Despite the morbidly morose state I found myself in over my four-legged loss not even an hour earlier, by the time we pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building, I was smiling ear to ear and on cloud nine. Caught up completely in the euphoric anticipation of what the rest of the night might hold, an all-consuming elation overpowered my every thought and emotion.

 

I was taking a girl home with me for the first time, and it felt like I was finally on the cusp of living the romantic fairy tale I’d always dreamt of. I knew the doubt would inevitably creep back in at some point, however, and as she pulled into a parking space, I made a conscious effort to let go of my every doubt and denial of her sincerity and recognize the proof she’d already displayed in her pudding.

 

As she killed the engine, I made a swift exit and ran around to the driver’s side, making sure I didn’t miss an opportunity to be a true gentleman. She grabbed my hand and stepped out as I opened the door, playing along effortlessly with an elegant “Why, thank you, kind sir!” as she gracefully pulled herself up and out of the low-set vehicle. Once on her feet, she handed me my car keys in one hand with a wink and a smile and maintained a tight grasp of my hand with the other.

 

 

That Nose Aura

We continued hand-in-hand towards the front door as old man Doubt once again began to creep back into my conscience and make a stir. I started to fixate on the thought that I was taking Piper to my home—and that it was the closest I’d ever been to having a girlfriend.

 

 

I led Piper through the halls and up the stairs as I squeezed her hand as hard as I could. My demons were out in full force, and I put every ounce of my willpower into deriving some solace from the tender warmth of her hand entangled with mine, and attempted to muster a shred of confidence. By the time we reached the front door to my humble abode, my level of gumption was in dire straits, and the absolute last thing on my mind was what, exactly, was behind that door.

 

 

Second Date: Apartment 10, Party of Two

I gently unwrapped my hand from Piper’s and unlocked the door, flinging it wide open and unwittingly pulling back the curtain on the most positively repugnant one-bedroom, one-bath cesspool that was my living space in all its depression-laden shame. Nearly every square inch of the foreground directly visible from the doorway was chaotically cluttered with a widespread array of various empty water bottles, food wrappers, and soda cans, and a litany of stray pieces of laundry were scattered throughout like a tornado had just been through.

 

We each walked in a few steps as I closed the door behind us, and an even more odious spectacle came into view. In the direction of the kitchen to the left, dirty dishes and silverware were stacked up in the sink. Directly ahead lay the living room, where countless random books and plastic video game, DVD, and Blu-Ray cases lay scattered throughout, and all manner of various cords and plugs lay visible in nearly every direction, both loose and plugged in.

 

 

Oscar Charlie Delta

The place was a certified disaster, and a passing thought crossed my mind that now she would never believe me when I told her I had OCD. Assuming, that is, that she was just as clueless about the debilitating disorder as most of the normies—the type of uneducated fools who use things like “You’re so OCD!” as a term of endearment for someone who likes to have their things neat and organized. Tragically these cretinous buffoons make up the better part of the population, and statistically I had to only assume that Piper was tragically among them.

 

I know there are also those on the opposite end of the spectrum as well who are well educated in the nuances of anxiety disorders and will go out of their way to condemn and chastise any ignoramus who likes to use the taxing disorder as a buzzword. Personally, however, I’ve always subscribed to the notion that ignorance truly is bliss and have never let their unenlightenment get my panties in a bunch. Because really, someone who wants to use the bane of my existence as a descriptive noun likely has no more malice in them than a sheltered white kid from the suburbs who goes to the hood and starts talking jive and using the n-word like their name is Dolemite. They don’t understand the weight behind what they’re saying; they just want to sound clever.

 

Anyone familiar with the bloodcurdling disease will tell you OCD is not merely about being clean and tidy, not in the slightest. OCD is getting up at two in the morning on a school night to pee, only to get so caught up washing your hands after that you lose all sense of time. It’s getting so completely lost in the suds and water and routine that you end up washing your hands until the sun comes up and your hands have started bleeding, and then you wash some more. It’s being miserable the rest of that day because you lost yet another almost entire night’s worth of sleep to the crippling dual demons you battle constantly, obsessions and compulsions.

OCD is not preferring that the pictures on your wall are hung parallel to the floor and ceiling; OCD is calling in to your retail job for the day because your intrusive, unwanted thoughts are holding you hostage. It’s being mortified at the thought of going to work and coming across any customers that are not white, straight, able-bodied, and male because you’re so morbidly petrified of what you are capable of saying and doing. On the bad days, when you’re at work and come face-to-face with anyone that’s different, it’s a loud, obnoxious, unrelenting voice in your head telling you to call these people a slur, look directly at their cleavage, or do or say any other nasty, horrible, or inappropriate thing that your intrusive, unwanted thoughts tell you to. It’s being able to keep these thoughts at bay 99 times out of 100 when you’re out in public, but on the rare occasion they make themselves known to you, every interaction becomes an exasperating battle of fighting tooth-and-nail to maintain your sanity.

 

OCD is not feeling like you need to sort your laundry by color and type; OCD is lying on the bathroom floor at 3 in the morning sobbing your eyes out because you just woke up and realized when you were on the phone with your mother earlier that day you forgot to tell her you loved her, and now you believe with every fiber of your being that she’s going to die in her sleep because of it. It’s being unable to call her now and say it because you’d sound crazy and she’d get mad at you for waking her up for no reason. It’s being stuck on the ground getting slowly and excruciatingly tortured by your brain for hours and hours wondering if your mom is still alive until it gets to be a reasonable time to call her and make certain she is.

 

OCD is not being a stickler about making sure your trash and recycling are kept separate; OCD is spending your entire life meticulously, painstakingly keeping every single birthday, Christmas, graduation, thank you, and every other type of card you’ve ever received from anyone in a safe place where you can check and make sure they’re still there from time to time. It’s going to great lengths to ensure you get every single one accounted for and that you’ve gotten every birthday and Christmas card from every year of your life, because if you lose track of just one of them, it will veraciously, beyond a shadow of a doubt, mean you’re an ungrateful, selfish, conceited, and just all-around awful piece of trash who doesn’t deserve the friends and family you have, and they all wish you’d just die. In short, OCD is not cute or trendy. OCD is clean, OCD is messy, OCD is agonizing, OCD is hell, OCD is bad and OCD is good. OCD is everything, because obsessions and compulsions can be anything your head tells you to do or worry about. Nothing about it universal.

