Like a Hallmark Card, by Doris

I spent most of this week wearing makeup in a place I usually don't, and it's all the Russian's fault.

You can probably guess what this is about.

I have had very little experience with hickeys. Once in high school, I really did burn my neck with a curling iron, and people teased me about it for DAYS (even, embarrassingly, my guidance counselor). Didn't matter that Excalibur was in college a few hours away at the time, so no one was around to provide me with an authentic hickey. (That same year, there was a rumor I was pregnant--started, ironically enough, by an underclassgirl who got knocked up a couple months later. Karma's a bitch, babe.)

Then, in college, I burned my neck with a curling iron AGAIN. Really. This time it was actually Excalibur's fault--it was a Saturday morning and I'd spent the night at his place. I was a freshman, so we were very new to the whole we-can-actually-spend-the-night thing. He didn't realize that it wasn't cute to hug me from behind while I was fixing my hair with a Burning Hot Rod of Death.

One scream and he learned.

(Incidentally, no one teased me for this fake hickey. I was, after all, a college freshman.)

In the years since, I've dealt with a few love bites: most of the guys I've fooled around with haven't been suck-ily inclined, and Excalibur gave me several, but only in places that could easily be covered.

The Russian? Not so much.

After a long two weeks during which I went on vacation with my family AND got the cold/flu/sinus bug that's rampant right now, the Russian and I were able to coordinate our schedules and meet up for drinks in my neighborhood. Per usual, he started out the date by being really annoying.

Can I just say I HATE when people rip on TV? Seriously. Like anything else, it's fine in moderation, and for every piece o' shit like Jersey Shore (sorry, Rock), you have a well-acted, awesomely written series like Mad Men or Community.

Yes, I do watch Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Shut up.

However, the Russian has this habit of becoming quirkily charming and self-deprecating juuuust when I'm about to throw in the proverbial towel. It's like he's got Doris Is Annoyed Radar, which takes many people years to develop.

And on drink number two, just when we were trading our best impersonations of Shirley on Community, he leaned over and kissed me.

In the words of NeNe on Real Housewives of Atlanta (yes, I watch that too, shut up):

BAM.

The Russian then expressed a desire to be alone with me. Per his agreement with his wife, who was out of town for the week, he could fool around with me above the waist only, and he couldn't spend the night.

My reaction: "You allergic to cats?"

"Nope!"

"Cool!"

I was actually fine with his wife's edicts. It showed that a) she knew about me, b) they were communicating, which is a big part of an open relationship.

Plus, I was looking at a twelve-hour workday the next day, and I wanted my bed to myself.

So we fooled around. As first semi-sexytimes go, it was pretty awesome. He's very limber.

Also, we compared foot injuries and geeked out about movies. He was very impressed by my DVD collection and asked for recommendations (among the Top Five Ways to Get in Doris' Pants Again).

Plus?

He really liked my cat.

Excalibur hated my cat. Not because of the cat itself, but because Excalibur is allergic. No fault of his own, of course, but it was really nice to be with someone who paid attention to the pussy. Cat.

After I kicked out the Russian ("You have to leave now." "Yes, ma'am!"), I started getting ready for bed.

That's when I discovered The Mother of All Hickeys on the left side of my neck.

Dammit, Russian.

Cue makeup, an elaborate necklace, and a cardigan with a shawl collar the next day.

Though I did tell my coworker, who thought it was hilarious.

In a weird way, I considered it a badge of making-out honor. A tangible mark to commemorate the end of a dry spell.

However, we WILL be having a talk on our next date.