OK, so I was kind of asking for it.
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I got all tarted up for the wedding and was dancing with all the guys to Journey and Ton Loc and Timbaland. I'm-about-to-strip-and-i'm-well-equipped etc. God I love weddings. I probably had a few too many and when that overzealous strapping groomsman who just graduated college decided we were going to twirl only he lifted the wrong arm and clotheslined me in the face and I staggered backward and rolled my ankle. Wearing four inch strappy stilettos which made me about 6'2. And that much farther to fall. Were you watching me then?
Yeah I was a trooper. Ankle was crying out in pain but all I cared about was my next vodka tonic and whether I had enough time to get it before Sex Bomb started playing. I can tell by your behavior last night you like Tom Jones and Mousse T just as much as I do.
At some point later in the night here I am walking into the local taco joint wearing no shoes. Politely took them off and left them at the door. It was raining outside and thankfully the types of dresses I wear to weddings can endure some serious abuse. I hopped up on the counter, flashed my most engaging smile and demanded two beef softshell badboys and some ice for my swelling ankle. Was it there that I caught your eye, confident and defiant as I sucked the cheese out of my jalepeno poppers as the nice guys working there prepared an ice pack and listened to my story about how I had hurt my ankle coming to the aid of an elderly woman when some hooligan tried to steal her purse? I'll have you know he went down like a ton of bricks when I pistol whipped him, but while kicking him in the head for good measure I seem to have hurt my ankle. Tough world out there. No country for old men, or good samaritans in slinky black dresses and high heels. I'll bet you were impressed when they gave me my tacos for free.
Maybe it was in the parking lot that you decided to come home with me. I couldn't really tell. When I woke up the next morning there was a trail of my clothes and shoes and other various personal belongings. Apparently I had tipped the bar staff handsomely, and for that they had rewarded me with a to-go cup. The bed showed signs of struggle. Reaching for my glass to see if it's empty and surprised at the searing pain radiating not from my ankle, nor my rump, nor my head, nor any orifice, but the back of my knee?
Imagine my horror when I flung back the colors and saw the damage that you had inflicted in my unconscious state. You sank your fangs into that cute little dimple behind my knee (now there's a fetish I haven't heard of), leaving a deep round wound and enough venom to swell my leg up to twice its unbitten size. Between the numbness and the stiffness I had to stagger around my house like a deranged pirate with a pegleg trying to figure out whether you were still there or had fled stealthily into the night. But you were long gone.
So please, at least tell me your name or what you look like, and possibly confirm your genus? I've heard that some of you are so nasty your conquests require medical attention or risk serious infection. At the very least I'm gonna need to give a description to the doctor tomorrow morning, and the story I've just told is not going to cut it.
PS. Just so you know, you are not the first to leave me with bite marks in odd places in the morning. Just the first who was rude enough not to give me a chance to reciprocate.
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