When I first met Terri, the attraction was purely physical, at least for me. The blond hair, the big rack, that impossibly small waist, she was—still is—a Barbie Doll. She had the look of a spoiled sorority girl, the kind of girl you take for a ride, but not the kind you bring home to mother.I probably would have whore-zoned her in a heartbeat if she’d put out right away. We met at an after-work kick-ball game, ended up at a bar for a few drinks. She was surprisingly fun to talk to, we shared a similar taste in movies, and an interest in foodie topics. But the reality was that my main interest was getting my hands on those titties.I was disappointed when she turned down my offer for a nightcap. I’d been sure she was the kind of girl who’d be, as my buddies used to say at the time, DTF—down to fuck. I was only mildly mollified when she gave me her number instead. I almost threw it away in frustration, but instead I tucked it into my pocket, and after whacking it that night thinking of her, I texted and invited her out to dinner instead.I was sure I’d score on that second date.
