At the restaurant

I’m the chosen one. Here I am waiting for one of my favorite bloggers, Adorable I, sitting at the restaurant. I’m eagerly waiting for the moment I could do something that so many of your readers always wanted to: See your face. Although that is not what I’m most interested in. I want to know you in person.

I’m alone in a private room, with an incredible view overlooking the bay. I came five minutes late because of traffic but fortunately, you might have found more traffic problems than I did, as you are not here, so you won’t notice I arrived late on our fist, let’s call it, date.

After ten minutes you enter the room, dressed in a killer little black dress, with high heeled shoes and your impressive legs wrapped in black tights. You enter the room followed for a waiter and without saying a word you spit on my face.

Turning to the waiter you say:

– A glass of Somontano, please.

The waiter goes out of the room without even looking at me. As if I am invisible or something. You face me and with not a very friendly face you say to me:

– Who do you think you are? How dare you arrive late when you are having a meeting with me?

I can’t say a word. This is not what I would call starting on a good foot. You get on with your speech:

– I arrived half an hour ago to have everything ready and you arrive late. I expected you to show a bit more respect for me.

Nervous as I am, I say on a trembling voice:

– I only arrived… five minutes late…, and…, and…, it was…, it was because of traffic.

– Shut up, and clean your face, or are you thinking that watching my saliva running down your face is a nice view?

I clean my face while you walk around the table. Your moves are elegant as those from a cat, your curves dance before my eyes as you come by my side. You climb up the chair and then you put one of your feet dressed in your chic shoes in my dish…


Text and illustration by @sexticles


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