I was caught off-guard by the ghastly mess and became instantly consumed with shame and embarrassment, even in spite of Piper’s graciousness. I wanted to crawl into a dank hole and die, but Piper picked up on this almost immediately. She dropped her arms back down to her sides and slightly jerked her head back to the right and upward in a sly gesture, letting me know to follow her, all the while maintaining her giant, welcoming smile. Just as I snapped out of my perplexed funk and began to follow Piper into the living room, Jack came running up to me right on cue from wherever he had been napping and greeted me with a chorus of hearty, rhythmic meows while he dished out affectionate head-rubs against my calves.

 

 

My Jackie Boy

I thanked God for the distraction, bent over, and started to caress my elderly feline friend vigorously with both hands as his motorboating purrs intensified to my delight. It was far too soon in the relationship to let Piper hear my high-pitched baby-talk voice I liked to use with my animals, so I refrained from greeting him verbally. “This is Jack!” I said in Piper’s direction as I continued my show of tender adoration towards the creature that had lived with me, slept with me, played with me, been my best friend, and kept me from the brink of lunacy and stark, insufferable solitude for the last 8 years.

 

“Ohhh, he’s darling!” She said as she walked over and hunched down to greet him as well. As she scratched my senior kitty under the chin and behind his ears, she added, “Awww! I love cats!”

 

Pip was always supposed to be the pet that lived with me when I moved into my apartment, now 12 years ago, but when she turned out to be too chubby to meet the 30-pound pet weight limit of my apartment building, Jack became my hastily acquired consolation prize. Already an adult, I picked out the first cat I came across and got him as quickly as possible to ensure I didn’t have to endure many nights at the apartment alone. And, while Jack didn’t start out as my first choice, in time I bonded with him unlike I’d ever bonded with another creature, and he turned out to be one of my dearest and most beloved pets I’ve ever had.

“I’ve had him for almost ten years,” I said.

 

“He’s sooo sweet.”

 

“Yeah, he mostly just spends all day going from place to place taking naps.” As distressed as I was about inadvertently exposing Piper to my slum of an apartment, the sight of her interacting with my Jack was both a sight for sore eyes and a huge relief, as I simply could never be with a woman who didn’t adore animals. I closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and managed to create at least a facade of confidence. Satisfied with his welcome, Jack walked off, and I continued following Piper towards the couch. “Welcome to my apartment! Sorry, it’s a little bit messy,” I attempted to say as we walked, but without enough tenacity to project my voice properly, my hushed words trailed off as they came out. Piper continued to step over the various trash and obstacles littered throughout and then stopped in her tracks just before we reached the sofa. She looked up at something on the wall next to it, and her eyes became fixated on it.

 

 

Remnants of a Scandalous Youth

I glanced over to see what could have caught her eye and landed on yet another major oversight in bringing her there. At about eye-level on the otherwise empty white wall next to the couch, two black and white framed portraits hung beside each other prominently. I was once again struck speechless as I looked with fresh eyes at the pair of 8.5″ x 11″ matted photos with thick black frames I had hung there proudly a long time ago but hadn’t given a second thought for many years.

Milla Jovovich’s grayscale likeness was the subject of the left image, and Cara Delevigne’s was the subject of the right. Each image was hand-autographed, and they both depicted their subject standing in the frame nude, cropped from the waist up. Each woman was posed with their left arm braced against their chest, covering up one of their breasts, and holding their hands up to their chin as they propped up their heads. Each muse stared ahead seductively as the moody lighting of their stage created contrasting shadows highlighting the contours of their form. The uncovered breasts would have been left exposed, except that I had haphazardly placed a small bit of masking tape just about the size of a nip strategically over each of them.

 

Time froze, and my mind went wild, running through the possibilities of what might happen now that she’d seen the true depths of my depravity. Between the filth on the floor and the filth on the wall, I was beginning to doubt she’d stay another minute. The guy I wanted Piper to see me as was the complete opposite of the type who would keep these scandalous images on their walls so audaciously, and when I saw her gazing up at them, there was no doubt in my mind that it was game over.

 

The Milla and Cara portraits were remnants of a secretive, bygone era in my youth that I spent cutting my teeth in some of the seedier aspects of life and indulging in my lesser desires. Granted, I did use much more restraint than most in how much I allowed myself to indulge in these desires, but shamefully I indulged in them nonetheless. Fresh out of high school was the first time I saw myself as a real, full-fledged adult “man,” but I was about as experienced as an unborn fetus compared to everyone else I graduated with when it came to the naughty stuff.

Everyone I knew was out raw-dogging randoms, choking their chickens, making sweet love, chugging brewskis, and smoking doobies, but I had never kissed, cuddled, fornicated, watched or looked at porn, jerked it, smoked anything, drunk any alcohol, or even Google image searched anything racy. The only real glimpses of degeneracy or sex I had were in what I saw in the various R-rated films I frequented. I had all the same urges, cravings, and curiosities but had never acted on any of them, and by that point they were eating me alive.

 

Not only was I inexperienced, but my sexual education was completely botched by both my parents and my school as well, and the not knowing drove both my curiosity and interest levels through the roof. I may have been technically old enough to engage in sexual activity with adult women, but I still didn’t have the slightest clue what a woman’s clitoris was; for all I knew a vulva was a Swedish luxury vehicle, and I didn’t even know about the third hole yet.

 

By the time I graduated, I was not only hornier, more curious, and more clueless than anyone, but because now that I was officially a man, I thought that it not only gave me the right to finally give in to some of my lesser desires, but that I kind of owed it to myself to do so. I wanted to acclimate just a tad closer to my peer’s level of degeneracy and experience the world just a little bit more like everyone else was. The only question was where I would start.

 

 

Adventures in Raunch

Although I decided I wanted to dip my toes into the pool of sin, that didn’t mean I wanted to give myself carte blanche to cut loose and start doing unhinged things like become a regular at local orgies, jack it until my one arm got ultra buff, subscribe to Playboy, smoke crack, or start frequenting strip clubs. I still wanted to retain a bit of my innocence and keep away from doing things I considered to be TOO naughty, like watching legitimate porn, touching my myself, or anything else that might weigh too heavy on my conscience or make me lose myself in the world of flesh and fudging. It was bad enough I had to touch it every time I went to the bathroom, the last thing I wanted was to touch it more. I wanted to pop my cherry, but I wanted to show some self-restraint and maintain a bit of dignity while doing so.

