The Luck of the Irish

It’s crazy to think I’ve been blogging for so many years. I like to read some from the past and realize how absurd I was (or still am). I own it like Lisa Rinna. Throughout the years, I would like to say I gained wisdom on some level. I am sure my fashion sense has evolved from a penny hookerina to a chic escort.

My love life has been private because in my head, I believe I am Beyonce, and only up until recently have I shared. Now that I am free and know what I want, I am more open to talk about my recent occurrences. Plus, my friend and I are working on a podcast, and I can’t have a podcast and not share experiences. That’s lame.

If you know me, I am not one to indulge in casualness in public. I am not sure what exactly came over me. An innocent night of drinking and dancing ended up with me questioning who’s body was in my bed the next morning. Let me start by saying I am a functional black-out artist. It’s been years of practice. We were celebrating a birthday in town, and after a bottle of wine, multiple tequila shots and a hissy fit about the bar we were at, I, somehow, managed to lure an Irish man back to my quarters.

What I remember is that we were at a local bar that I am not a fan of because I’m always trying to dance. This bar plays different versions of Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of Me”. I remember putting my jacket down (to dance), and lastly, saying bye to one of my friends. You know when things start coming back? That’s what I remember from the night of.

Another thing about me is that my phone is always dying. It’s not because I am on it all day every day. It’s because I always forget to charge it. That night, I committed having some of the party guests sleep at my place. They dropped their stuff off before going to the party. Of course, I left the bar with a dead phone. They could not get in touch with me. I am so good at being black out that I put my phone on the charger, took off my make up, cleaned up a bit and threw on PJs. I remember around 4am checking my phone to find 22 missed calls and over 20 text messages. Whoops! My response, “how dead am I?”

The next morning when I woke up, I was just going on with my morning. While checking to see if I had my life in order, I didn’t realize until tens minutes of being awake that there was a naked man in my bed. I was shook. And then he spoke. Ah! To my surprise, he had an Irish accent. Everyone knows that I love accents.  He asks me two questions; 1. why am I clothe?, 2. why am I so far from him? Okay, cute. I am clothe because up until two minutes ago, I thought I was sleeping in PJs like any other night. To find a naked Irish man in my bed was to my surprise. The reason I was far was because I didn’t who this man was, and also I am not really into cuddling and stuff. I like my own space when I am sleeping. He asked me to “pack into him”, which I assumed to be the little spoon in Irish lingo.

The Irish stayed till 2pm that day. We were rolling around from 7am to 2pm, and clearly the night of, but that I cannot remember. One of the more important things in my life is my bed and my love of rolling in it. The fact he stayed to join the log rolls was fun. We spoke about an array of subjects during that time. For example, I asked him how we met. He said I went up to him at the bar, started to have a witty conversation, we had a shot (Jameson – which I didn’t know I liked), shared a beer and then he asked if I wanted to go to his place. I insisted my place. Who am I? Since when am I witty? Since when do I go up to random men and strike up a conversation? Since when do I asked strangers into my bed? That is the more important of the questions.

That morning, the Irish told me that we spoke about a lot the previous night as well. He told me about his current situation, where he lives, what he does, things about Ireland, things about his family, etc. I did the same. In the morning, we spoke about past experiences, likes and dislikes and then of course, how Jay-z cheated on Beyonce. That is when I was like, “wait, I think I like this guy.”

It took me an hour or two in the morning to realize that the Irish had a fuckboy haircut. He had no idea what a fuckboy haircut was. I had to school him. I actually saved him in my phone as “Fuckboy” because I didn’t know his name. Yes, I know. How could I not? I didn’t know when it was an appropriate time to ask. I am sure he told me, but I am very forgetful. I couldn’t ask in the morning because I am sure he told me the night before. He knew my name and even asked for my surname. I couldn’t even remember his first name.

