(I hope you watch Grey’s. If you don’t, go rent it, starting at the beginning. You’ll thank me later, I promise—well, as long as you have a sense of humor, anyway.)
there is something unbelievably sexy about a guy who is an asshole. not a huge jerk, not someone who treats you like crap. but who has just a little bit of the asshole trait in him.
he’s kind of glib, you could say.
glib with a touch of, I don’t know…rude or slick or something.
except he’s saying what he’s thinking, and he means it.
he’s ingratiating but with snappy come-backs and back-handed compliments, and perhaps a completely un-subtle comment on your cleavage. (which is kinda sorta okay, 'cause you totally wore that shirt on purpose)
he’s slick. and he’s smart. and sharp-tongued.
a little brazen, a little brash. maybe even cheeky.
if he were a girl you’d call him sassy. or saucy.
or Sexy. As. Hell.
and he' shameless in his ogling.
and that makes it totally okay.
and makes him even more appealing.
he’s a serving of meat with a side of audacity. (pun intended, to be sure)
he’s a McSteamy.
and on Friday I re-met him. No, no, not Eric Dane. This guy…
I could tell you the rest of the story—the backflip in the bar that his friend did (in exchange for a round of shots for the four of us). or how when I saw him the very first thing I did was call him out on the beer-stealing. how he and his friend paid for everything for us the entire night—including our cover to the bar, which totally impressed me. but that wasn't what made him so appealing...
y'see, the whole time I felt like I was playing a game of brazen chess/flirting—and let me tell you, I gave a performance that would make Bobby Fischer applaud. but…
really? I’m just interested in the fact that I was practically drooling over him. And I was okay with him saying to my friend, “okay, but if we dance I’m going to molest her on the dance floor-just a little, but enough.” (and, um, he totally did. seriously.) I didn’t mind that he jokingly put a dollar in the front of my shirt, and I actually got a little jealous when he started comparing my boobs to other girls (it was funny at the time, and kind of my fault, too, but I think that’s exactly the reaction he wanted!)
I mean, what?!? This is COMPLETELY unlike me?
the kicker though? when there was a moment (okay like three—one while dancing, two while sitting at the bar talking) where he might have kissed me—and he didn’t. and he even said “I’m not gonna kiss you in a bar.” Later he wanted to go home with me, but all he’d done was kiss me on the cheek. (okay, like seven times, and once on the little corner of the jaw—just enough to make me want more, woulda stopped him, but it was a complete surprise and I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t like it)
he was a total McSteamy, but with a bit of class? How does that even WORK? And what guy feels it’s okay to molest a girl (but just a leeeetle) on the dance floor (to billie jean, by the way), put a dollar in her cleavage, compare her boobs to those of the other bar-hoppers, try to go home with her, but feels it would be inappropriate to kiss her in the bar?
I mean, not that I want to be the girl who kisses the Sexy-Beer-Stealing-Bit-of-an-Asshole Guy in a bar. But, um, could you blame me if I did? And, furthermore, can you blame me for sincerely hoping he calls to ask me out?
…yeah, didn’t think so…
perhaps I’m having a meredith moment. and if I am, I sure don’t seem to mind.