I don't know if it's the rain outside, the Killian's in my belly, or the high I'm still on because of Glee, but I thought I'd take a romantical turn on tonight's post and describe how I would think Steve Perry would woo his woman. What, say you? You're thinking that's a great idea? Well, hop on board the Pleasure Express and we'll stop off in Fantasyville!
Okay, that last part sounded a bit kinky. But you know what I meant. Let's dream, shall we? (Insert Wayne's World daydream music)
First of all, it would be raining outside, and the main reason why it's raining is because 1) it's raining outside my apartment for real and 2) there's something romantic about rain. I could expound upon that last point, but that is another discussion altogether. It's raining. Done. You (for the woman in this little scenario is you because it makes this game much more fun) pull up in the driveway, get out of your car, and walk to the front door of his mansion and ring the bell. You're a ball of nerves: you're excited to be on a date with a legendary musician who has a head of the most gorgeous man-hair in existence, yet nervous as hell. Will my hair look like crap compared to his shiny locks? Does my outfit make me look like a chunky monkey or a sex goddess? Would asking him to sing a few Journey hits be weird? You ponder these questions, resisting the urge to bite your nails out of nervousness, when the door opens, and there stands Steve, all smiles. He's wearing black slacks and a plain white t-shirt and his hair is glowing. Glowing. Unfortunately, it does make your tresses look like they were manufactured at a shit factory, and you immediately feel self-conscious, silently cursing Pantene and their false advertisements.
But Steve knows what's up. He knows that love-making doesn't begin in the bedroom--it starts way before that. He's an old pro at this, and knows that a woman needs to feel confident about herself before she can let her guard down. So he looks you up and down in a not-creepy fashion, lingers on your eyes for a moment, lets out a breath, and says, "Damn, girl, I am one lucky man." He smiles reassuringly, lets you inside, and leads you to the couch, where he says to make yourself comfortable for a moment. He comes back a few minutes later with two glasses of white wine.
Now, Steve is a classy guy, and his opinion of what constitutes "the good shit" is not based on price, but on quality. So it's a safe bet that he will not be trying to serve you Arbor Mist (not trying to hate--I myself am a fan of The Mist--just saying). No, the wine in those glasses will be, at the very cheapest, from a $70 bottle. He might even up the ante and break out the Dom Perignon. He is also a master at setting the mood, so it's also a safe bet that he will probably have a jazz CD or Chicago on as background music. The music and wine, coupled with his easy-going manner, make you feel instantly relaxed, and you begin to open up and share. The conversation is flowing, and the sexual tension is mounting. You begin to not care whether you ever get to the dinner portion of the date.
Suddenly Steve puts down his glass and announces that he'll go get the food. Remember when I said that he was an old pro at wooing women? This proves it. He's serving oysters on the half-shell because he knows that oysters are aphrodisiacs, and you have to eat them with your hands, which will make the date all the more sensual. And he's serving a shit-ton of them.
Now, you've never eaten oysters before, and when you see the plate, you're a bit put off by their slimy nature and the fact that you have to suck them off the shell. That will not be sexy. In fact, you fear it will be the complete opposite and you'll come off as looking like a gluttonous buffoon. You might start to feel resentment--what the hell was he thinking when he chose this type of dinner?
But that just shows your inexperience, oh Unenlightened One. Steve knows how to sex up any occassion. He chuckles at your reluctance and assures you that you will enjoy the dinner. He picks up an oyster, puts a little Tobasco on it, and holds it up to your lips, telling you to suck. You tentatively dip your tongue into the goo and then just decide to go for it and suck it down. You're amazed. The oyster wasn't just good--it was like a culinary god was making love to your tastebuds. You relax, and begin to feel the effects of the aphrodisiac.
I'm going to stop there and let you flesh out the rest of this scenario in your mind. I know, I know, but this is a--well, I wouldn't call it a classy blog exactly, but I don't write no X-rated content. Finish it on your own, pervies.