Red Wine

Better With Age

R.B. Winters
R.B. Winters
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Red WineIf Alice had lived in New York City she wouldn’t have worried about Wonderland. In fact, she probably would have been a tranny or a drag queen trolling 8th Avenue looking for a Mad Hatter.

In this instance I would be Alice – minus the dress, hair and pretty much every other thing that makes her Alice. Except for the Mad Hatter piece. In my case, my Mad Hatter is a forty-something that likes to say my name, well what he thinks is my name, and tell me how it is. In a previous post I mentioned going on my first date in some time and we had a sort of follow up date. It was a follow up in the sense that it was the second time we had purposefully gotten together. However, this time it was really just a booty call because I was home alone on a Saturday night.

Trying my hardest to be kind, let me recap the events of the evening. Things get better with age – in the wine world. This is apparently not true in the sex world. I thought only thin lipped people were poor kissers but I have been proven wrong. The constant biting felt something like a bulldog attacking my face. Not to mention that I was being pushed away due to “over-excitement”. It’s fine if you’re quick to finish your business but learn to accept it rather than making me wait. Honestly, I could have run out for a cup of coffee, returned and still had time to read a magazine.

The only thing worse was what I can only describe as a leg wrap. The Mad Hatter, did I mention he was formerly the Doctor in a past post, kept wrapping his legs around me in the strangest way. I was compelled to try and look because the pain inflicted on my shins left me curious as to what the hell was going on down there. When it was finally over he wanted to talk.

Not, how are you talk, but tell me how I am talk. Every other sentence was telling me how level headed and together I am. Then the Mad Hatter started in on telling me when I get to be older I’ll feel and think this and that. Oh my lord, it’s like he’s never spoken to me, or anyone, before. Who really wants to be told how it is? For sure not me. If anything, I’ll do the opposite just to prove a person wrong. As my high school best friend said when we spoke for the first time in years, “You haven’t changed at all”.

At this point I’m doing my best to avoid the calls from the Mad Hatter. There’s no way I’m enduring that again. I’ve moved on, though he thinks he has found a booty call.