 

After much deliberation over what type of debauchery I would choose to engage in that would adhere to these guidelines, I landed on the idea of buying and watching an NC-17-rated film. I saw it as the best of both worlds, because I’d get to see much of the naughty stuff, but it was still rated by the Motion Picture Association and therefore could technically be classified as just a regular film and not a porno, allowing me not to lose any sleep over viewing it.

 

Upon further research into the NC-17 film market, I discovered that only a handful of NC-17 films even existed because no theater wanted to show a movie with that rating, so 99% of anyone whose film earned it from the MPA made the artistically criminal decision to cut out enough of the naughty stuff to qualify for a much more marketable “R” rating. After browsing through the select few NC-17 films that existed, I landed on the extended cut of the 1979 Malcolm McDowell period drama, Caligula. All I knew about the film when I ordered it was that there was a ton of nudity and it took place in ancient Rome. As a randy young lad, I could get behind the nudity, and since I’d been obsessed with Roman gladiators since primary school, it seemed the natural choice. When I started to watch it, however, I quickly came to the realization that I may not want to see what I thought I wanted to see when it came to smut.

Right from the jump, the film was littered with real, unsimulated sex scenes, and just seeing all the thrusting and jerking and penetration made me nauseous. It was the first time I’d witnessed real sex, and seeing it made me feel like I’d be happy if it was my last. I could hardly watch the cunnilingus and fellatio being depicted for more than a few seconds, and after the start of an onscreen rape, I drew the line and ejected the disc. I absolutely hated myself for watching part of this loathsome film, and what was supposed to be sexual gratification and curious satisfaction instead made me feel atrocious and despicable. The experience of Caligula (1979) was my baptism by fire into the world of all things naughty, and it made me rethink all my future forays into filth. In the years following, I tried various other outlets of salacious escapism and, over time, came into my own and found milder, more innocent acts of debauchery I could partake in that were more my speed. (Look forward to The Female Enigma Serial if you would like an unflinching, comprehensive account of all of these pseudo-sexual exploits of mine.)

 

 

Deviant Decor

Another example of my ventures dabbling in the seedy underbelly of the human experience takes place shortly after I started attending technical college out of high school and grew a desire to purchase some art. I commuted to and from campus every day and still lived in my childhood bedroom at my parents’s house. Although it was the first time in my life I truly felt like an adult, the walls of my room were still covered with fanfare for infantile things I grew up with, like 300 (2006), Superbad (2007), and Grand Theft Auto. I still adored these things but felt strongly that the walls of my living space needed to be adorned with more classy and mature things more befitting of my newfound adulthood.

 

When it came to determining just what, exactly, type of mature, classy decor this new chapter of my life called for, my first unhinged and immediate thought was “tasteful artistic female nudity.” Be it sculpture, poster, print, or painting, I adopted the mindset of an artist that the female form is the chef d’oeuvre of art and beauty, and to put it on display in your home is the highest form of class. I know now, of course, that doing so is more often than not the epitome of sleaze, but at the time nearly my every thought was heavily influenced by my horny hormones. The only question left was who I wanted to get art of. A model, maybe? Actress? A non-specific, unnamed subject?

 

As an Aspie through and through, I’ve always had a select group of famous people I consider to be “special interests”, so it wasn’t a hard question. These are individuals I’ve taken a strong liking to or even become obsessed with for one reason or another. Obsessed, meaning that I feel like I could be best friends with them, I read about them, I watch all their movies and listen to all their songs, and I keep tabs on their achievements and involvement with new projects. There are a few men included in my select group of special interests, like Marshall Mathers and Howard Hughes, that I admire for their passion and skill, but most of them are women that I find particularly attractive.

 

Because of this backlog of women I’m obsessed with, there was no hesitation in my response when I asked myself who I might want art pieces of in my room. My first thought was of my first female obsession I ever had: Milla Jovovich. Seeing her few non-sexual nude scenes in The Fifth Element (1997) was both what made me realize I was attracted to women in the first place and was what made me notice that all older females had bulbous meat sacks hanging from their chests.

Fortunately for me, Milla is a fashion model in addition to an actress, and she has done a litany of nude art photos over the years. My second subject came just as swiftly: Cara Delevigne. At the time she and her signature eyebrows were what I considered the personification of gorgeous and exactly what I wanted on display in my room. And, once again, I had success when I found she’d done some nude modeling in the past as well. I had figured out who I wanted to get art from; the only problem was that I was starting to develop second thoughts about the venture altogether.

 

It became clear hanging framed photos would be the best avenue to go as far as mediums, and after some extensive browsing, I came across various nude or partially nude photos of both women that would be easy enough to buy prints of and plaster on my wall, but I began to doubt the logistics of having photos of naked women on prominent display in my bedroom. Even with the hormones factored in, I couldn’t get over how it would make me look with two naked women on display for everyone that entered my room. Determining that it would be too trashy and make everyone think I was a womanizing piece of shite, I abandoned the idea for a while. Just as quickly as I’d put it out of my mind, however, it came back in when I came up with an ingenious caveat to the idea that might change everything: autographs!

 

I thought that if I could find nude photos of these two lovely dames that were hand-autographed by their subjects, it would make anyone who saw them much more willing to see it in a good light, because for all they knew, I only had it on display for the autographs, not the tiddies. And, maybe I just wanted their autographs on anything I could get my hands on, and I just happened to get them on nude photos through no fault of my own.

 

After a bit more browsing through hundreds of auction pages on eBay, I eventually came across a photo of each girl, partially nude and hand-autographed. I promptly bid on and won auctions for each print, and as I awaited their arrival in the post, I was thrilled that no one would be able to deny my impeccable class. By the time they arrived, however, I was once again filled with second thoughts and regret.

 

I opened the parcels, uncovered the prints, and felt like a total dirtbag. I thought everyone would see me as the type of common backwoods cur that would hang this sort of thing up in their home. Initially I wanted to throw them away, but after reminding myself that I paid 150 dollars each for them and used up my every last cent, there would be no chance in heck I was going to do anything but display them both proudly. Looking at them again, I still just couldn’t get past the exposed nipples. I couldn’t have people seeing exposed nips on my walls, and with no other option, I strategically placed two bits of masking tape over each of them, and Bob’s my uncle, it was safe to put them up! 

 

 

Unconditional Refuge

By that night with Piper, my most egregiously scandalous days were by and large through, and for years I’d lived my life without giving a single thought to the Milla and Cara shrine beside my couch. Piper’s eyes remained fixed on the bare duo, and I thought it was surely over. Now that she knew what a dirty little birdie I was, she was going to bail; I had no doubt. But just as the tears of impending calamity began to press against my eyes, she turned to me, smiled, and said, “Hey, I know her! Wasn’t she in that old sci-fi movie with Bruce Willis? That’s a good movie! … What was it… Oh, oh! The Fifth Element!”

