Prone Bone Malone Chronicles #1 – Pumpkin Spice Pewter

pew·ter

[ˈpyo͞odər]

NOUN
  1. a gray alloy of tin with copper and antimony (formerly, tin and lead).
    • utensils made of this:
      “the kitchen pewter”
    • a shade of bluish or silver gray:

     

So I’m assuming most of you didn’t know what that title meant – and you still probably don ‘t. I didn’t know what pewter was myself until the first time I met our subject of today’s “PBM Chronicles” for the first time. I called A Train on my way back from her place, and I called her a “bronze medal fuck.” He said “sounds more like pewter.” Thus this jump off’s nickname was born – Enter “Pewter.” I’ll give this situation a bit more color, but it won’t take long for you to figure out where this is going. Pewter and I met on Tinder. She’s not a huge lady, but she definitely ain’t small. Softball player size. Lives a good ways from me (I’m in the CWE in St. Louis, she’s wayyyyy west), but at this point in my life, if it is less than an hour, I’m going. I was with the same amazing, beautiful, and gracious woman for 14 years – PBM is going to sew oats and I’m going to make entire oat sweaters out of my semen. Can I get a Hallllleeeeeluuuuuujah?!? Jay Electronica, give me a Halllllllleeeeluuuujah!

Last night was my third romp with ‘ol Pewter. She showed up way too late with too much stuff, and I knew this night was going to be interesting to say the fucking least. Our first two meetings were a bit out of the ordinary, but they weren’t necessarily blog worthy. This night fucking was. She had two bags – one that looked like clothes and the other looks like it was full of arts and crafts. Well, when a bag looks like it is filled with arts and crafts, it usually is. Examples below:

She came into my place like Meatloaf’s “Bat out of Hell” album was her internal soundtrack, and just started going rip shit riot. Handing me books to read. Posting up in my kitchen, and not immediately saying, “I’m baking you something!” Here’s our dialogue at whatever past ten o’clock on a Tuesday night:

PBM – So, um, what are you fucking doing?

PSP – I’m making a pumpkin spice cheesecake for Vin’s class! I’m just going to knock this out. Don’t worry about it!

PBM – I’m not worried about it. I’m not sure what I think about it.

PSP – Well good then! I’m going to pour myself wine, and I’ll meet you in your living room.

PBM – Sure. Just do the dishes, I guess.

PSP – You’re so sweet! (kisses PBM’s lips)

Now, Vin isn’t her kid. He is her roommate’s. That isn’t the noteworthy part. THIS IS THE THIRD TIME I’VE MET THIS WOMAN. SHE’S MAKING A PUMPKIN SPICED CHEESECAKE IN MY KITCHEN AT CLOSE TO 11PM ON A TUESDAY. WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK?!? Worst part was is that I didn’t have a can opener, so I had to text my landlords downstairs, who I knew were fucking sleeping, to see if they had one. They didn’t respond.

The night continued. It went too late. I put the hammer down at 12:30 and started turning off lights around her midsentence. This was after she was singing along to country music on my back porch while smoking 100’s. We climbed into bed, PBMJ’d (Prone Bone Malone & Jelly), and drifted off to sleep. I’m not giving details on the actual sex, because I’m a gentleman like that. But use your imagine.

Relationship Status: Frightened, Confused, Still Slightly Interested, Solid PBMJ Chemistry

Likelihood of Another Date: 9/10 (she left the crafts at my crib, after all)

 

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