writing doodle - as yet untitled - follows the last

Red and I fell into a pattern, she called the shots and I obeyed.  Who am I to argue with an alpha bitch? Besides, it wasn't like she was all that demanding and I could always overpower her if necessary.  The mornings consisted of breakfast, a walk, a short game of tug, and I went to work.  The pattern repeated after I came home from work, except in the reverse order. Damn good thing she couldn't talk or I'd have to learn to do something more challenging than make scrambled eggs and tuna salad sandwiches for two.

Things were fine until my first date since Red and I moved in together.

She wasn't amused, actually neither she was amused.  Red was used to my undivideds all night, unlimited playing, belly rubs, and a very specific bedtime.  Francine and I hooked up at the sports bar (XXX) and she allowed me to console her after her team lost.  Hell, I would have felt honor bound to console her no matter whose team lost; it'd been weeks since I'd had long legs wrapped around my waist and I had a woman writhing and screaming beneath me.

Turned out I haven't missed it all that much.

Red was creative when she was bored or ignored.  Who knew that a teenie, tiny pair of lacy undies could be devoured in under three seconds? The bra didn't take that much longer to completely destroy.  It wasn't like she needed them, I mean silicone doesn't sag or sway too much and her nipples weren't responsive anyway, so there wasn't much loss.  (fix this part later) Sure, I've played around and cut off a couple of pairs in my time.  Who hasn't?  My efforts were usually well rewarded.  Red's efforts?  Not greeted with enthusiasm.  Greeted instead with the promise of a bill from a place called Agent Provacatour.  (sp - look it up later) ... almost anything else would have been cheaper.  I'm lucky I lived when I offered to pay for her next Brazilian.  What?  Things seemed to be growing back in and that shit's expensive to take care of.  At least I don't bruise too easily.

(need to work in the contents of the purse the dog destroyed and the cries of outrage when the dog eats: lipstick, cellphone, cellphone case, diaphragm case, package of cigarettes, birth control pill package, wallet???)

There was a minor problem when I took Francine back to her car.  Red likes the view from the front seat; if I still owned a truck with a split bench instead of bucket seats, there wouldn't have been much of a problem.  Red started in the back and crawled into Francine's lap three times on a five mile drive.

"I guess she's not the one for us," I said as I ruffled Red's head.  Not that I was looking for the one now or ever.  "Want to get a burger?"