Page 2 of Tasty Cherry

Then came the one with a chipmunk-packed lower cheek full of snuff. I haven’t seen anyone doing dip in a hot minute, as I didn’t run in those circles in Texas. When he leaned in like he might kiss me with that mouthful of carcinogenic spit-mush, I took off for the bathroom.

This third partner seems game. He’s definitely touchy feely. That’s a good sign, right?

Except his hands are roving everywhere.

As one song turns into two, he starts grabbing me more aggressively. He squeezes my butt. Then, he moves up to my waist. Then he’s got one of my boobs! Right here on the dance floor!

I can’t help but look at the drinkers scattered about the tables, wondering if this is some test for the new girl in town. Can the Texas girl handle a Colorado man?

I shy away, but he lets go of the boob to draw me even closer. Both of his hands grasp a buttcheek so he can rock me against what might be a very impressive part of his anatomy.

Or is it socks?

Something about the shape doesn’t seem quite right. But what do I know? The only male parts I’ve seen have been on screen (yes, I paused that unforgettable cameo on Sex/Life. Maybe a few times).

But this is simultaneously too big and too soft. It moves, not side to side, but front to back, like it’s squishy. I picture my favorite pickle stress toy, and I can’t hold it together.

I press my lips hard, bite my cheek. Anything not to laugh.

This situation is ridiculous.

I’m ridiculous for doing this.

Time to throw in the towel.

I’ll have to save myself for The One. Fair enough, universe, I get it. I’ll have to hope for someone discreet. Who maybe cares about me.

Not sock-man.

Is this song ever going to end?

As the dance drags on, he pulls me even closer to him, until I’m practically attached to his crotch. Yeah, I’m done with this.

“I should hit the little girls’ room,” I tell him.

But he grunts and hangs on.

Surely he can’t hold me hostage right here in the middle of a bar.

I try to wriggle away, but his arms are like a vise.

“Hey,” I say. “Let go.”

And that’s when someone finally steps in.

“That’s enough, Carl.”

The man is tall, with a mass of black wavy hair and a close-trimmed beard. He knows Carl’s name, but they don’t seem like friends.

Carl doesn’t want to let me go, but the man pushes between us and twirls me out of the brute’s arms.

We two-step away from the scowling, broody Carl, who stalks right out the door.

I’m saved.

This man smells so good that I want to drown in him. Woodsy, masculine, with an undertone of something crisp, like citrus.

He has total command of our steps, and when he draws me close, there’s nothing gross or seedy about it. We fit together like one person, gliding across the floor in easy time with the music.

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