. I am sure he must have said something interesting. It must have been so, if not, why did I stay absorbed with his gaze for so many hours?
Poetry was not a subject, perhaps movies where, the way the screen penetrates your body, letting it caress you with other people’s bodies, with sighs that are not your own. Perhaps between one bar and the next (yes, I do think we did more than one, no, I am sure of it, perhaps three or four). The first bar was kind of ‘wanna be more than we really are’, and we talked about nothing at all, for some reason he kept avoiding my eyes, as if he didn’t want to say too much to them.
The second bar was empty, or too full. One or the other. In retrospect its kind of hard to think, to remember how things were. In the glaze of an alcohol filled night, all is not as it appears.
The walk back, back where? I guess at that point in the wee hours of the morning I did have an intention as of to where I was going. I guess.
The walk back to wherever I was really going went thru a park. I guess we had kissed at that point. I believe we had.
Why did I not lead him to my hotel is beyond me, I guess at that moment when he was sticking his hands down my pants and kissing me the grass looked more enticing, and it was nearer. So I threw him on to the grass and we rolled around.
He bit my neck, my ears, I screamed with pain and pleasure, I licked his lips, his eyelids, his hands up my shirt, my nipples as hard as his cock, his tongue in my ear, his middle finger down my navel and further down, my hand on his ass, grabbing. Me on top, forcing him to lick me, to kiss me, my hands over him, his hands over me.
He’s on top now, we are rolling around in a dewy grass with the smog glazed moon shining on our alcohol filled breaths. His hands pull my hair so that I am forced to stick my breasts out, he bites them, I bite him. We roll around.
Hours go by, breaths intertwine.
Suddenly we get up, as lovely as the grass is, a bed seems like a better place to get naked.
My earings are gone, he bit them off.
My bag is gone too. Rolling around and keeping an eye on a bag don’t go together. Who would exploit sexual concentration on a park to pick pocket a bag?
I guess I learnt my lesson well. Don’t roll around on the grass with too much alcohol. Or, if you do, don’t take a bag with you.