He stood before me, this sexy man in a black leather motorcycle jacket, and whispered words that I love to hear~

I really love your blog! I have never before laughed out loud at something I was reading while I had a hard-on at the same time.

And with that admittedly flattering proclamation, our fond friendship was fated.

When he comes to see me in the cafe where I work, as he does frequently enough that I now look quite forward to his visits and anticipate them almost, as if I can feel him nearing, it always, always , brightens my day. In fact, I usually see him as he pulls up outside on his motorcycle and when I do, my heart flutters a bit, even though I consciously, intently … will it not to.

You see, I have a crush on a Motorcycle Man.

Crushes are a completely different animal than the willful, hungry tiger that is lust. A crush is a little kitten, a cuddly creature that wants desperately to curl up in the lap of the person to whom its affections are centered for that very moment, purr for a while, and then fall asleep, as content as it has ever been. A crush needs nothing more than to know that the person petting it admires it enough to continue doing so.

I love a good crush.

The thing that’s nice about a crush is that there are no expectations, or, as Motorcycle Man mentioned (quite cutely, I might add,) sexpectations . It just is what it is. There is always a possibility that it could turn into more, but that’s part of what makes it so much fun – the outside chance that the kitten could turn into a tiger.

But it seems the probability that this particular animal will transform is low.

That’s not to say that we haven’t openly and honestly discussed moving past this crush stage we have both determined we are in. Yes, he admitted he admires my brain and my personality, and I admitted that he’s an adorable fucking kitten and that I’d quite enjoy hearing him purr.

Okay, maybe I didn’t say that exactly , but you get the gist.

And so did he.

Last week, Motorcycle Man and I abandoned our positions at the cafe where we have spent the last several months quietly flirting with each other; where he has been the customer and I the willing and happy servant to his desirous needs. Instead he took me to dinner. We decided that it was an undate dinner , a dinner between two friends and nothing more, and I am sure you are not surprised to hear that I had more fun than I have had on an actual real date (with someone other than Hubby) in fucking ages.

Ages and ages and ages.

Yep. I love a good crush.

So, Motorcycle Man and I are friends. In fact, I venture to guess that, based on all of our spirited conversations and our continued mutual respect, that we may even become good friends eventually. And I can’t even begin to indicate my hope that this will be so.

But I know in my happy-fluttery heart and in my tiger-horny head that the only way this can be is if we do not allow the metamorphosis of our newfound friendship from kitten to tiger. From simple crush to overtaking lust. Because the potential for our friendship to end badly … or to END … is much too great.

And I’m not ready for an ending just yet. Besides, I like kittens better than tigers anyway.

Mostly.

Purr.