On the spectrum of "girls you take home to meet your parents" and "girls you fervently deny knowing when asked by a member of the clergy," I've always fancied myself among the former. Admittedly, I may have startled my gentleman friend's family with my post about his offspring finding an adult toy under our bed, but I try hard to be a respectable catch.
This past weekend, we journeyed six-and-a-half hours to Seattle to visit my gentleman friend's hometown. Family medical issues made this a somewhat somber visit, and I was conscious of my need to be on good behavior. I'm never certain what good behavior entails, but I know it doesn't permit licking my dessert place, telling penis jokes, or groping myself/others in mixed company.
The latter proved more challenging than you might guess.
Following a Friday night dinner at the home of my gentleman friend's parents, I was invited to tour the house. His father escorted us around the premises, ending up in his woodworking shop in the basement.
For the record, I did not snicker even once when instructed to feel the wood or admire the hardness of various pieces.
As we stood in the shop studying the tools, I felt something tickle my right boob. I turned to glare at my gentleman friend, only to discover he was five feet away.
He's skilled, but not that skilled.
Since no one else was in boob-grab range, I turned my suspicions elsewhere. My long hair has the tendency to get caught in my bra, so I tugged my tresses over one shoulder as my gentleman friend's father described the lovely cedar chest he'd made. Fluffing my hair, I kept my eyes averted from my own chest.
Something tickled my boob again.
I squirmed, fighting the urge to stick my hand down the front of my shirt. What the hell?
Discretely, I pretended to scratch my back while tugging hard on my bra strap. A wayward wood chip, perhaps? A bizarre nerve twitch? I squirmed, hoping things would adjust themselves. Eyes watering, I made a valiant effort to ignore the situation. The conversation continued, with my gentleman friend handing me various blocks of wood to show the different textures and colors. I nodded enthusiastically, turning the wood over in my hands.
Something wriggled again in my bra cup.
"Aaack!" I yelped, and clutched the wood to my chest. Both men stared at me.
"It's um – very nice." I handed the wood block to my gentleman friend with a tense smile.
"It is," he agreed, eying me oddly. He turned back to his dad and asked a question about wood grain.
Something poked my boob. Hard.
I couldn't take it anymore. Feigning intense interest in a collection of saw-blades behind me, I stuck my hand down the front of my shirt and scratched like a flea-infested lemur.
"Are you okay?" my gentleman friend asked.
"Fine, fine," I said, turning back around. "That's really nice wood."
He gave me a funny look and turned back to his dad.
At last we left the wood shop and headed back upstairs to join the rest of the family. I scurried to the bathroom where I tore off my shirt and bra so fast you'd have thought George Clooney waited for me in the shower with a bottle of olive oil. I studied my boob, locating a small, red dot that looked like a spider bite. Seeing no sign of the alleged spider, I scratched like mad, put my top back on, and returned to the living room.
"Is everything OK?" my gentleman friend whispered.
"Absolutely," I answered. "Can we see if your sister has any bite ointment for my boob?"
This may have been the moment he second-guessed whether I'm the sort of girl to bring home.
But we procured a tube of hand cream, and I felt much better after smearing it on the bite. I spent the remainder of the weekend trying very hard not to scratch the itch, but mostly failing. The bite is finally fading, and I'm hopeful any poor impression I made on the family will fade as quickly.
So that's why you may not want to bring me home. Anyone else have any embarrassing "meet the family" stories? Please share.
I'll be over here trying not to grope myself.