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A Blues For Nina

It was one of the classic New York romances. You know, the kind that starts over Sunday Night Football in a sports bar and ends up in sex on the first night. But three weeks later, we were still dating, I was hopeful, and it was Valentine’s Day. (I know, there was no way this was going to end well.)

The weekend before Valentine’s Day, my hottie new guy suggested that we spend Cupid’s night out–in, watching Love Jones, at his house, no, my house, then his house again. Considering I know that movie by heart, I was happy to oblige. It was a little low key for my taste, but hey, no need to make a big deal about it (especially considering my V-Day track record was abominable at best).

Valentine’s Day morning I woke up feeling excited and adventurous. I put on a sexy pencil skirt, turtle neck, and a beautiful cocktail necklace. I figured I’d should at least look cute when I finally saw my beau later that night, even if we were staying in.  Midday, a girlfriend invited me to a “death with Cupid” happy hour post work, and since my beau didn’t get off until late in the evening. I agreed to go. With all that extra time on my hands I’d also decided I should swing by the lingerie stop on the way downtown to get something super sexy and special for the occasion.

This was my first foray in to lingerie and because my breast are, what some may call, huge, I found my way to a serious store that carried the best brands and a wide variety of sizes (and really high prices). Inside I instructed the clerk to find me something “boardwalk-empire-esque” and soon I was standing in the dressing room in a corset, thigh highs stockings, garters and my cocktail necklace. I slipped in to my heels, put my clothes back on over top of my sensual undergarments, and for only $200, I was ready to get naked on Valentine’s Day (don’t miss the sarcasm here).

Three glasses of wine, and a shot of something later, I had gushed all about my sexy beau and my lingerie surprise to my friends. Since I was the only one with Valentine’s Day plans, my friends were happy to cheer me on, exacerbating my excitement for the evening. Around 9 p.m., I got the bat signal and I headed uptown to meet my boy.  As I walked up to his apartment, nervous and excited, I straightened out my corset, plumped up my boobs and rang the bell. (Oh, this was also my first time ever going to his house–I know, I know).

And then it happened. My super sexy, buff and delicious boy toy answered the door in sweats, a wifebeater, and a doo rag.  Seriously, a doo rag. My heart hit the bottom of my stomach, this was certainly not what I expected. Inside, the house was dark and antithetical of Valentine’s Day festive–no flowers, no card.  I headed in to his room and there it was…a mattress on the floor. And then he said it, “Can you take your shoes off?  I don’t let people where shoes in the house.” You mean my perfect pumps to match the inner 1920’s temptress I plan to unleash, I think not.

A little while later, as I laid (on the mattress on the floor) trying to look sexy and find a way to get my beau to realize I was dressed head to toe in lingerie, the liquor started to kick in.  Soon, I was having blurry, and not particularly good, sex.  Then I heard snoring. Powered by a couple more glasses of cheap wine, I turned in to an emotional demon. My head started spinning (or was that the room?), and I began crying and pouting, while half-naked, stumbling around (I kept tripping on the mattress on the floor) looking for my clothes so I could go home. How could he have fallen asleep? Did he know I just spent $200 on lingerie–that I can’t take back! A doo rag? Really?! I thought we were special, I thought we were really something–I was a lunatic.  The next morning when I was unceremoniously tossed out of the apartment, I was pretty sure I was never going to hear from again.  After all, it had only been three weeks.  Despite my girlfriends best attempts to convince me he’d get over it, he didn’t.  His final text, “I think you’re an amazing woman, I hope we can be friends.” SMH.

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