Manola wonders what Jane Austen would have written if this were the subject of a novel. Does passion discriminate between age? Reader, you be the judge.
Manola will always recall Superbowl 2006 as a milestone in her life. Mind you, her interest in the sport is as intense as her interest in cellulite. As far as she's concerned, NFL was an acronym for her love life: "No Fucking Luck." And she would know. Long before these salad days of perpetual single hood -- these days when she is practically dating herself for lack of worthy partnership -- she spent five years as a football widow to a Buffalo Bills fan.
Even though she shared a home with this man and he was in her bed every night, the dry season would last from first draft to last punt, followed by his post-season depression. The emotional connection between them was as wide as the football field and thanks to monogamy, she could not play that OTHER field.
In spite of this, she loved her man enough to let him sabotage the television while she served him chicken wings, ham and cheese sandwiches, cookies and beer. At the end of the game, she would gently unglue his eyeballs from the screen with aloe. She even agreed to let go of the leash so he could go watch games at the local sports bar -- just in case, God forbid -- the broadcast suffered a blackout.
This year, Manola had no idea that the leathery, laced-up object men covet would fall in her court. In spite of the fact that she long ago refused to play the game, THE GAME CAME TO HER in the form of a cute, cuddly and curious twenty-something Cuban Chef. Yes, barely legal to drink. Old enough to be her son, technically speaking.
All this in spite of several other very important facts: a) a party that was rife with Motril-popping, light beer-drinking Cristina Aguilera types (big head, small body) in size zero jeans who more age-appropriate for Cuban Chef; b) Manola is a bit plump and can't even fit into her jeans; c) Manola has a heat rash on her face; d) he wasn't even old enough to play "the graduate" to her Mrs. Robinson; and e) the most unbelievable fact of all, Manola had an impossible-to-conceal pre-menstrual pimple on her face!
Yes, gasp in disbelief!
Against all odds, the evening of pure testosterone ended with a literary seduction. She gave Cuban Chef, who is also an aspiring writer majoring in history, a private reading of an essay she published in a book. Apparently her prose was enough to warrant many smothering kisses. Although he wanted Manola to play wide receiver to another kind of leathery object, she refused, but she did succumb to playing game above the bleachers.
The next morning, Manola was washing her face and noticed a splotch of red on her neck. She thought it was the heat rash. Upon close inspection, she shrieked: "Oh my God, I've been branded with a mouth print!" Much to her delight, she saw what would have been unmistakable to a vampire, surely: A VERY WELL-DEFINED BITE MARK!
Cuban Chef was kind enough to leave her with a tribute to their passion, something no man has ever left behind: A HICKEY.
A fitting tribute to the Queen of Horny, indeed, for not only has Manola suffered from involuntary abstinence far too long, she has NEVER had a hickey. Sins of the flesh were unaccountable to the Big Man in the Sky. Crimes of passion left no clues. Carnal desires were gone with the wine. Yes, sadly, three decades and three boyfriends later -- not to mention the occasional sexual exploit with a forgettable/possibly regrettable lover -- and NOT ONE MAN had ever left a trace of his passion on her pale white neck.
Cuban Chef was more than generous. Not only did he flatter Manola with a passion purpura, he also forgot to take home his t-shirt. And just like men use panties to prove they scored, Manola can use a 100% cotton sex trophy to prove she made a field goal in a game she NEVER expected to play!
Jane Austen is rolling in her grave. But girl, if you had been alive today, you'd be chiding me with a big smile on your face: "Awesome! You pulled a Samantha!"
posted by Manola Blablablanik @ 2:39 PM