Bearded Men & Goosebumps

Recently I’ve managed to let my heart and my hands–and my underwear–wander around, and it wasn’t until the other day that I felt like I could rest, even for just one moment.


I hadn’t looked at him all night.

I had noticed him–in his bright yellow t-shirt and ball cap–easy on the eyes–but definitely not what I was looking for. Although, I’m not quite sure I was looking for anything or anyone, for that matter.

He spent most of the night gently resting in the corner of my eye. Every now and then, I’d glance over to share a smile or mesmerize myself with the masculinity and warmth that radiated from him, and as the night went on, I began to realize that maybe I was looking for something, and maybe–just maybe–I’d find it.

Too often, my evenings are monopolized by the kind of guy who’s mannerisms would probably fall under the UrbanDictionary definition for arrogant:

arrogant : When a person is led to believe that they are in some way more superior to everybody else. Pride is fine up until a point, but as soon as you believe that you are in some special way better than everybody else, you become a dickhead.

I have ample experience tasting the tongue of arrogance, and despite my genuine knowledge and experience with way too many chicos, I continue to let my “love life” be consumed by “dickheads”–a special thanks to UrbanDictionary for putting a more accurate reading into my shortcomings. But let me tell you, the tongue of arrogance is sweet and captivating, and feels all too familiar until suddenly, the music fades away, and the man in front of you is not just full of himself–but entirely full of shit.

Tonight was like most others–my drunken mouth was too busy seeking out spontaneity, and the bearded man in the neon yellow shirt didn’t quite beam spontaneity. Honestly, I hadn’t quite pictured that he was an opportunity until–sitting on the balcony with my vodka-Izzy, a cushioned bench, and his surprisingly attractive face–it was clear.

Slowly, people started to trickle out, and suddenly it was just his faultless gaze and my curious eyes. He had spent a way-too-long amount of time trying to convince his friends that sneaking into the apartment complex pool at 1AM was the best idea of the evening, all the while I was sitting aside, hoping he might ask me to join him on his adventures–also knowing that neither one of us had a bathing suit.

When I was young, I used to sneak out and go swimming. Nothing beats the excitement of falling my bare feet to the grass beneath our house window and boldly sprinting my close-to-naked body down to the neighborhood pool while the combination of night chills and nervousness coated me in goosebumps.

There’s something about swimming in water late at night that is unequivocally sexy, and his infectious laughter and bearded face undeniably drew me in. Without a word, he’d managed to show me that he was neither arrogant or a dickhead, but easily the opposite. He’d managed to show me that he was both spontaneous and genuine. And, most of all, he was fearlessly open to jumping the fence, flipping into the ice-cold water, and taking a chance at kissing me.

My lacy magenta bra-let and black lace thong–wet–held close to my body as I shivered in the freezing water and awkwardly made my way to him, stride by stride. Laughing and almost expecting him to make some sort of joke, I was shocked when he gently wrapped his hands around my waist and brought his face to mine. And, I was even more shocked when his lips pressed softly against mine, and even for just one moment–the goosebumps faded away.


Recently I’ve managed to let my heart and my hands–and my underwear–wander around, and it wasn’t until the other day that I felt like I could rest, even for just one moment.


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