I think you’re a pretty good lookin’ lady. There. I said it.
I think you’re a such a good lookin’ lady, but baby, I don’t like you only for your body. Don’t worry, your body is slammin and all but you’re pretty nice too. I like you for your MIND. You got some funny things tumbling around in there.
In fact, I think you are so all around great that I want you to go home and…treat yourself. By yourself. You know what I’m talkin’ bout. I’m talkin’ about good down home loving. I’m talkin Ludacris and Lil’ Kim but you are both Ludacris and Lil’ Kim in this situation. I’m talkin’ when a lady loves herself very much, she wants to use her fingers and write herself a sonnet.
Don’t blush! We all do it from time to time, except I don’t want it to be in the furious “all I’m wearing is my flannel pajamas and my head is buried in this pillowcase and I’m trying to think of something sexy but oh god, time is running out why is this taking so long? DO I NOT WORK ANYMORE?” Give yourself some respect. There is no shame in this! Make it a mother fucking occasion!
Tonight, put some candles up in this bitch. Maybe one, because God knows when there is more than one candle in a love making scene I expect the whole place to burst into flames and engulf you in your bed. Put some mood music on, but don’t overdo it with the Boyz II Men. Maybe keep it at one Boyz II Men song and then put something on the playlist to switch it up. Man in the Mirror. Party in the USA because damn it, you’re touching yourself and you’re an AMERICAN. Dance a little. Oh, that looks weird. Don’t dance, now that I think about it.
Start slow. Build the anticipation. First, go get yourself a sandwich. A big, melty, gooey sandwich and eat it in your kitchen and cock your eyebrows at the television and lick your lips slowly and ooops…did you just get a little sauce on your collarbone? Oh, baby. You get that sauce off you. Don’t use a napkin. Use your fingers. Nobody’s watching. Lick the plate of its cheese like Kim Kardashian in those hamburger commercials. I’m sorry. Don’t think about Kim. It’s just you and you, sugar pie. Drink a glass of wine till you get an nice sexy haze of fermented grapes in your stomach. Cross and uncross your legs while drinking the wine and giggle: “oh this? This is just some ole three dollar 2011. 2011 was a good year for Shiraz. Hey! My eyes are up here…but you can keep on lookin’.” Be playful. Be flirty! Make yourself laugh, but that kind of tinkly laugh that sounds like fairies having consensual, loving intercourse.
Drop something by a mirror. Bend over and pick up the thing by the mirror very slowly and look at yourself from behind. Oops! I didn’t mean to do that! Giggle. Bend over again. Bend and snap, but LOL that reference is dumb now.
Sit on the couch and tersely watch an episode of a show you’ve already seen. You’re distracted, though. You can’t finish it, thirty minutes with commercial interruptions of diet pills and depression pills and 5-hour energy is too much. You know what’s coming. Do you…do you want to go to the bedroom? Don’t just go to the bedroom. Retire to the bedroom.
If you don’t want to do the whole rose petals thing, just scatter kettle chips all over the bed. Eat the kettle chips off the bed without using your hands. Then, slip into something more comfortable. A giant t-shirt from your summer camp. A 14 dollar H&M dress. Hanes Comfort Fit. Whatever works, because you’re only trying to impress yourself. I often wear a bird mask and a large cape I bought in a Halloween store. Kiss your own hand. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time I laid eyes on you.”
Now you must spend the next 36 hours impressing yourself. Lock yourself in a room. Don’t eat or drink water until you actually hallucinate Michael Fassbender/That Kid From Shameless/Vampire Diairies dude/Guy who works at bar/Jennifer Lawrence in the bed with you. They are eating a bouquet of flowers. They are covered in a thin sheen of chocolate. Float up to the sky. Set your bed on fire. Do stuff that nobody’s ever done before and tell yourself “nobody’s ever done that before.” Take a summer vacation in your genitals- take a mother fucking Sandals vacation with the running around and the having the time of your life, but in your own naughty parts. Not naughty! They should be called “Precious Moments parts.” Summon Ra, the Sun God. Scream “more” in 36 different languages. Learn bird calls. Break a mirror, turn off your phone!
Now, eat through all your pillows. Waken a sleeping giant whom you know have to fight to the death! You’re losing! Hark! A SWORD! Battle him with that dirty sword, and make love to yourself on your victory. Throw gold coins into the sky. You’re making love in this club, in this club, in this club! You’re in the Room of Requirement! You’re the new Spiderman! Discover that you have entered thirteen other dimensions through a pit in your floor. Explore them all.
Dirty talk! Say stuff like “you’re such an animal” or “I’m covered entirely in mud and I need to be cleaned off.” Have your room become a palace of animalistic lovemaking. Discover body parts you didn’t know you had. “Where’d this arm come from?” you think. Caress this newly discovered arm till it can take no more and falls off, never to be seen again. Blast Pitbull till your building collapses and you are having sex in the rubble of it.
When it’s all said and done, lay there and hold yourself. You’re such a nice girl. Maybe you’ll call yourself sometime. I don’t know, though. Things get complicated. I’m going to be busy with work for a while..and well, I already made plans this weekend. Tersely put your number into your phone, and wait two days before you text yourself a smiley face. Don’t respond to that smiley face until Saturday when you’re drunk. “If you only knew what I’d do to you if you were here.”
That’s right, go ahead, touch yourself. You deserve it.
Then, when there’s a real person in your bed, and there is no Sun Gods or pits of dimensions in the floor of your room, you can smile at them and say
"You were good, but you’ll just never be as good as the last one."