Okay. I promised I wouldn't write about the good date. But I am a deeply flawed individual. My need to share and compose the written word sometimes trumps tact and good sense. I totally understand people, especially girls I'm sweet on, not wanting to become characters on my blog. Frankly, I don't know for sure she's even looked at my stuff so maybe I'm living dangerously - flying precariously under her radar. Oh the utter thrill of it all. Until it comes crashing down around my ears because I'm a self-centered lout who cares only for a good blog story that a handful of people may, or may not read.
We went on one date and I really like this woman. So we've arranged another. I've done the asking. How un-subbie, no? But I've loved it. So she has a request. Outdoor seating and lobster. I am dispatched to find the perfect spot. A no brainer, right?
Mind you, on our first date all she asked for was al fresco dining and in my utter haste to both please and find the perfect, romantic little Manhattan hideaway, I chose a restaurant that had closed. So she took the opportunity to add a reminder to the most recent task that I should keep in mind it was important to select a restaurant that was actually open for business.
I love her already, right?
So I conduct swift research and immediately find a swank Greek joint on the East Side in Midtown that has a nice outdoor patio and serves lobster. I triumphantly email her and trumpet my quickness and enthusiasm, but promise more choice, in the off chance that I have unexpectedly missed the mark - little likelihood though there may have been of that.
She emails me back and allows as to how it looks like a lovely place but I have completely missed the challenge of the quest. It's not just any old lobster. It's lobster tails.
Okay, I like lobster as much as the next foodie, but don't all lobsters have tails? Claws and tails and lots of other extraneous, spiney, but essentially inedible stuff.
No, as I ultimately learn in a series of very teasingly dommy emails, what my devious date wants most is rock lobster tails. I learn these mutant crayfish have no claws and are harvested primarily in Florida and California. It is the rare Big Apple bistro which serves them. Indeed, after I located a fish monger in the Chelsea Market which sold three sizes of these elusive arthropods and tried to convince a restaurant with a charming garden to let me BYOL, my date confessed that despite scouring Manhattan for years, she had dug up only a measley few places that served rock lobster tails, none with a garden. Thus, she knowingly sent me off to attempt the impossible.
Is she perfect or what?
However, she has bestowed major brownie points, gold stars, and profuse praise for my inventive persistence. Hey, if Artie at the fancy little Greek spot gets his supplier to deliver rock lobster tails for our date Monday night, haven't I just pulled the substantial gourmand equivalent of Excalibur from it's cold stone for my fair lady? Isn't this just the best D/s foreplay ever?
Somebody pass me my nose guard and the tanning butter! My mussels are flexin' and my flipper is 'a flippin'.!!!
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