I got with Paul McCartney last night. I don't know how this happened. I was always a John girl.
We respect each other's boundaries. That's the cool thing about our relationship. I always called him "Sir Paul." It's part of the thrill.
He had admired my prowess in self-defense and wanted a private training session. He needed help dealing with the papparazzi.
I showed up at his apartment lugging a big sack of equipment--padded bricks, punching mitt, padded helmet, knee pads. Oh, and one of the guys, one of the model muggers, to help me teach.
I must say I looked good. Trim and fit and collegiate. And I felt quite young and frisky. Sir Paul wants to get sweaty with me? Bring it on.
Then it began to grow light around the edges of the curtains. C got up and dressed for work. I turned over, and the cat was snoring.