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I Got Cock Blocked By A Marine And I’m Not Even Mad About It

I Got Cock Blocked By A Marine And I'm Not Even Mad About It

“Hey, what are you doing on Saturday night?” Lauren asked me, half drunk on Wednesday.

“Me?” I responded.

“Yeah, do you have any plans?”

“Not at the moment. Last weekend was pretty big, I’m trying not to over-do it. Why?”

“Oh, well, I was wondering if you would want to go to dinner? We have a reservation at Table, Donkey, And Stick. Supposed to be pretty good. It would be a great time if you came.”

“Of course, I’d love to!”

I should explain.

I met Lauren in the fall of last year. She’s one of my roommate’s friends, and someone I’ve had a crush on for about six months. Lauren is smart, witty, funny, genuine, beautiful, and a little bit older than me. Well, that last part depends on who you’re talking to. As a person that sincerely doesn’t care about age, I don’t see a difference between the two of us. However, if you’re really wondering about the age difference, it’s eleven years. She’s 35.

When we first met, I was walking into my apartment carrying bags upon bags full of alcohol and cheap sweatpants from Target. I remember opening my apartment door and wondering, “Who is this gorgeous stranger drinking a glass of red wine and sitting next to E on my couch?” We introduced ourselves, I poured myself a drink, we all hung out for a little bit, and then they left.

We’ve gotten to know each other a little bit better since then and while it may look like we’re at completely different points in our life at first glance, we’re actually pretty similar. We’re both really good at getting drunk, we’re both incredibly sarcastic, and we’re both single. I mean, that’s what really matters, right?

It’s become an inside joke with my group of friends that every time she’s around, I try to flirt with her and she does nothing in return. It’s fine, I get it. It’s not always going to be a great look for a 35-year-old divorcee to be flirting with a 24-year-old who gets fucked up on cold brew and clearly has no idea what he’s doing with his love life.

So when E, Lauren, and myself were having drinks and she asked me to dinner at some eclectic, foodie-style place, of course I was going to accept. Who knows what could happen?

There was a group of six of us. E, Lauren, E’s friend Rachel, E’s friend Brittany, and Kevin. When we got to the restaurant, Kevin and I sat across from each other, while Lauren sat in the corner furthest away from us. The restaurant was “alpine themed,” so it was decorated like we were in the inside of a cabin. Wooden walls, tables that looked like they were carved out of a tree, lanterns sitting on wood stumps, the whole nine. I’ve come to determine that the lower the lighting is, the more expensive the booze will be. At this place, the light was dim. I knew right away that I was in over my head.

Not that the other characters in this story don’t matter, but I want to focus on one in particular at this point: Kevin. I had heard a few things about this guy, how he’s incredibly sarcastic and that we would probably get along really well, and that the second we started talking to each other, everyone would start laughing.

What wasn’t expressed to me was how downright gorgeous he was. Slicked back hair, chiseled jaw line, five o’clock shadow that showed that he could care about being clean shaven, but didn’t. I half expected him to have a British accent when he opened his mouth. But he didn’t. He had a golden voice that sounded like baseball and apple pie. Want to know why?

Because he’s a fucking Marine.

Yep. A Marine. Part of the best-armed forces on this green Earth, and a charming motherfucker who could make even the most evil terrorist swoon. I’ll be honest, I’m pretty sure I hit on him at one point. This dude had it going on, which blew me out of the water.

We both ordered an Old Fashioned and had vibrant conversation. He told us about how he had his interior designer mother decorate his apartment — which, if I said something like that it would be lame, but when he said it, it was charming. He told us about the time he broke his collarbone playing hockey. Fucking bad ass. He told us how he made his guests take their shoes off whenever they came over, which is kind of different when you have hard wood floors but I guess I get it.

I could see Lauren swooning from across the table, but honestly, I wasn’t even mad about it. The dude deserved it. Hell, I was even swooning a little bit. At one point he complimented my shirt and I giggled a little bit.

The group of us finished dinner and went back to his apartment for drinks. This dude had Alexa programmed into his walls, a complete bar set, exposed brick, and a framed vinyl of The Rolling Stones’ ‘Sticky Fingers.’ I was no match.

He mixed up a few Old Fashioneds, poured some glasses of wine, and said, “Alexa, play ‘Rich Girl’ by Hall and Oates.” The fact that this dude was playing a Hall and Oates song that wasn’t ‘You Make My Dreams Come True’ was impressive enough, but the dance that he did on the way back to his granite countertop island in the kitchen set him over the top.

Lauren was in the palm of his hand. I was drinking a glass of red from a bottle that probably cost more than $10. There was no point in me being there anymore. At this exact point in time, I decided that it was my best move to call an Uber and head home. Cut my losses. Forget about the other girls, it’s not worth it anymore.

I’m not mad about it. If anything, this gave me a new perspective on life, and some new goals to shoot for. Realistically, I should be thanking Kevin. Thanking him for showing me how to operate in a social setting, as well as showing me how to properly peel an orange to garnish your drinks. I guess I still have much to learn.

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Charlie

At any given moment I'm either tired, drunk, or stressed out. Hobbies include complaining, gentrifying things, and complaining about things getting gentrified. Get at me at charliepgp@gmail.com or whatever.

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