He responded to my ad, which was crude and impulsive: BBW ISO young, hung, and not too dumb. No married men or cheaters! I'd assumed from his handle that he was French, or a Francophile, and wrote a painfully ungrammatical response in French. To which he replied in his own weirdly nonidiomatic French. (Later he confessed he'd composed it through a machine-assisted translator ) He sent me a dick pic, but only after asking my permission. (Those were still novel to me at the time.) Also an unflattering photograph that showed his face. (He is not photogenic.)
About a week later we met in a local Starbucks. I was almost paralyzed with self-consciousness, and must have seemed stiff and joyless, the very antithesis of the brazen hussy I wanted to play.
He didn't buy me a coffee, as I recall; he just offered me his own untouched latte, which I took between my trembling hands. He was between jobs at the moment, but he didn't seem dejected about it. He was bubbling with charm and joie de vivre, and I was transfixed by the bright intensity of his eyes and his wide boyish grin.
We chatted for at least half an hour. I had no idea how to proceed. Finally he suggested we head to my house, if I was comfortable. I was hardly comfortable, but I scribbled my address down and he followed me a few minutes later.
I don't remember the particulars of our initial encounter, except that he had impressive stamina. I had never had a lover more agile and energetic, or with a greater capacity to... recover. I still haven't. He was in his late thirties, but looked 25. He still does.
I do remember I asked to see him again. He bowed his head and took my hands in his, and said, kindly and carefully, "Let's think about that."
That night, hitting redial on my phone, I inadvertently called him. I was extremely embarassed. He was cordial and kind, but seemed bemused as I choked out a mortified apology.
Although I was sure I had scared him off, we did see each other again. And again. And the sex (from my end) kept getting sweeter and hotter. Inevitably, I became smitten.
I was even inspired to write some bad poetry:
Your hair smells like a child's that's been playing in the sun,
Your semen tangy on my tongue, like salty lemonade,
No bitter there, nor in your open gaze,
The belly taut, the narrow hips,
The urgent warmth of your lips,
Belie the touch of gray.
May you always be so sweet and fresh,
May your youth but gently fade.
Oh dear...
We had a couple of e-mail spats. I spotted a craigslist posting of his in which he claimed to be in an "open relationship." I was angry that he hadn't disclosed the live-in girlfriend. He apologized, while gently reminding me I was a little out of line. This was a Casual Encounter, after all.
Later, he described himself in a posting as "jolie laide," a term I had ascribed to his own special brand of "ugly beauty." I was irritated that he had used my words to market himself to other women. Plagiarist! Again, he apologized, but later suggested that once a compliment is given, it belongs to the recipient. "It's my life, after all," he pointed out. Touche.
I could never get really angry, because he always copped to his shit so eloquently, and he always made me feel so damn desirable, which is half the payoff for me when it comes down to it.
There have been some long separations, once when I was getting fatter and sicker and he was sparring with his own demons. Now it seems we are truly evolving into friends. It's not exactly a "Friends With Benefits" arrangement, because we never see one another outside my house. I joke that I am his "friendly benefit."
Every few weeks, we spend a few hours in bed, talking and cuddling and fucking like coked-up bunnies. It's an awful lot of fun.
I don't entirely understand his relentless addiction to sex with strangers. I still get a little jealous when I see his posts, but I hardly ever look for them anymore. I don't want to know too much about the particulars of his personal life. I am even sorry I know his girlfriend's name.
"I adore you," I told him the last time I saw him. But I'm not obsessed with you anymore.
When he goes out my door, it is bittersweet. I will sail on my endorphins for the next 48 hours, but I always wonder, Will I ever see you again?
"You can always send up an SOS," he reminds me.
And sometimes I do just that. But it's better if I wait for him to come to me, I reckon.
I hope I know him forever, firmly rooted on the periphery of my patchwork life.
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