 

She’d actually seen the movie that introduced me to the female form—I would have been thrilled if I wasn’t so caught off guard by her complete nonchalance. At this point I was so confused why seeing these photos wasn’t becoming the catastrophe I assumed it’d be, and we stood there for a few more seconds. My knee-jerk reaction was to apologize, but before I could get any words out, Piper turned to me and shushed my mouth by putting her two fingers on my lips.

 

She smiled and said very matter-of-factly, “Babe,” with a pouty yet caring expression on her face, “I’m here.” I’m with you. Nothing else matters. Let go of your sorries and just relax. We have all night!” She dropped her fingers from my lips and turned her back to me as she walked over to the far left side of the couch and sat down. I marveled, once again, at her impeccable ability to read my mind. I stood there for another second until she started to pat her thighs vigorously with her hands like I did when I wanted my cat or dog to come sit on my lap.

 

I looked over, and she now had a big, seductive smile on her face, and was staring directly at me. I knew exactly what was happening, but I told myself it wasn’t what it was. I did my best to shake off the shellshock from the smutty curveball I just so narrowly avoided, walked over and carefully sat down towards the middle of the couch, a few feet to the right of Piper.

 

 

Hesitant Nirvana

She knew I’d never take the hint, and without wasting a second, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me over until I was sitting directly beside her. I refused to look her in the eye, but she just kept going. She grabbed my left shoulder and gently tugged it downward in her direction. She continued to pull until I was lying down on the couch completely, and my head was resting on her lap. “Please, go on,” she whispered delicately, as if nothing had just happened—as if she hadn’t just fulfilled one of my deepest, most profound desires by instigating a cuddle. The warmth of her supple thighs stoked embers against my unsullied virgin cheek, and the sheer ecstasy of feeling her flesh against mine was enough to render me momentarily speechless.

 

I’d been effectively muted by her touch alone, but my close proximity to the saucy maiden meant that this was just the beginning of her assault on my senses. After another brief instant, her scent had begun to permeate deep inside my nostrils, setting them aflame with the spellbindingly sweet ambrosial fragrance imbued within her person. It was a magical scent of the same ilk that I imagined lilac and gooseberries might smell like, and one I would soon become addicted to.

 

A strikingly pleasant aroma I’d only ever managed to catch hints of near her in the past, with my head now wedged between her perfectly toned hams the heady floral incense overwhelmed my faculties and expelled a lingering fruity essence that was both outward and palpable, yet not tawdry or overbearing. A majestic perfume truly befitting a woman of her stature, the intoxicating aroma fast became synonymous with and inseparable from my time with Piper. Then, something happened. It all started to fall apart.

 

The sweet scent had transported me to some sort of efflorescent nirvana one second, but my demons abruptly jerked me right back out of it the next. Suddenly, Piper’s flesh on my cheek felt wrong. I immediately flung myself back up into a sitting position and told her I was sorry. For what, exactly, I didn’t know, but it was the first thought I had after an all-consuming wave of uncertainty and inferiority overtook my entire body.

 

I wanted the cuddle I just interrupted more than anything in the world, but my preceding decades of grating social inactivity and destitution leading up to that night crept into my consciousness and began to haunt me and introduce doubt. I had conditioned myself so well over the years not to get my hopes up with anything having anything to do with girls that even with my head literally atop her vagine, I failed to read the writing on the wall written in giant, neon letters. For my entire adult life I’d told myself constantly and relentlessly that no girl would ever want anything to do with me, and after all those years it became something I actually believed with every ounce of my being.

 

Piper looked at me, confounded by my headlong denial of her good-natured benevolence. “What’s wrong, babe!?” I chose not to respond verbally and instead sat there and looked back at her the best I could as an all-out war between my conflicting thoughts raged on in my head.

 

“She’s only cuddling with me because she feels sorry for me.” “I don’t deserve this, and I’m taking advantage of her kind nature.” “This is nothing but pity; she’d never cuddle me in a million years if I hadn’t just cried my body weight in tears right in front of her.” “It may look like she likes me, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I still don’t deserve to be in the same room as her.” “She’s too pretty and kind for me. She’s too pretty and kind for me. She’s too pretty and kind for me.” “Look at her. I’m clearly misreading her intent.”

 

After a few seconds I had completely lost myself in my thoughts and was no longer in that room with Piper. I had been dragged far away by the powerful current of my self-loathing. The things I was telling myself now were far bigger stretches of the imagination to believe than the thought she wanted to be with me, but honestly, I think even if she climbed onto my lap right then and there, started grinding on my jock, called me “Daddy,” and took off her shirt, I’d still find a way to tell myself it wasn’t what it looked like.

 

We sat there for a bit in silence, and although I hadn’t said a single word, Piper somehow understood completely what was happening. “It’s okay, babe. Come here…” She smiled and said with a big, bold, beautiful, full-toothed, and compassionate smile, and once again grabbed my arm and pulled down until my head was on her lap again. I resisted the entire time, but she insisted. When my head hit her lap again, I stopped. I told myself this was what I’d wanted my entire life, and I wasn’t going to ruin it now. I took yet another deep breath and tried to get back to where I left off: I was cuddling, and I couldn’t believe it. Unable to speak or move, I was in shock. “Okay, let’s try this again, babe. Tell me what’s going on.”

 

As I lay there completely paralyzed in shock at the impromptu arrival of my first body-on-body canoodling, which I had wanted more than anything for as long as I could remember, a deafening silence fell over the room as Piper waited for my reply. Rather than my usual modus operandi of rushing to fill the hushed lull with a hasty, half-baked retort, however, I closed my eyes and let myself melt even deeper into Piper’s muffin box as I forced myself to let my demons go and take some time to simply revel in my newfound nirvana.

Putting everything I had into freeing myself from all doubt, I was finally back in the moment. I couldn’t have been more relieved. “Oh sweet Jesus,” I thought to myself, “I’M FOOKING CUDDLING!!!” Suddenly I heard trumpets begin to sound from the heavens, angels started to sing, my heart sank into my stomach, my toes tingled, and my mind imploded at the revelation. As I lay there on her lap and stared out into my disaster of a living room, I closed my eyes and tried to take it all in.

