I guess there's no more juice to squeeze out of this orange.
Dinner and conversation.
Sunday Night. South African Dinner.
Rain and Nana' s Milk Tart.

I knew earlier when i awoke nude next to my spotted shitzu that I needed the rest of the day to fall back into myself soundly and powerfully to restore all that was lost the night before on gin, and cheese, and the repeat murmuring of that two syllable name. Who by the way is in Italy for the next two somethings expanding his coordinates sadly enough not expanding his common sense.
So, I just should have stayed home and done me and not given him (not the temporary tourist-in italy) but the co-creole, the slight glimmer that I would remotely or text mobile-ly do him later.

Open the car door for me, etiquette.

I stood there in my southern fit of I am the shit stance and have you seen my brain, and ass smirk.
He said, "This is the Northeast dawlin?" and I'm thinkin you want to try to pounce me later and you cant weild strength to and sense to open the car door before you get in the car door. I guess he isn't that kind of guy which means, he isn't (period).

I just didn't get the whole evening conversation and his shifty eyes silences were doubly awkward, uncomfortably, and annoying. The entire night turned into what are you thinking what did you say, what do you mean by that sentences that slurred into each other much like my gin speech the night before.
forwarding to the juicy part...
We kiss and all of sudden it becomes this full on attack mode by him, where I feel like I'm not at the same event he's at. He was staring in to my eyes and swapping spit and his face look like Gandhi slurping water after years of dehydration. It just didn't match mine. I was like in an elevator listening to music twiddling thumbs or something.
So, not opening the car door, then, jumping me and then delivering sly glances that were backed by unknown messages made it even more peculiar in his lack of affection the entire evening until the quiet squat on my bed...I'm sorry staring longingly into someone's eyes is lovely and all but after sometime if you don't try to hold a bitch's hand or rub a back or something. Shit is awkward and it doesn't make sense behind doors to all of a sudden unleash a bull for demonstrative play.
Unbelievable.
Continuing, I push him off of me as clearly it seemed like he was climbing mount Everest in the sound of his voice and I was like still in the elevator. He asked if he had done anything wrong and I said no. Then he tries to move on me again. I hesitate and he says I'm just trying to kiss you, dawlin in that motha tongue of new orleans twang things to say to me. And then I say sure then why is your dick on my leg if you are just kissing me, puhlease, do I look twelve?, screw twelve, am I deaf? The neighbor can hear you, man. You are not trying to exchange sweet Dorothy kisses. You would like to pierce me if you could. Ugh. I just grossed my own self out.
So, that sort of startled his intense hot rhythm he was trying to convey and said, "I think I should go" and then I helped him get his shoes. But right before we had kissed and the fiasco unfolded I said, "I don't think we can squeeze any more juice out of this orange." I was clearly wrong.