Hello!
Happy Thursday. Today’s post is brought to you from my living room; my phone is on Do Not Disturb, there’s a “Chill Lofi Beats” playlist on, and I’ve set a timer not to look at my phone for 25 minutes. I am completely addicted to my phone, is anyone else? I bloody hate it. I don’t smoke or vape, not a big drinker, never gamble, but that tiny device in my hand? Heroin.
Before I get to The Handsome Texan, I thought it best to briefly recap why I was in Los Angeles. Looking back, I gave next to no context as to why I was there or why I left. Picture this, you’re in Mexico City with your long-distance best friend, Bonnie who lives in Los Angeles. You’ve just come from a tiny Mexican island where unfortunately your relationship ended. Back home, you work remotely for a clinical trials company. You’re lonely and unfulfilled. Everyone around you seems to be making big moves, having babes, getting married, buying houses.
Bonnie is four months pregnant at this stage, and she’s anxious about how she’s going to handle returning to work after the babe is born. She only gets FOUR MONTHS maternity leave. She doesn’t really want to put her baby in day care, and nannies are hard to come by.
“I’ll do it” I blurt out.
“Hm?” She replies.
“I’ll come over and be your Nanny! For as long as I can! Please, let me!”
I’d been to visit Bonnie and Enok (false names, although I’d love to have a friend called Enok) in Venice three times at this point. To me, it’s paradise. The beach, the wanky brunches, going from being a 5 to a 7 just because of my accent, celebrity spotting, just gorgeous. I was newly single and had zero dependents. If not now, when?
Angel girl Kelly (again, fake name, but baby Kelly? Lovely) was born and eight months later I flew to LAX. I have to admit, I was slightly reluctant to leave, my delusional self believed that a man I had been on one date with after a chance meeting at Weymouth Quayside was the one. Had I thrown away the love of my life over a six-month stint in California? Spoiler alert – he ghosted me three weeks later.
Back to The Handsome Texan (HT).
After our dreamy bacon-wrapped dates, wine and ice-cream-fueled date; I woke up the next morning to a text from HT saying he had a really fun night and would love to see me again. I was in disbelief. This man was objectively better than me in almost every way. Sexier, more successful, charming, well-read. The only advantage I had was having more hair on my head (did I mention he was bald?). Wanting to strike the right balance between enthusiastic and chilled, I responded an hour later reciprocating the want to see him again.
“What are you doing tonight? I’m going to this BBQ beach party with a group of friends, you should come. Be warned, it’s Barbie-themed.”
Excuse me? The next night? In the UK, anecdotally speaking, there is a certain dance that happens where you leave approximately 4-5 days between dates so as to not appear too desperate, regardless of how much attraction there is. It appears in the US that dance does not exist. Two nights on the trot? I never knew how to dance much anyway.
I plucked out my pink satin skirt and trotted the four blocks to the beach, where HT was waiting for me in a bright pink shirt and cowboy hat. My dreams were coming true. To me, there is nothing more sexy than a man confident enough to be a lil’ bit silly in public.
He took the four-pack of wine tinnies I had brought and led me to his pink-clad friends. His hand was once again, on the small of my back. I melted. Yes, Handsome Texan, I am too feeble to carry these 187ml cans, please carry them for me as I am but a tiny weak girly! I was genuinely grateful to have two free hands as I tried to navigate myself through a quarter mile of hot sand as gracefully as one can in a maxi skirt to a group of 70 strangers.
Handsome Texan didn’t leave my side all night. He would occasionally take my tinny, give it a little shake and fetch my next one without me asking. He would bring me into the conversation with new people and would take me to the side to ask how I was. Although we both socialised heavily, it was clear that our focus was on each other. Dear reader, it was electric.
Hands cupped with a dramatic swing for comedic effect, we walked back to Bonnie and Enok’s house. Four lots of 187ml tins of wine down, I was ready for a smooch. I hadn’t been smooched for about three months at this point and was worried I’d lost any knack for smooching I had previously developed. This is fine, Laura. You can smooch! You know how to smooch! Just open your mouth, as wide as you can and angrily waggle your stiff tongue in a left and right motion… Correct?
“I’ve had another really great date, Laura”
“Me too, HT.”
“Same again soon?”
“You know it.”
He leaned in. Oh yeah, here we go. He leaned in to kiss, my cheek. Gave me a nod with his cowboy hat, and trotted off into the night.
Damn Texans.
See you next week x