 

I thought of where I was at in that exact moment in time, who I was with, what I was doing, what was going on, and what it meant to me. I had no idea where life was taking me after that night, but no matter how bad or how good things got, I never wanted to forget anything about that moment or ever take anything about it for granted. I do from time to time for big moments in my life in an effort to preserve and remember, and I like to think it helps.

 

I was jostled out of my thought process when I started to feel Piper’s fingers begin to play with my overgrown, swirly, black, coffee-tinted Irish mane on the side of my head facing her, and she probed one more time. “What’s goin’ on, babe? … Talk to me!” I opened my eyes, and all the reality and excitement and anxiety of being there on my couch with my dream girl came rushing back to me. I couldn’t help but crack a smile at her fiddling, and nervous but not willing to forget what was at stake for a single second, I was finally ready to talk.

 

 

The Pipsqueak Story

I started to tell Piper about Pip and what that chubby Boston meant to me. I went over my attempted suicide senior year and how my mother’s final desperate act in trying to make me happy was to let me get a dog. I noticed at this point that she stopped twirling my hair around her finger, and I went on. I continued to tell her about how Pip had been there for me through some of the hardest times in my life and how I couldn’t have made it through those tumultuous years without her. I recalled how she was sometimes mean to both humans and animals she didn’t know and how we worked with her regularly for 12 years to try to improve her temperament. How we took her to puppy training classes and gave her calming chews, but nothing worked.

 

As I began to tell her how about the many times my parents said they regretted getting her and the many times they thought about giving her back, I started to get choked up again about the loss. I couldn’t help but get distressed when talking about the negative aspects of Pip, as I remained tormented by the thought of what I could have done differently for her. I wiped my eyes a bit and continued on about how I snuggled with her every night until I had to go and live in the dorms when I went to state university.

 

When I started to discuss the end, and how Pip developed problems with her front leg, and how she walked with a limp for the last few years, I couldn’t help but picture the weak, feeble-bodied shell of her former self my baby had become towards the end. I was once again on the verge of losing it but managed to pull through without the waterworks going off again. I continued to tell Piper about how her health had started to drastically decline about a month earlier and how she eventually died a couple of days ago. I added that even though she meant the world to me, I hadn’t been able to cry a single tear about it until that night. 

 

“Oh, babe. Oh, babe. I am so sorry, babe…” she said in passing, as I felt her begin to somberly caress my hair in short, mournful, compassionate strokes. 

 

“Thanks…” I said, also in passing, and in finishing, I told her about how Pip was infamous for her epic flatulence and the story of how I discovered cauliflower made her toot up a storm. I explained how seeing the cauliflower appetizer on the menu at the restaurant reminded me of that story and how, for whatever reason, it triggered something in me that got me to not just cry about it but weep like a baby.

 

After a brief pause, I turned my head and looked up at Piper, unintentionally bringing my direct line of sight to the underside of her bountiful bosoms, framed perfectly by her amber locks hanging down from either side of her chest. Just as I was about to dart my eyes away, our eyes met for a millisecond just between her dirty pillows. I saw her give me the most tender, melancholic smile n’ stare I’d ever beheld, and just as I quickly looked away and laid my head back down, she began to speak.

 

“Mullarkey… God. I’m sorry… I am so sorry.”

 

“Thank you, Piper. Thank you so, so much for letting me talk to you about it. It meant a lot,” I replied cordially as I once again regained full control of my emotional demeanor and made a conscious choice not to lift my head once I did, wanting to keep it perched atop her glorious ham hocks for as long as she’d allow. The cuddles were sublime, the conversation was unmatched, but I couldn’t help but notice it was starting to get late.

 

I would have been more than happy to sit there on the couch with her for months, but I assumed she probably didn’t want to stay much longer. Before I set out on the date that day, I would have never imagined in my wildest dreams that I’d get to cuddle before the night was through. But now that I did, I didn’t dare allow myself to hope for anything more than that. I told myself what I got was more than I’d ever gotten, so it was more than enough, and I better not push it. Ready to get up and drive Piper home and then come back and spend the rest of the night alone with Jack, I was instead surprised to hear Piper continue to speak.

 

 

User Number Two Has Entered the Chat

“I’ve had some pets over the years too, but never a dog. I used to love dogs and wanted one more than anything when I was little. But, as much as I begged and pleaded with my parents, they never let me get one. They always told me I wasn’t responsible enough yet, but maybe one day when I was older we could get one. Then, when I was around 7…” I turned my head up at her again, and in total disbelief I watched her tell me this story. I could feel the weight behind her every word, and suddenly I knew what she was doing. I couldn’t believe it.

 

I immediately sprung up from my cozy spot on Piper’s lap and shouted, “STOP!”, silencing her mid-sentence. I re-adjusted myself on the couch and scooted right beside her, and I did my best to look her in the eye as much as I could. She was reciprocating the conversation back to me, and for me, this was the ultimate show of decency. I uncluttered my mind and got ready to pay close attention to every word she was about to say. “Okay, sorry, go on!”

 

As many countless times as I’d spilled my guts out to someone in my lifetime and bared my heart and soul to them, almost none of them ever showed me enough respect to do the same. Whether it was a teacher, guidance counselor, girl on AOL or MSN, fake friend, psychologist, or psychiatrist, the most any of them ever did when I dug down real deep and gave them a glimpse into my world was just listen, nod, tell me how sorry they were, and give me suggestions on how to deal with it.

 

Sometimes you don’t need answers; all you need is someone to try to relate to you, tell you something personal about themselves in return, and show you they know how you feel. Piper was doing just that, and I got almost as giddy as I did about snuggling. In a way, her doing this almost meant more to me than the glorious cuddle she’d just bestowed upon me earlier. Not wanting to squander this precious privilege she was giving me or seem ungrateful, I leaned in as she continued.

“One time, when I was 7 years old, my neighbor’s big, mean, nasty mixed breed got loose while I was playing outside.” She went on to tell me about how the nasty dog went into her yard and attacked her. It bit her arm badly and didn’t get off of her until her dad heard what was happening and came and got it off of her. I watched her eyes as her voice started to shake. She told me after that day she didn’t want a dog anymore but had instead become afraid of them—but that wasn’t even the worst part. She told me how, after that, her parents started to pressure the neighbor to put the dog down with the threat that they’d sue them over the attack if they didn’t.

