This is part two of a story about my return to dating after an epic length dry spell. You could pick up here and maybe follow along, but it would make more sense to go back and read part one. If you already have, please disregard.

Thank you,
-the management.

Kara stared at me, confusion and perhaps a little terror setting in. Asking a girl if she wants to meet your parents is an odd prospect in most instances. Asking on a first date while not wearing pants must have struck some primal, reptilian portion of her brain. She started to explain how… you know what? We should back up a little.

There I sat, for the first time in a very long time, with a woman touching me. And I mean REALLY touching me. I’d just performed my patented Carpet Bomb Technique oral sex on her, to what I hope was her legitimate satisfaction. It was my turn, she explained, to get a little joy out of the evening. There was just one little problem.

Little WT seemed to have decided to take the night off.

No amount of coaxing would help, as I lay there WILLING things to function. Maybe it was nerves. Perhaps it was performance anxiety. Maybe I’m just gay, that’s been postulated often enough. But I could not for the life of me maintain the rigidity necessary to perform that most sacred of duties. Eventually, mind on the brink of cracking under the weight of my failure, I faked ejaculation during an attempt at oral sex well enough to get by.

And so, Kara and I were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling in what can only be described as uneasily comfortable silence. We were both relatively content, and even my prattling on about Guapo and Boner hadn’t ruined the moment. She turned to me, stoking my chest and asked if I’d stay there for the night. I started to explain how I had to work the next day and that I needed to feed my dogs when I realized how bad I was bombing this moment. The correct answer was, of course, yes I’ll stay here with you. Instead what I said was “As much as I want to stay, I can’t. But why don’t you come home with ME?”

“Don’t you life with your parents?” Kara asked, squinting her eyes in noticeable discomfort.

“Yeah,” I replied sheepishly, “but they’ll love you! Come on, get dressed. Let’s go meet my parents.”

The whole ride back, she explained how AWKWARD this was going to be. How much they were going to HATE HER for staying the night at the house on our first date. I calmly explained that no, things would be fine, and there was the distinct possibility that we could avoid the confrontation all together, as they’re not young people and may well have already gone to bed. She laughed, seeming to take this to heart.

We were all a little less than jazzed when I unlocked the front door to find my parents on the couch watching television. So down we sat, to have uncomfortable chit-chat about dogs, and how our night had gone and other assorted niceties. With as much couth as I could muster, I told my family goodnight and ushered Kara into my bedroom. Somehow, I’d forgotten what lies beyond that door…

Oh, yeah, that. In addition to the assorted dorkery that you were all aware of: Mannequin Head, Stone Cold Cardboard Cutout, Wrestling Figures, a framed autographed picture of Captain Murphy, and LOTS of Jones Soda Bottles, I recently acquired one of those high dollar replica light sabers and a full set of Mandalorian armor. And this girl, bless her heart… thought it was cute. She baby-sits a little boy, she explained, who would LOVE my stuff.

Even when I presented the twin sized inflatable mattress that sits on the hard floor that serves as my bed, she didn’t bat an eyelash. Somehow, no combination of stubbing my toe and cursing in the fictional language that goes with my helmet, hanging out with my parents talking about her roommates, my utter inability to satisfy her sexually and the very mention of Mousehole could scare her off. I couldn’t have done a more efficient job if I’d been TRYING to make her hate me. But instead, she just climbed into bed and beckoned me over.

At that moment I felt like Popeye. The spinach was in my mouth and every part of me was raring to go. Now, with stamina already not my strong suit, this level of excitement could only hinder my ability to paddle my rowboat across the ocean. So I did what any sensible person would do, I started thinking about Jim Ross. Now, this is not to say that Good Ol’ JR isn’t an attractive man, but there’s simply nothing sexual about him. This seemed like a reasonable alternative to the often lauded Baseball, a subject I don’t know enough about to keep myself distracted.

In the afterglow, lying in my childhood bedroom under the watchful eye of a nearby Tickle Me Elmo, I knew joy. And so Kara turned to me, a small smile on her face. Apparently, during, I’d been muttering to myself.

“Thomas,” she said, “What’s a slobberknocker?”