The Saga: Survival Update 11

Okay Cupids, 

This one might be a little long. It was a long night. 

Let’s start at the end: Mr. NCOhMyGod is asleep on my couch. Fully clothed. NO–we did NOT. 
How he got here? I brought him home with me. 
Why? Because Sergeant DrinksMcSexy was six Jack and cokes to the wind by hour two. 
What I figured out too late: This was a carefully staged and flawlessly executed operation by Mr. NCOhMyGod himself. 

The Setup: 

Sir. FlexesALot showed up at my door fully weaponized. All six-foot-too-many of him.
Ready to do maximum damage.
To my ovaries. 

I repeat:

THIS. MAN. DID. NOT. COME. OUT. TO. PLAY. 

Staff Sergeant McNaughty is beautiful on a normal day, but to look that good in his dress uniform? Absolutely diabolical. 

Did I want to climb him like a military obstacle course and plant my mouth on his pretty face? 
I’m not saying it almost happened. 
But it almost happened. 

And then Sergeant Major SeduceAndDestroy opened his mouth:
“Holy shit, that dress really accentuates your ASS-ets” followed immediately by calling my boobs “tactical advantages.” 

Which reminded me of exactly who I was dealing with. 
Still in awe… but at a safer distance.
No longer wanting to climb and kiss the tree–NOT a euphemism.

But then, in a surprising twist, he issued this challenge: “you look stunning.” 

The Panty-Melter 1000. Standard issue, totally normal compliment. 

Challenge accepted. I hit him back with: “you look great, too.” 

Just kidding. 
I misfired: said he looked like a present.

Then clarified: a very pretty present.
Panicked and added: “Like a Trojan horse.”
Then brought it home: “Leading troops into battle with… his thighs.” 
HIS THIGHS. 

I’m still recovering from first, second-, and third–degree embarrassment. 

Serious Question: Have you ever seen a man so perfectly fitted in a military dress uniform that it makes you question the laws of fabric physics? Like, did they sew him into it? Is there a military tailor who specializes exclusively in making Mr. NCOhMyGod look like an action figure? I’m not asking for a friend.

The Transportation Situation

Anyway, after, that Sergeant HandsAndArms lifted me into his truck like he was putting a toddler in a carseat, and we headed out. 

Actually, calling it a truck is like calling the Grand Canyon a ditch. It was a black behemoth that could survive the apocalypse. Or cause it. Maybe even run over a Prius and never notice.

I’m also pleased to report Lieutenant LiftsALot not only met the minimum quota of flex and innuendo predicted–pre-arrival–he spent the rest of the night racking up extra credit. 

Some bangers: 

• These dress pants require a specific quad-to-waist ratio. Most guys can’t pull it off.
• I mean, these uniforms don’t hug just anyone.
• Regular workouts keep me out of standard sizing.
• Would it make you feel better if I said I work hard for this physique?
• I try to get at least two hours of training in daily.
• The flexing? All night. Non stop. 
• Innuendos? Can’t repeat. But delivered one during the toast. 

Honorable Mention: At one point, I tripped over a chair I swear wasn’t there before. The entire barn-room went silent. Mr. NCOhMyGod, quick and on brand, announced to everyone: “Don’t mind her—she’s still falling for me.” Then he WINKED at a general. A GENERAL. The general winked back.

The Rules 

There were only three ground rules for the night:

• No funny business.
• No touching.
• Be good.

Don’t know why I even bothered.
Mr. NCOhMyGod broke all three of them. At once. 
It was quite impressive.
Never saw it coming. Probably wouldn’t have been able to stop him, though.

The Boyfriend Experience

As soon as we arrived Mr. NCOhMyGod introduces me as his girlfriend. To everyone.

Not “friend.” Not “co-worker.”

Girlfriend. Full title. Bold delivery. Zero heads-up.

If there was a reason we had to go full-blown relationship roleplay, maybe loop me in?
Draft a backstory. Rehearse. Get our lies straight. 

Also worth noting: I can’t lie for shit.

But Command Sergeant Major TacticalThighs can. He was so good, I almost started to believe it.

It was smart. Created a logical reason to deliver all the innuendos and have at lease one hand on me at all times–because it would still count as being good. 

A good boyfriend.