 

In the end they put the dog down for what it did to Piper. She said even if she didn’t love dogs, the last thing she wanted was for an animal to lose their life over her; she just wanted them to start tying it up. So, she came out of the experience not only with a fear of dogs but also with a guilty conscience over the dog she feels died because of her. After a brief pause, she continued to tell me that over the years since then her family has had a rabbit and a cat, but at the moment they don’t have any pets. She said even though she was terrified of dogs, that didn’t mean she couldn’t see how I could get so upset over losing one. She confided in me that she wished she liked dogs, but she just couldn’t get past her fear.

 

“Piper. God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Wow.” I said in response, doing my best imitation of the way she had consoled me on my trauma. I was floored. I’d never known dogs as anything but the greatest thing on planet earth, but I tried my best to imagine what it was like to be in her shoes. I told her I was sorry again and again as my head raced trying to think of something constructive to say. The story itself was tragic, but I still just could not get past the fact she told it to me. I was so beside myself I didn’t even register the major conflict of interest that my future girlfriend didn’t like dogs.

 

“Thanks… SO, ANYWAYS….. I’m starving!” she said, cutting off my frantic search for more to say mid-thought, and that’s when we both realized that we hadn’t eaten anything all night.

 

 

Pizza Pies and Potatoes

On that note I opened up the Domino’s app on my phone, and Piper huddled in close to get a good view of the screen as we collaborated on an order for delivery from the only place that delivered to my apartment. With our order set to arrive within the hour, I let Piper sit back on the couch and get comfortable while I headed to the kitchen and grabbed us two ice-cold Dr. P’s. As we had already addressed the elephant in the room that was why I was wailing like a banshee at Applebee’s, the opportunity arose to bring up a fresh new topic of conversation while we hung out and waited for the pizza to arrive.

 

I started brainstorming for more shallow, snappy topics of conversation to bring up for a more casual conversation while we waited for the pizza to arrive, but Piper beat me to the punch when she jumped at the opportunity to inquire about my favorite musical artists. The moment she asked the question, the thought popped into my head once again that it might be the perfect opportunity to tell her how much some of Eminem’s catalogue meant to me.

 

Although I considered many of Em’s songs to play a big part in both making me the man I am and helping me through some of the hardest times of life, and although I’d been itching at any chance I could to show off my Stan pride, I once again thought better of it when factoring in the short amount of time we had before it was time to eat. Instead, I gave her the less exciting, reserved answer of “Oh, I love lots of different stuff, but mostly Eminem, Fort Minor, Matisyahu, Weezer, Lukas Graham, Skylar Grey, Bebe Rexha and Halsey lately… How about you!?”

 

“Ah, yeah, that’s right, you played some of that for me on the way over; that stuff slapped! And oh, Eminem is great! Linkin Park has always been my biggest love, but lately I’ve actually been getting into more retro emo and punk stuff like Paramore, My Chemical Romance, Simple Plan, and Green Day.” Although I was relieved to hear she didn’t have the worst taste in music, I was taken aback by her use of the word “retro.” The bands she listed were my bread and butter back in my middle school days when I used to sit with the dark, dreary emo kids at lunch, but to hear they were all considered ancient oldies now really showed my age. 

“Ohh, I like those bands too!” I said, trying to respond in a way that didn’t make my advanced age glaringly apparent. “I actually used to be a real emo kid!”

 

“No way, seriously!?” she exclaimed.

 

“Yeah, in middle school! I had a Paramore t-shirt, played a bunch of Green Day on Guitar Hero, used to scream along at the top of my lungs to Simple Plan’s “I’m Just a Kid, and OH! Check this out!” I said, a little bit too excited to be talking about one of my “special interests,” and pulled the sleeve up on the right arm of my shirt and pointed at a small, inch-long vertical scar on my forearm just below the bend of my elbow, and said, “Check it out, I even have the scar to prove it!” One day I overheard these emo girls talking about how great they felt when they cut themselves. It sounded crazy, but they went on and on talking about how transcendent of an experience it was. So, one night I decided to give it a try to see if it was as magical as they made it sound, but all it did was hurt really, really bad. Of course, it didn’t help that I had no idea what I was doing and used a serrated steak knife, so it hurt even more!… Haha, so yeah, I was a legit emo kid!”

 

I said it before I could think better of it, and Piper just sat there for a minute before smiling and saying, “Wow, I will definitely remember never to doubt your emo-ness. You go balls to the wall, man, respect!” I had just dodged another bullet, and relieved, I tried to make a note of thinking about what I’m saying before I say it. We continued to discuss our musical tastes—sans my obsessive Eminem spiel—until the buzzer for my door went off about a half-hour in, signaling the arrival of our foodstuffs by way of a large pepperoni and onion pan pizza with extra sauce and an order of Domino’s Three-Cheese Loaded Tots. It turned out we both loved pepperoni and preferred pan-style crust, but naturally I did run into the need to make some compromises while determining the rest of our feast.

 

The compromise came in the form of our pizza’s onions and extra sauce—two things that she loved, and although I vehemently despised them, I’d never let her know. I thought more sauce would make the pizza soggy, and I normally wouldn’t touch onions with a ten-foot pole, but I knew that if I wanted a girlfriend, I was going to have to keep an open mind. Because after all, what is a relationship if not a little give, a little take? The tots were my addition, as I have always been of the opinion that no meal is complete without some form of potatoes. 

By the time we had the food spread out across the coffee table and ready to devour, we were both proper starving. Although the silverware-less manner of our meal made it at times tricky for even me to eat respectably, I tried my best. I was caught off-guard, however, when Piper started to dig into the pizza pie like a crazed, mannerless wild woman who hadn’t eaten in days.

 

 

Dilemma

As she went on I could hear every sloppy chew her jowls made, and there was even an instance when she sucked some wayward sauce off of her perfect little finger. By the time I had finished two slices of pizza and a small serving of potatoes, I was so repulsed by her behavior that I couldn’t eat another morsel. I wanted to internally combust; I wanted to send her home, curl up in the fetal position on the floor, and forget what I’d just seen. I was so disgusted by her vile display that at one point I didn’t even notice I was eating onions. Incapable of doing anything else, I promptly excused myself to the restroom down the hall, where I hunkered down until I knew without a doubt she would have finished eating.

 

I wasn’t just off-put by her lack of manners; I was downright baffled both at how someone as otherworldly-special as her could eat like that and why I hadn’t observed a similar display at Taco Bell the week earlier. After a few secluded minutes in the bathroom, the only conclusion I could draw was that maybe it was because we were alone now, in a private residence, and she was more comfortable eating like her true mannerless self than hiding it from me like she did at Taco Bell because others could see. Or, maybe she was starting to feel more comfortable around me and felt like she could loosen the reins of her manners a bit around me now and let me see how unhinged she really ate. Whatever the reason, I remained thoroughly mortified by the display and feared for our dining future as a couple.

