I used to be a great first date. My first husband and I went to a big do where he worked, and we smuggled cafeteria trays out of the cafeteria, and used them to coast down a hill outside. It was summer, but the grass was wet. It was all kinds of fun. Of course, we had smuggled our drinks outside, and going downhill on a cafeteria tray is not the optimum method of getting the liquid on the inside of you, rather than the outside.
Afterwards, we changed into jeans and comfy wear (just like the prom after party) and went for a drive in the country. I thought it might be a good idea to go horseback riding by moonlight. The idea was born as we had stopped to commune with some rather friendly horses in a pasture.
Dang, those horses were tall, but we found a stump to climb aboard from, and away we went, sans saddle, sans bridle, just us and the horses. In the moonlight. Some folks might call that romantic, but we were mainly just laughing. At ourselves.
Ass Burger Boy? Close your eyes now.
But the real reason I was a great first date with my first husband is because I slept with him that night.
Too much information?
Sorry.
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