Boston Legal by Margot

Margot here:
After six years barely-there sex and several months post-break up great sex with European Man, I wondered, would next man be great or barely there?
A night out at ultra high brow event with BFF Clarissa, but intermission hits and we discover we're low brow people in high brow heels and after tossing back a single flute of Kir Royale we hoof it to the nearest bar.
Inside it's dimly lit, we like low light, low light is flattering light. And given we are no longer 20 or even 30, forget diamonds, low light is a girl's best friend. We sit at a long high bar table and order wine. As usual for Clarissa and me, we are ignored. men abound, but so do the blondes either on their arms, in their laps or serving them drinks. We are not blonde. Then it happens.
Two men in suits ask if they can sit across from us. It is a long communal table you see, so one cannot at first assume it is us in particular they are into, but rather, a place to eat. We say yes and immediately they introduce themselves. They are cops from Boston. They have that Boston accent, like a Kennedy only tough. The tall one, let's call him Frenchy, chats me up. But not until he spills a glass of red wine. Spill is being nice. He shattered a glass of red wine and doused the table, and his little cop colleague we'll call, Freddie. Freddie is chatting up Clarissa.
It goes well. For two hours Frenchy tells me all about himself, his job, his hometown, his love of hockey teams from Canada and also of cooking. He drinks more red wine and still more. I nurse one glass of Pinot Grigio for three hours. How drunk was he? He was definitely happy. How drunk was I? I was driving. So I was not drunk at all.
Then it was time to leave. Frenchy and Freddie walked us to my car. I loved having a police escort without having done anything illegal. Frenchy was hot. Cops are hot. I felt very safe and was hoping someone would try and mug us so that Frenchy could bust a cop move. It didn't happen.
Once beside my car he kissed me. Slow at first, then deeper, stronger, wetter. And it was good. It was even better than European Man. Frenchy knew his stuff. And he wanted more, much more. He wanted me to go home with him. To his hotel room, not to Boston.
But I was too sober and I said no. I drove all the way home regretting that moment of sobriety.
It would have been great. It wold have exorcised European Man and Barely-there-Man from my senses, all of them, for good. But I was unable to let go.
Moral of the story? When a sexy cop from Boston takes you into his arms and kisses you like you've never been kissed before go back to the hotel with him... In other words...This was a night of Too Much Sleep, far too little Drink and even less BLEEP.