Unable to shake the image of Piper’s horrific chewing from my mind, I turned on the sink, grabbed my trusty Dial Gold antimicrobial liquid hand soap and did the only thing I could think of to console myself: I washed my hands. I squirted more soap and washed my hands again and again for some time until the irritation had been relieved a tiny bit and I felt certain she’d be done. I dried my hands, put my back against the bathroom door, and braced myself as I closed my eyes and took another deep breath. Once again confident I was ready to go back into the real world, I wrapped my hand tightly around my shirt, used my concealed hand to grab the door handle as I opened and closed the door, pulled my hand out of my shirt, and headed back to the couch in the living room.

 

 

Big Spoon, Meet Little Spoon

Just as I had hoped, I walked into the room and saw Piper lying back into the seat of the couch with her hands on her stomach, clearly indicating she had had enough to eat. I sat down next to her once more, and with her gorgeous figure and face back front and center, I was able to put the barbaric manner in which she ate behind me and continue on with the rest of the night.

 

“So… you ready for some more cuddles!?” she said as she wiped her mouth off with a napkin and smiled and stared directly into my very soul. Once again, after a bit of turbulence, I had arrived back into a state of pure and boundless bliss. I’d never been more ready for anything in my life. “Have you ever done the pretzel?” she asked without a hint of sarcasm.

 

“Umm… no?” She smiled.

 

“Oh, you’re gonna love it! First, I’ll lay down on my back here…” Perceptively taking my awkward hesitation and obvious inexperience into account, Piper took it nice and slow over the next few hours as she opened my eyes to many various cuddle positions and styles as we continued to have deep discussions about a slew of subjects throughout.

Having told her all about Pip, I went on with the subject of pets and told her about Archie, Kibbles, Cleo, Juno, Oscar, Gracie, Dickens, and Ollie and Herbie. For someone who was afraid of dogs, she listened to my every detail of the dogs and cats I’d had over the course of my life as if it was one of her own “special interests,” and it impressed me to no end. When it was her turn, she told me about her old cat, Mittens, and her rabbit, Hugo. 

 

She held me, I held her, and as the night went on the positions of our bodies on the couch changed periodically, and our conversation naturally developed to go on and cover a great many broader topics of discussion like our parents’s relationships, siblings, what Piper’s new job at the bank was like, my time at college, what she wanted to go to college for, and even more than that. As it turned out, my parents were still madly in love, and hers had divorced, and I had an older brother and sister, and she was an only child. She loved her new job mostly, I was miserable at college, and she wanted to go to school for nursing. By the end of the night I couldn’t help but be proud that I managed to go the entire time and not bring up video games or movies.

 

 

Strictly Platonic

Although we were cuddling, and I was over the moon, there was a distinct pretense to it that made it clear it was all of a more comforting and consoling nature than it was romantic or sensual. Although I would have loved to do the sensual kind of cuddling with Piper, I was more than happy to take what I could get for now, seeing as how what I was getting was leagues more than I’d ever had. I hadn’t even reached first base, but it felt like I’d made a grand slam. My mood was through the roof, and nothing could have brought my spirits down, but something inside me knew the entire time that it was strictly platonic. She was clear she didn’t want a relationship from the beginning, and this was just one of the early steps it took to reach the point where Piper was ready to have one with me. Thankfully, my body seemed as aware of this as my brain, and I managed to last the whole night without anything in my pants popping up, which would have just been a nightmare. Thanks to my understanding that our cuddling was just platonic, I stayed limp as a bizkit all night.

 

 

The Power of Proof

I’d been cuddling dogs and cats my whole life, and having only ever dreamt of what it might be like with a human, Piper’s cuddles that night meant more than anyone could possibly comprehend. A few hours into our snuggle fest, the moon was high, and we were doing “The Teddy Bear” position, where we lay down front-to-back on our sides, her in front with the back of her head to my face and my arms around her, when something unexpected was triggered. I knew I was in desperate need of some good nurturing, and I knew I was a horny son of a gun, so I always knew cuddling would be something special, as it fed these two appetites. But while actually in the middle of cuddling that night, I found something else was quenched inside me that I couldn’t immediately put my finger on at first. It was a feeling that took the cuddling from something special to me to something so extraordinarily magical that I’ve even had trouble putting it into words when writing this post.

 

After some extensive self-analysis and shrinking of my own head, I came to the conclusion that what made the cuddles so out of this world for me was largely due to what I boil down to explicit approval. The way I can’t look girls I’m attracted to in the eye, the way I trip over every word I say to them, and my undying feeling that they’re thinking I’m creepy—the cause of all these things comes down to one thing: uncertainty. When I interact with them, I don’t have a clue what they’re really thinking of me, good or bad. And, without the skills to accurately assess what they’re thinking of me, I always default to thinking that every pretty girl I talk to hates me and thinks I’m creepy because it’s much safer than telling myself they like me.

 

Not only do I tell myself that, but after so many years I’ve started to believe it wholeheartedly. The problem is that that initial interaction, that’s where both friendships and relationships blossom from, and if I tell myself they hate me, nothing between us even has a chance of forming from that interaction. I’ve lived my entire life like this in complete and utter uncertainty, never getting anywhere with anyone, and its as taxing as it is lonely and miserable. I get eaten alive by the thought of the nasty things I tell myself these girls are thinking about me, and I shoot myself in the foot time and time again.

 

But that night, cuddling with Piper, it was different. For the first time in my life, it was different. When you’re entangling your body a hundred different ways with someone, it becomes difficult to deny the fact that that person likes you. When your body is pressed up against hers for long periods of time, it’s hard to tell yourself that she thinks you’re creepy. The cuddling Piper gave me that night was exactly what I needed for indisputable, definitive proof that she wanted to be friends with me, or maybe even more. It was enough to completely silence all doubt in my head that she was thinking I was creepy.

Our cuddling was nothing short of the best thing anyone’s ever done for me, and without an ounce of hyperbole, it made it the best night of my life. I couldn’t possibly overstate what it meant to me, and needless to say, there were a heck of a lot of intense, overwhelming feelings flowing through my body as we lay there, and while she was in front of me with my arms around her doing the Teddy Bear, I couldn’t help but begin to cry. A few more moments later, and I was weeping once again. With my arms still wrapped around Piper, I squeezed as hard as I possibly could as the tears began to fall on her back.