The bit did come in handy when I needed to use it to exact a petty clap back, though. Without giving a heads up, I tagged him in and–let’s just say Captain FlexAppeal understood his assignment. And surprisingly, didn’t take it too far. 

Just enough to make it look and feel real.

Did it have the desired effect? 

Yes. Just not sure on who. 

Her or me.

The Casualty of War

Anyway—there was dinner, drinking, dancing, and one unfortunate casualty:
I now only own one pair of Spanx.

Two hours in, they declared war on my internal organs.
Lost circulation in one thigh.
Started oozing out the top like a push pop.

Peeling them off in a tiny bathroom stall felt like trying to escape a boa constrictor.
In reverse.
While sweating.
And swearing.

A moment of silence, please, for the real MVP: The tiny trash can that now knows too much.

What?—Was I supposed to waltz back out holding a rolled-up sausage casing that used to be my shapewear?
I improvised.

Prayer for the fallen: I’d like to take a moment to honor my fallen Spanx. They gave their life in the line of duty, compressing parts of me that haven’t seen daylight since Reagan’s first term. When I finally wrestled them off, they made the exact sound of a freshly opened Tupperware container. I swear I heard them whisper “freedom” before I buried them in the trash. May they rest in peace in shapewear heaven, where all Spanx go to tell war stories about the muffin tops they’ve contained and the beans they’ve mysteriously disappeared.

“Take Me Home Tonight”

When I walked out—feeling like a freshly popped can of biscuits—I found Mr. NCOhMyGod waiting for me. He claimed he was drunk and asked me to take him home.

At first I said no.
Then I said yes—because he drove, and I’m responsible-ish.
Plan: drop him off, call an Uber, done and dusted.

That… is not what happened.

The following 10 minutes played out like a “Who’s on first” skit:

HIM: Take me home?
ME: Fine. Keys?
ALSO ME: Address?
HIM: You don’t know where you live?
ME: Your address.
HIM: But you said you’re taking me home.
ME: I am.
HIM: And you don’t know where you live?
ME: No—YOUR HOME ADDRESS.
HIM: …Oh. Why? When you’re taking me home. 

You see where I’m going with this.
My home. General TrojanHorse meant my home. 
The man flat out refused to give me his address. 

So, I agreed to take him home, on the condition he’d sleep in his truck. 
No. I didn’t really make him sleep out in the truck. I’m a mom. We don’t do shit like that.
I told him he could come inside–NOT a euphemism.
But he’d be sleeping on the couch. Alone.

Finale

Which brings us back to where we started: 
Mr. NCOhMyGod is asleep on my couch. 
Fully clothed. 
Without either of us having laid a single finger on each other.
Not. One. Single. Finger.

Platonically Ever After.
The End.

-PettyWoman, Queen of Never Thinking Things Through

P.S. Absolutely nothing to do with tonight: what’s the general consensus on forehead kisses? 

P.S.S. Nothing to do with what happened tonight. 

P.S.S.S. What didn’t happen tonight. 

P.S.S.S.S. Nothing happened tonight. 

P.S.S.S.S.S. Just curious.

P.S.S.S.S.S.S. In general. Thanks. 

OPERATION FORMAL RECONNAISSANCE:
A Complete Strategic Failure

CLASSIFICATION LEVEL: Maximum Humiliation
THREAT ASSESSMENT: Code Red
CURRENT STATUS: Subject compromised beyond repair

The following incident report documents what can only be described as a systematic demolition of my remaining dignity, orchestrated by Lieutenant Colonel Devastation-in-Dress-Blues with the precision of a military campaign and the subtlety of a tactical nuclear strike.

MISSION PARAMETERS:

• Attend formal military function as platonic companion
• Maintain professional boundaries
• Return home with dignity intact
• Avoid further psychological casualties

MISSION STATUS: Complete operational failure across all objectives

PRE-DEPLOYMENT RECONNAISSANCE

At 1900 hours, Master Sergeant Psychological-Warfare materialized at my residence fully weaponized for maximum ovarian destruction. Intelligence reports had failed to adequately prepare me for the visual assault of General Six-Foot-Too-Many in full dress uniform regalia.

