I had my reservations about coming back to your place. You’re not even really my type- you’re loud, and seem particularly fond of the phrase “boo ya.” Within minutes of meeting me in person, you told me that your favorite hobby was leaving messages on the Instagrams of your favorite porn stars. Mere minutes ago, if you’d asked me if you stood a chance at ever sharing a single intimate moment with me, I would have said “good God no, a thousand times no” at reached for my pepper spray.
You and I were not going to fuck tonight. But then I saw your pot leaf shot glass.
Now I see the real you, and I am enthralled. You are a complex man of fascinating duality. What would seem a baffling contradiction to some only entices me further, and I cannot wait to slam back the charcoal vodka you’ve poured for us in your harshly-lit kitchen and begin making wild, desperate love.
Your pot leaf shot glass lets me know that you’re not one of those stuck-up binge drinkers. It lets me know that in addition to slamming liquor at home, you also like to party weed-wise. Your pot leaf shot glass shouts to the world as you joylessly throw back whatever bottom-shelf alcohol you’ve selected to abuse that night “hey world, did you know that I also like to get high?”
I have never been so swept off my feet. I can barely compose myself, melting before you as I anxiously clutch your pot leaf shot glass in my hands. I don’t care if we wake your roommates. I don’t care that your roommates are your parents. I don’t care that your bedroom is the family room, and that your bed is the couch. I must have you now. Please, take me in your arms and do with me what you will. And please, bring your pot leaf shot glass. I want only to gaze upon it as you pitifully hump me.