 

“Ohhh, babyy! I’m so sorry; I know you really loved that dog.” She said warmly as she patted one of my arms I had around her.

 

 

Slip of the Tongue

The thought briefly crossed my mind to tell her why I was really crying, but I decided it was best to leave it and just thank her instead. I wiped the tears from my eyes, closed them, and let three words slip that I immediately regretted: “I love you.”

 

She’d forgiven a lot of my mistakes up to that point, but this was clearly the last straw, as she gently brushed my arms away and stood up. “Umm. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing… I can’t do this again… Where’s your bathroom again?” 

 

“Sorry… I am so sorry!… Sure, it’s just down that hall to the right!” I couldn’t believe I said it. I wasn’t the type of buffoon that would just say that off the dome willy-nilly; I was the type who would wait until I truly meant it, who would say it only when it was right to. Not on our second date. I sat there in the harsh silent aftermath of my slip-up, and the uncertainty of what would happen next began to devour me. It was short-lived, however, as she came back a dozen or so minutes later with a cheery smile and made an attempt to repair the mood with some levity.

 

“I just tried out your bidet in there; it was my first time using one. Holy shit, I don’t know if I feel more clean or violated! Haha” she said, almost convincingly. Still positively mortified by my blunder, I let out an uneasy laugh. 

 

“Heh, yeah, I love that thing! I didn’t mean-” I said as I opened my mouth to start my apology campaign, but she stopped me immediately, like she was waiting for it.

 

“Don’t worry about it, babe. It’s all good!” I still wasn’t fully convinced. I needed to bounce back. I needed to redeem myself. I needed to save that night from being our last. After almost developing an aneurysm from thinking of a remedy, I hadn’t gotten anywhere. It was well past midnight by now, and I looked up at the ceiling and let out a long, winded sigh, frustrated. When I looked straight ahead again, however, my eyes fixated on the figures and trinkets I had sitting in front of my television set directly across from the couch. Namely, the little Toad Amiibo figure I had sitting to the right of my center surround sound speaker.

I cleared my throat in an attempt to eliminate any of the frantic terror that may have still been clinging to my voice and projected as naturally and as enthusiastically as I could manage, “Hey, wanna play some Mario Kart!?” There was a long, sobering silence. I turned to her, just as she turned to me and started to slowly form one of her famous smiles.

 

“Sure! I used to play that all the time on the Wii when I was little!” she chirped happily. I had made a blindfolded shot in the dark, but by some miracle it managed to hit dead center regardless. After that we both managed to forget my premature “I love you,” and she proceeded to go about the rest of the night as her usual kind, bubbly self.

 

 

The Toadette to my Toad

I took out my Switch and its controllers and got everything set up, and she came up closer to the TV where I was and sat down on the floor cross-legged Indian style as I handed her a controller and did the same beside her. We both sat there like kids, giddily looking up at the screen.

 

“This is exciting!” I said, as the Mario Kart 8 Deluxe main menu booted up and the bubblegum pop music started in. I smiled, satisfied that I’d managed to make it through yet another major mistake of mine. I’d never hung out with a girl before, so I decided to cut myself a break. Just as I had done the week prior with letting her select the type of soda she wanted at the movie theater, when the character select screen came up, I waited for her to pick who she wanted to play as first to satisfy my curiosity. I couldn’t believe my eyes as she moved the selector over without hesitation and picked Toadette. Toad had always been my character of choice for any multiplayer Nintendo game for all of my life, and to see her go straight for the female version of just that character felt, once again, like it couldn’t be anything other than destiny. At long last, I had found the Toadette to my Toad.

And with that undeniable sign from the heavens that this was meant to be, I was once again over the moon and confident in my station. I let her choose the cup we’d race and leaned in intently as I got ready for the race to begin. Just as it finished loading and the lineup of characters came into view, I got the chivalrous idea to let Piper win the race. I took things real slow and hung back after the final green light as the rest of the characters blazed past me. Without looking at her side of the screen, I assumed she was with them.

 

“Hey! Are you tryin’ to let me win!?” She exclaimed, and she looked at me and smiled.

 

“Yeahhh. I’m sorry.” I looked at her screen to see that she was driving just as slow and was just as far back from the other racers as I was.

 

“Sorry!? You sorry son of a bitch, I’m trying to let you win!” I looked back up and at her, and we both began laughing hysterically. 

 

After that first farce of a race, we decided to call a truce, do away with our niceties, and drop our goodwill for each other out the window in the name of sportsmanship, and we started another race, this time for real. We raced many more races, and she won every single one of them. By our fifth or so cup, however, the sun started to peek on the horizon, and we were both extremely sleepy. We turned the Switch off shortly and called it a night as she got comfortable lying down and fell asleep on the couch. I tried to stay up the whole night but eventually fell asleep as well, on the ground in front of the couch.

 

 

Pure Morning

I woke up on the ground the next morning by the sound of Jack hacking up a hairball next to me, and when I opened my eyes Piper was standing beside me, gazing into my eyes like she was studying me. When she saw I was awake, she smiled and said, full of pep, “Morning, sunshine! Did you know you snore really, really badly?”

 

I wiped the sleep from my eyes and coughed a bit, replying, “Ummm. Oh, yeah, sorry. I snore bad.”

 

“Not a problem! I thought it was kind of cute! Man, I am thirrrrsstttyy!” Still a bit groggy, I got to my feet and half-heartedly thanked her for the compliment. After a few more pleasantries, I managed to regain full clarity, went to the kitchen, took out my Keurig I hadn’t used in years, and began to dust it off as she remained in the living room. I set it up on the counter in front of me and tried not to make it obvious the thing was derelict and crusty while I made us two cappuccinos from K-cups that were most certainly long expired. I used my Toad mug, and gave her a regular one.

We sat back on the couch and sipped our lattes as we had a bit more riveting conversation before I drove Piper back to her place—we listened to Simple Plan, My Chemical Romance, Paramore, and Linkin Park for the entire ride, and there wasn’t much talking. I pulled into her driveway, and she jumped out. On her way back into her house she stopped for a second to look back at me, smiled that smile and waved, and so ended my second legendary date with Piper Paisley Jones.

 

 

Next Time, on The Grand Finale of The Female Enigma Serial – Prologue: The Piper Parable…

Details on our third and final date! All will be revealed, the story of how I fell in love with Piper will be wrapped up, and I will give you an idea of what you can expect to see covered in The Female Enigma Serial!