The enemy’s tactical advantages included, but were not limited to:

• Dress uniform tailored to specifications that defy the laws of fabric physics
• Strategic deployment of ceremonial ribbons and insignia designed to cause temporary cognitive malfunction
• Facial structure configuration optimized for causing involuntary physiological responses

Upon visual confirmation of the target, this operative experienced immediate systems failure, including but not limited to: elevated heart rate, compromised vocabulary function, and an overwhelming tactical urge to scale the subject like military obstacle course equipment.

INITIAL CONTACT DISASTER

When required to provide verbal assessment of subject’s appearance, my linguistic processing unit malfunctioned catastrophically, producing the following word salad:

“You look like a present. A really pretty present. Like a Trojan horse present. Leading troops into battle with… his thighs.”

HIS THIGHS, CUPIDS.

This represents a new low in my documented history of verbal catastrophes, ranking somewhere between the 2019 “Moist Crevice” boardroom presentation and the 2021 “Accidental Dominatrix” parent-teacher conference incident.

TRANSPORTATION LOGISTICS

Subject’s vehicle—a black tactical behemoth capable of surviving post-apocalyptic scenarios—required assisted boarding due to my height disadvantage and the restrictive nature of formal attire. Captain Unnecessary-Upper-Body-Strength executed a precision lift maneuver, depositing me in the passenger compartment like military cargo.

En route to target location, Staff Sergeant Compulsive-Flexing initiated a sustained propaganda campaign designed to showcase his physical conditioning regimen:

• “These dress pants require a specific quad-to-waist ratio”
• “Regular workouts keep me out of standard sizing”
• “I work hard for this physique”

Each statement was accompanied by deliberate muscular demonstrations that served no tactical purpose beyond psychological warfare.

OPERATIONAL DECEPTION

Upon arrival at the venue, Colonel Commitment-Phobic immediately commenced Phase 1 of his deception protocol: introducing this operative as his “girlfriend” to all military personnel present.

This designation was implemented without prior consultation, strategic planning, or informed consent. However, the cover story proved tactically advantageous when requiring defensive countermeasures against hostile female operatives displaying territorial aggression.

EQUIPMENT MALFUNCTION

Two hours into the operation, my primary structural support system—classified shapewear designation “Spanx”—experienced critical failure. The compression garment, overwhelmed by prolonged tactical deployment, began systematic decompression that threatened to compromise the entire mission.

Emergency extraction to bathroom facilities was required for field repair, involving what can only be described as reverse boa constrictor escape procedures while maintaining operational silence.

CASUALTY REPORT: One (1) compression garment, KIA. Cause of death: structural integrity failure under extreme operational stress.

TACTICAL WITHDRAWAL

At mission conclusion, Subject Lieutenant “I-Was-Never-Actually-Drunk” initiated what appeared to be an intoxication-based extraction request. However, post-operational analysis suggests this was a calculated maneuver designed to infiltrate my residential base of operations.

The following exchange demonstrates the subject’s superior strategic thinking:

SUBJECT: Take me home?
OPERATIVE: Your address?
SUBJECT: You don’t know where you live?
OPERATIVE: No—YOUR address.
SUBJECT: But you’re taking me home.

This circular logic trap successfully resulted in the subject gaining access to my residential facility under the guise of requiring overnight accommodation.

CURRENT OPERATIONAL STATUS

As of 0800 hours, Major General Sleeping-Booty remains in my living quarters, occupying the primary furniture deployment area. Subject is fully clothed and positioned at maximum possible distance from this operative’s sleeping quarters.

LESSONS LEARNED:

1. Military dress uniforms constitute psychological warfare of the highest order
2. Shapewear has operational limitations that must be factored into mission planning
3. Never underestimate the strategic capabilities of a man who can make “quad-to-waist ratio” sound like a legitimate conversation topic
4. My residential security protocols require immediate revision

MISSION ASSESSMENT: While all primary objectives were compromised, no irreversible tactical errors were committed. Subject remains contained within acceptable parameters.

RECOMMENDATION: Request immediate reassignment to a theater of operations that does not include devastatingly attractive NCOs with advanced psychological manipulation training.

~ Your compromised operative reporting from behind enemy lines

ADDENDUM: Current threat level remains elevated. Subject shows no signs of voluntary tactical withdrawal from my area of operations.