I Gave My Consent. He Gave Me Bruises.
We're on our third date if you count the night we met at a local karaoke joint, where we both sang Juice Newton songs
Queen of Hearts" for me and "Angel of the Morning" for him—and I'm straddling a man's sofa on our second date in a week.
My jaw dropped that night at the serendipitous meeting that occurred during that karaoke session.
It was almost as if his song choice had been predetermined. To my knowledge,
it expanded the scope of "Angel of the Morning" and clarified its treatment of consent, boundaries, and desires.
He spoke into my ear, drowning out the chortling of whoever had come to see our Juicy shows.
He whispered, "You really do it for me," as he ran his fingers down my cardigan sleeve, reaching almost to my elbow. "How about we go on a date and have some intimate moments?"
In every positive sense, he was tall, self-assured, and physically active. Giving my number and my most enthusiastic yes made me blush.
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