Unbeknownst to me, the Irish was my first fuckboy. I recently found out that fuckboys are charming without trying. They are there in the moment, but on their terms. I’ve been out of the game for a while, so this experience was so outside my character, I didn’t know what to expect. My taken girlfriends were planning my wedding. My single girlfriends were skeptical because this was typical fuckboy behavior. Here I am confused how this happened. It was so far removed from my character to pick up a random guy at a bar. Was it the tequila? Was it situational because I didn’t like that bar? How do I get back to that place?

This is where the whole fuckery gets confusing. If I already gave you my cookies more than once in less than 12 hours, you do not have to tell me how you are going to cook for me, watch The Crown together on Netflix, or drink Malbec together. You already got the prize. I don’t want to hear about future plans if they aren’t real. Again, I haven’t dealt with this before, so I don’t know what’s the protocol. To me, he was trying and I wasn’t really about it. I was only infatuated with the situation because how comfortable I was in this new light of sexual freedom.  I imagine myself having fun with a man with a beautiful accent, like Prince Harry, but I missed my chance there.

We briefly texted afterwards. I realized I was hooked. Honestly, in the beginning, I wasn’t looking at this as something permanent, but definitely good for right now.  It was fun, freeing, and comfortable. More importantly, my humor was well-received. I was able to joke about BBC without any sort of weird jealously. (I am not sure if I can talk about the BBC after seeing Safaree’s goods). The physical chemistry was there. Again, I was more intrigued about what the Irish brought out of me more than anything.

I do not have shame in texting or anything, but this MF was in my head; a constant distraction of our encounter. I don’t like games, but I couldn’t be begging for the D. Not me. (But is it?) We spoke a few week later. As expected of any fuckboy, the Irish came over for round two. This time it was on a Sunday, and we both had work the next day. We barely slept between rolling and talking. In the morning, I had one task.

The Irish asked if I could go into work late. The charm of a fuckboy leads to one to bend over backwards and/or drop your panties. Granted, I am always late to work, so it wasn’t that big of an ask. While he slept, I was getting ready for work, and had to get the job done. I still needed to figure out his name. I went into his wallet to look at his license, and great success! I finally knew his name!

I already knew the Irish did not have social media aside from Linkedin, so there was no real value to his name. Fair enough. I don’t think it is that weird when men don’t have social media. Girls are different because we are looking up anything from makeup tricks to Rihanna’s boyfriend. But then you hear about these men who claim not to have social media, and then you find out they are married with kids. Not trying to get into that mess.

My problem with fuckboys is that I don’t need that intimacy. The Irish was homicidal at times and then passionate with everything in between. With such a buffet, it confuses me.  Like let’s keep it real and call this what this is. Why ask about conversations that we had? Check up on my life? That’s how they mess with your head. After that encounter, we spoke briefly. Nothing is worse than feeling and looking pathetic. I couldn’t let myself get there. Also, I was seeing others and kept comparing to the Irish, who basically exists only on his time. Replaying circumstances in my head was the ultimate distraction. As per my single girlfriends, it was time to delete the number. I sent one last text and deleted. I do not have time to dissect a phantom man. Not to mention, I have never given a man power over me regardless if they had an accent or not, so he was not going to be the first.

I will say this: I am happy that it happened though. This fuckboy opened a different side of me where I am more vocal of what I want. Dating apps are more acceptable. If I can pick up a stranger in real life, having a phony conversation on a dating app makes them less like a stranger, so I can do it. Not that I wasn’t, but I have been living on my own terms moreover than before. 2017 was about weddings, bridal showers, baby showers, sprinkles, you name it! Anything to celebrate sacrifice of individuality, which took over my year. This year, I am choosing what I want to do, with whom, wherever and however.  I am not jaded by this situation. Rather I am embracing it.

On aside:: For my birthday favors this year, I dropped the hottest mixtapes (CDs), and one of my favorite songs on the CD is the one below. Hope you enjoy it!



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