Rule #1: Don't Drop the Machine Gun

So far, my loyal blog readers are split 50/50, that my "bad boy" encounter is either a wild good time or a BAD, BAD idea.

Three have asked for some ID for this guy, so when I go missing they know who to send the police after. Two more said, "go for it!" One asked when SHE could fire the machine gun.

Of course, the real answer is usually the simplest one, and rather than this being fodder for a True Crime novel, my hunch is that I've found a well-written IT guy with a penchant for daring women. And no, he doesn't live in his parent's basement, even though he does quote Star Trek.

I woke up the morning after the Best Date Ever to find this email waiting for me:

"If I had to guess, based on the condition you're in this morning, I'd say you had a hell of a date. Walking through the front door at 3am smelling like gunfire, cologne, massage oil and tequila, with sand in your shoes and stripper glitter in your hair - seriously, how the fuck did you manage that?"

And just for the record, even at the strip joint, he did manage to pay me the tremendous compliment of saying I was the only woman in the joint who had his complete and undivided attention. Which of course now, in retrospect, makes the whole Gentleman's Club experiment make sense.

That email continued:

"Get your coffee, look through the pictures so you know yesterday wasn't just a good dream, and come up with a plan for the next date. When you've got it figured out and you're ready for round two, pick up the phone and call me."

So yes, date two took place the day after date one.

We went driving up Mount Wash and zipping down Wild Cat mountain. My driving scared him as much as firing a machine gun frightened me. (Those of who you have driven with me will attest to this). "Look, there's still snow on Mount Adams!" I'd smile and point at the scenery while driving up the Auto Road, one hand on the wheel. "Please keep your eyes on the road," Frank whimpered. He also would NOT let us drink the bottle of champagne I brought to share at the top of the tallest peak in the East. Pussy!

In an interesting exercise in contrasts, Tuesday night I was at a business-related event where I had the pleasure of running into not only PAL but also the Space Man. They both (separately) greeted me warmly and chit chat ensued. What liberation it was to not give a shit about either of them.

So wish me luck this weekend, when we take off in Frank's bright yellow sports car for parts unknown. Barry White will be playing on the CD player. But don't worry about guns; I've been told it's illegal to bring them across state lines.