A Drawer for my Drawers

As a grown woman in my late 30’s, I find the idea of me carrying around my panties in my purse after a weekend of sleeping in a bed other than my own to be quite amusing. Many times this was done due to the fact that, in the beginning days of dating Beehive, I did not want to appear presumptuous by carrying a bag with a change of clothes in it, for fear of freaking him out.

While the days of freaking him out are long gone, I have never longed or felt a need for a “drawer”. You know the drawer I speak of…the highly coveted space in a man's apartment that gets cleared out for your girly things…so you don’t have to carry your panties in a purse anymore.

Nah. I was never one for the drawer. I like to keep my things all in one place. I hate having my stuff scattered throughout two abodes, and much prefer to know where everything is. Carrying a change of clothes in a bag is not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things…

Until I was presented with my very own drawer.

I had been leaving a spare set of gym clothes at the boyfriend’s place, when I discovered that they opened a branch of my club in his neighborhood.

One day, he showed me where he was keeping this spare set of workout gear…the middle drawer of his dresser, which prior to housing my spandex, had been strangely empty.

And voila. I get a drawer by default.

Since acquiring this drawer, I have managed to fill it little by little, mostly with lounging outfits. I find that everytime I head over to Beehive's, I cart along a couple of tank tops…some pj pants…some shorts and maybe a few bras and underwear. For someone who never needed a drawer, I have certainly found a way to fill it to capacity!

In addition, the amount of loungewear that I apparently need when staying at Beehive’s place is quite appalling. One would think that all I do is laze around and eat bon bons all day (not far from the truth, I suppose).

I counted 5 wardrobe changes yesterday. FIVE. We never even left the house!

A dangerous thing, the drawer. Next thing you know I’ll be asking for KEYS. The gall!

Happy Endings

Sunday morning. I’ve got a long day ahead of me. 2 hrs in a car with Beehive, his mom, AND his Grandma (who I finally met for the first time, and apparently thinks I am the greatest thing since sliced bread) and a day of schmoozing with various family members during 5 yr old Christopher’s birthday party. All seemed to be moving along smoothly, and then BAM, I go and get my period.

Not wanting to announce to my boyfriend that I am riding the crimson wave, but wanting to allude to the fact that I’m not exactly in top form, I discreetly say to him, “I’ve got cramps.” Shortly thereafter, I let on that I need to pop out for some Advil. I’m thinking I’m being pretty darn obvious, without actually shouting to the world “I JUST GOT MY FUCKING PERIOD.” I don’t know when I became such a delicate flower, since we all know I’m about as subtle as an alcoholic on truth serum…I guess I'll just chalk it up to PMS and move on…

Cut to 12 hours later, during a rather amorous moment. Making out like teenagers on the living room couch, my Beehive takes my hand and leads me back to the bedroom, where more sucking face ensues. It's pretty apparent that he is gonna go for it, and I’m pretty impressed that he is not letting Aunt Flo get in his way—and this makes for a VERY pleasant Sunday night indeed.

I feel a hand make its way into my pants. I feel a hand roaming around, then yank itself OUT of my pants, and I hear a yelp.

“What? What’s wrong?” I panicked.

“I didn’t know what I was touching. It didn't feel right," he had a confused, yet concerned look on his face.

“Whatsa matter? You never touched a tampon string before?” I laughed.

"I just wasn't expecting it, is all," he replied.

Nothing like ruining perfectly good sex with a secret tampon string.

But I'm happy to report that, the story had a happy ending after all.

*giggle*