Somewhere along the way, I became so determined to make the fantasy happen that I figured I’d better be prepared with a playlist that would go well with a vigorous night. Titled, uncreatively, “#121 songs,” I picked a saucy assortment that included Catherine Wheel, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and Florence + the Machine.
The day after our heavy flirtation, I caught sight of him at my usual Friday night gathering of like-minded downtowners. When Nora arrived—late—she asked, “Is he here?” I nodded, unable to quash a grin. After things wound down, I saw him walk around the side of the room toward me. I got up and moved toward him, smiling. His usually impassive expression melted into a smile, too. We hugged.
“Are you going to Evan’s show?” he asked.
Expecting something more in line with the suggestive content of the previous nights’ texting session, I said, confused, “I don’t know, are you?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“What should we do?”
“How about we go hang out at your place.”
“OK.”
Phew.
Heading east on Houston together, conversation didn’t exactly flow. He expressed dissatisfaction with his construction job, so I asked what he liked to do.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“What kinds of things are you good at?”
“I think I’d be good at sales,” he said.
“That sounds good. I bet you would.”
“I was really good at selling drugs,” he said. “But those things sell themselves.”
I really didn't know where to go from there. I felt like I was doing the walk of shame even though nothing shameful had happened—yet.
On the corner of Houston and Broadway, he noticed I was toting a handbag, an umbrella and another small shopping bag. “Do you want me to carry some of your shit?” he asked. Ah, see. There’s a gentleman in there somewhere.
He took my umbrella and we managed to chat about dogs, siblings and his two-time unclehood. He showed me some photos of his brother and sister and their kids on his phone. It occurred to me only later that the conversation might have been stunted because maybe—just maybe—he was nervous.
At my apartment, I offered him a drink, which he declined. I put on the aforementioned playlist and, when I turned on the string of mini Chinese lanterns (my hunk-lair mood lighting) hanging next to him, he put his hand in my back pocket and pulled me down onto his lap. Articles of clothing were quickly piled on the floor and he swooped me up and over to the bed. It was, now that I think about it, kind of like my fantasy. Everything seemed in order. His strength? Check. His energy? Check. His drive? Check. His body? Double check. But…
…The thing about having sex with a 25-year-old is that you’re having sex with a 25-year-old. The word “foreplay” must have been absent from his vocabulary because he pretty much went straight for the finish line. We went one round and then had a difference of opinion about protection, which resulted in the second round being cut short. Although he did honestly compliment me on my various bedroom skills (“I usually never ______.” and “________ usually doesn’t work on me.”), he used almost every excuse in the book to keep things going without a condom, including his non-ejaculatory skill, his weak sperm and the fact that he couldn’t—just couldn’t—do it with a condom despite the fact that he just had.
He deemed our standoff a “predicament,” the most multisyllabic word he'd used yet, and we changed the subject. He confessed that he didn't usually go for tiny girls like me—that he usually liked a significant ass. “How’s my ass?” I asked.
”You have a nice ass. A lot of people have flat asses but you have a nice one, you should show it off more.”
“How?”
“You should wear tight jeans.”
Then I confessed that I had first noticed him more than a year ago. “You’ve been eyeballing me that long?” he asked.
Not intending to make a huge emotional investment in this, there was no point in holding my cards close. “Mmm Hmm,” I said.
After a few more wanton gropes and some truly sexy rolls around the bed in which he held me to him and flipped us both over, he said he had to get up for work in the morning. It had only been a little over an hour, which didn't surprise me, but what did surprise me was what came next. We dressed and sat on the sofa. I lit a cigarette and then lit one for him, too.
"I didn't know you smoked," he said.
“I do sometimes, but you can probably tell I’m not a real smoker,” I said.
He smiled. “Yup.”
Then he gave me a lesson on how to hold a cigarette and smoke properly.
“Like this,” he said, placing the low part of his cigarette between his second knuckles and moving his hand around as if the cigarette was just an extension of it.
I practiced. He told me I was getting better. “And then you’ve gotta flick it,” he said, flicking his thumb against the cigarette so the ash fell in the ashtray.
“I think that’s the one thing I do right,” I said, flicking my cigarette to show him. He nodded.
“Cosmic Love” came on over the stereo.
“I like Florence + the Machine,” he said. “Have you ever heard “Howl”?” He got up and plugged his phone into my stereo to play it. Sitting down, he said, “I listen to this on repeat when I’m depressed and it makes me feel better…Great lyrics...About love…Not romantic love…but love that either you receive from the world or that you…give off into the world.”
“I like that,” I said. I looked at him and wondered if I was dealing with something fragile here.
I got up and sat on his lap so I was facing him. We locked our fingers together and he pulled me forward and backward, holding me so I didn’t fall, like in one of those trust games.
“You’re not crazy are you?” he asked.
I smiled. His bluntness was refreshing. “No," I said. "We’ve all got our things, but, no, I’m not crazy.”
“I mean like manic-depressive. That’s one of my rules, I don’t get involved with manic-depressive girls.”
“No, I’m not manic-depressive,” I said. “How does that play out anyway?”
“They constantly text and call. And are really codependent.”
I smiled. If he only knew how very not obsessive I was feeling about him.
“What sign are you?” he asked.
“Do you know about signs?”
“I only know the ones that are bad for me.”
“Oh, which ones?” I asked.
“No, I can’t say now. You might be one of them,” he said.
“Come on. I’m sure I’m not one of them.”
“Leo, Scorpio, Aquarius.”
“Nope, nope, nope.”
“Gemini, Cancer.”
“Nope, nope.”
“What are you?”
“Virgo. What are you?”
I was afraid he was going to say Aquarius because I knew his birthday was in January. I’d dated two Aquarius (#73 and #78) and it hadn’t gone well. But then he said he was a Capricorn.
“I think they’re supposed to be pretty laid-back,” I said, although I really had no idea how they were supposed to be and had no reference point because I’d never dated one, which was probably a good thing.
Then he stood, picking me up with him so that his arms were around me holding me up and my legs were around him.
“You’re strong,” I said.
“You weigh, like, four pounds.”
“No. 110.”
“That’s nothing.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“180.”
Yum.
“This is fun,” I said as he swayed a little, holding me.
We stayed like that for several minutes until he said he’d better go because he might be tempted to start something again if he didn’t. As he went out the door, he turned, said, “See you soon?” and we kissed one last time.
Signs of Hope: As Nora said, “He’s only 25. You got him before he spoils.”
As Kevin said, “For someone like #111, who’s 45 and not gonna change, there’s no hope. But for #121, he’s young and malleable.”
As Heidi said, “Maybe he just needs some training. You can be Mrs. Robinson.”
Red Flags: His whining about protection.
Turning Point: The real connection came on the couch.
Diagnosis: For him: He lacks tact, bedroom skills and an understanding of the importance of protection. But it was sweet that he showed some vulnerability and I could see that it wasn’t an act. In ten years, he’s going to make some woman very happy, so maybe, while I’m at it, I should start him on some training.
For me: Although I’m becoming more and more fond of him, I'm not obsessing about him, not wondering why he isn't calling or texting, not plotting my next move and not dissecting our last interactions searching for what I could have done wrong. Come to think of it, maybe he's actually training me.
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