I’m a grown woman in my mid-thirties and I recently suffered from a bout of pink eye. Yes, I have a kid. No, she was not the culprit. The story is much more. . . juicy.
I matched with a guy online and knew the minute he walked into the coffee shop that we were going to have a special connection. He was good-looking, super fit, confident, and had that ‘calm-exterior/tortured-interior’ thing that is annoyingly sexy to me. We chatted for about an hour and then made out by my car for way too long.
The next day was a kid-free night for me and I invited him over to my place for a drink. The sexual chemistry was stronger than the whisky and we were all over each other almost instantaneously. It was the right combo of being serious about sexiness, but also playful as we learned each other’s bodies.
At one point, I found myself on top in a 69 position. Just as he peaked, he kind of lurched upward off his back pushing his head further into my business. We both started laughing as he wiped off his face and he casually says, “well that’s how you get pink eye.” We lay together chatting and touching for hours until he left. Many text jokes followed the next day about pink eye, but he seemed to have dodged the bullet.
Then, the joke was on me. Two days later I awoke to the tell-tale crust around my left eyelid, the goopy inner eye, the tinge of pink, and the overly glossy sheen. Crap. I did not see that turn of events. I gathered my pride, shelved my embarrassment, loaded my daughter in the car and headed to the doctor – like an adult. Later, prescription in hand, I sent a selfie with my eye drops with a text about how I had clearly committed harder to our sexual experience and this was my badge of honor.
The moral of the story is this: if you want to play with fire, sometimes you get burned. And, if you want to stick your face in fire, sometimes you get pink eye. All in all. . . worth it.