Hi there, guys and dolls! Hope you are all well and looking after yourselves. Washing your hands? Standing 6 feet apart and not talking close with strangers? Good! Now that we have that out of the way, let me entertain you with my sad, sorry, sordid tale, or the tiff with Biff.
It all started, well, when did it start? Golly, probably forever ago. You see, as much as I love that handsome hunk of man, there has always been a sort of competition or rivalry, you might say for the affections of the handsome type. Now, I’m a very open-minded and free-loving kind of gal. I say, love and let love. Except for the same victim, er, candidate. Dang that Biff.
See, Biff is not of the marrying kind. At least, not of the boy meets girl type of hitching, more of the boy meets boy category. If you haven’t caught my drift by now, what rock have you been living under? And if you have, I’m sure there are a few of you who have had this same problem. Hmmph.
Now as I say, Biff and I have always had this sort of ‘friendly fire’ going on whenever we would go out on hunting patrols (some would call it bar hopping, or just simply going out for coffee, but let’s face it, we’re prowling…). And honestly, it’s usually quite clear what team the new prospect is playing on. But, there are some fine and swarthy gentlemen that you just can’t tell about at first glance. We get those suspects in our sites and the games begin. Oh, a bat of the eye, a flick of the wrist, the lilting tilt of the head, followed by a giggle…. and that’s Biff’s routine. If the fellow isn’t drinking champers out of the palm of Biff’s hand by then, I’ll step in and give my hair toss, languorous stare and slow, smoldering smile. By then, if said candidate isn’t drinking the bubbly out of my shoe, we move on. Obviously, that would be a fellow who lives in no man’s land (or woman’s, for that matter….). Then we move onto the next finely dubious male, taking turns who flirts first. Such a finely tuned routine, even the Swiss and Soviet judges can’t fault the execution of such a daring feat.
Anyhoo, a while back Biff jumped out of order and he went first, when clearly it was my turn. What’s a girl to do, except intercept with a budge of the elbow and flash of decollete? Then Biff didn’t get the hint and followed up with the lean in and hand through his hair, which I of course retaliated with fingertip up the forearm.
Then it got heated and so confusing. Ears were being whispered in, someone flashed a bicep, then thigh. Who knew anymore who was showing what to whom? Well, except for our deer in headlights victim. So confused was our prospective conquest, that he leaned on Biff, asking him to make it stop, and indicated that he wanted him to take him home.
Well then. Biff strutted off with his new found buddy, who was by now well sozzled from our generous drink buying one-upmanship, thinking he had one the round. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure the fellow was into me, but just scared of the fierce multiple come ons. I hoped they’d be very happy together. That is a lie, by the way, and the foundation of a very good pouting session.
How’d it all go? Well, not that great for Biff, either. Turns out once the guy sobered up, he was the marrying kind after all, just kinda confused. As in, I’ll date you for six months and then realize I was just experimenting kind of confused.
Yeah, I didn’t take his call when he asked me out after the gin in his head cleared. But I might see what Biff is up to. Spring is in the air after all.
Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more posts. And don’t forget to give my Poppy Cove Mysteries a try if you haven’t already.
Toodles, Barbara Jean