Uncertainty in numbers.
“Chris,” the boi with a booty as solid and symmetrical as two eight pound bowling balls spoke into his phone, Monday morning. “He drove me.”
I peered at him curiously; pulling on my underwear and plucking my DIY ay-yi-YI-those-are-short cut offs up off of the floor of my bungalow as he wrapped up the call.
“You do know my name isn’t Chris, right?” I smirked, but the question was legitimate.
“Yes –” he paused, grinning teasingly, “JJ. He was asking about yesterday afternoon.”
“Just checking,” I laughed.
One can never be completely sure how much a new lover remembers when you solicit their pro boner services after 3 a.m. Even when the inquiry is made via Facebook chat and, thus, appears in print, below both your first and last name and profile photo.
Especially not when you’re just one of their 1,883 friends – and counting.
