Mr. Unavailable #126: Squatter Love

See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound and No Picnic in the Park for the background on this one.

As predicted, within about 24 hours I'd recovered from #126's easy let-down. Twenty-four hours after that, it was the first day of summer and I was home looking at Gawker, lamenting having no plans to celebrate the solstice. Then #126 called.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Indulging in a rare moment of celebrity gossip,” I said.

“I just got home from work and was going to get something to eat. Do you want to get something to eat? Or is it too late?”

“No, I can get something to eat.” I suggested Café Angelina. “Give me ten minutes.”

“OK,” he said, I’m really hungry, so I might die if I don’t eat soon.”

“I’ll hurry.”

Even though the restaurant was only half a block from his apartment, he called me to say he couldn’t find it.

“You can’t miss it,” I said. I was three-quarters of a block away, so by the time I got there, he was sitting at a table out front. He pointed to a small, potted tree they had in front of the place and said, “It was camouflaged.”

On the pros side, that was cute.
On the cons side, he didn’t get up, didn’t kiss me hello, nothing. I reminded myself that I already knew he wasn’t boyfriend material.

He launched into talk about previous girlfriends, saying that most of his relationships started with first-date sex. However, the most recent girl, he said, he dated for two months and she never had sex with him. "Isn't that fucked up?" was his meaning.

For him, immediate sex was not only normal but required. I was beginning to feel a little groomed.

“It doesn’t matter if you have sex on the first date if you’re looking for the same thing,” I said. “The only problems come in if one person is only looking for a fling and the other wants something more.”

Both of us leaned in over the small table.

“The relationship between men and women got all messed up, youknowwhatImean?" he said. "I think men are built to sleep with as many women as possible and women are built to screen: ‘No, no, no, yes, no, no,’” he said, pointing at imaginary suitors next to the potted plant. “But somewhere along the way it went wrong and now we have these men that don’t have to do anything and they get women anyway. They can’t seem to make a decision, but there’s always a woman for them, so they float."

He was speaking my language. “I totally agree,” I said. “So what happened that these guys are like this?”

“Probably the women’s movement…youknowwhatImean...maybe not, but...even me, I say I want to get married and have kids but I’m 45 and have neither. I mean, I raised my ex’s kid until he was five, but that doesn’t really count because he wasn’t mine...youknowwhatImean?”

“It's like you said," I said, coolly picking up a forkful of salad. "You have to make a decision.”

He nodded, gazing at me as if that was one of the most insightful things about himself he’d ever heard.

I should probably mention that even though we were in cahoots conversationally, we weren't etiquette-ly. It looked like he was being careful about his food when it was on the plate, but it was a different story when it got closer to his face. His chin was spackled with condiments and crumbs. He actively chewed as he spoke. He even picked his nose. And then, when the bill came and I got my money out, he didn’t shoo it away. I had to remind myself that I was merely in this to get laid.

Reverting back to talk of the apartment, he mentioned a hole underneath the radiator.

“There’s a hole under the radiator?” I sensed an opening. “How did I miss that?”

“I don’t know. Do you want to come take a look at it?” He must have sensed the opening, too.

We paid the bill and walked back to his place, where he showed me the hole. “Yup, that’s a hole,” I said. I took another look around, lingering in each room. It looked like a squatter’s apartment. He’d slung one lone twin mattress with crumpled up sheets in the middle of the living room floor. The bedroom, which was dark, had a bookcase and a flung-open suitcase in it. The whole place was humid and stinky, like a dog had just been given a bath with all the windows closed. There was something squalid about the lightbulbs, too. They flickered putridly from the ceiling. With every step, I looked at him weightily; a look that he returned. I could feel an internal struggle building inside him. It only made me bolder. I stepped closer as my phone beeped, meaning that I’d received a text. It was Zoe.

I looked at it and read it out loud. “Where r u? Are u OK?"

I looked at #126. “Am I OK?”

“I don’t know, are you OK?”

“I’m OK. Are you OK?”

“I’m OK.”

We just looked at each other. Someone had to make a move.

And then he said, “OK, I’ll walk you home.”

“OK,” I smiled. He’d chickened out. I knew it and he knew it, too.

We got about halfway down 2nd Street when he said.

“So, that was really intense in the apartment, huh?”

“Yes, it was,” I said. “So, what are we going to do about it?”

We stopped in the middle of the block.

“It could get complicated,” he said. “You’re renting my apartment and, like you said before, if someone wants something more…”

“Oh, right,” I said, feeling vaguely insulted. “You’re afraid you might fall for me and not want to move to Arizona.”

He shifted uncomfortably, looked at me and said, “I’m not sure if you’re kidding or not.”

“I’m kidding. So…what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“OK,” I said. And then, sounding rational and accommodating, I added, “Let’s just put it on the shelf.”

He grabbed me and kissed me, backing me up against a parked car. It wasn't as hot as it may sound. I sort of had to walk backward and stick out my butt so I didn't fall back against the car. He was kissing me so hard, I actually had to turn my face to breathe. I was nervous, too, because I knew what kind of deal I'd just made. He'd been preparing me at dinner. This wasn't going to be an innocent make-out session.

Then he took my hand and headed back toward his place. “We can put other things on the shelf,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Going to the post office,” he said.

“I dunno,” I said. “I actually need to go to the post office.”

“The library,” he said.

“Now that you mention it, I’ve got a library card that I’ve never used that I'd really like to use. We should go.”

Back at his place, he closed the door, picked me up and maneuvered me down onto the mattress. I looked up at the sickly light bulbs. This was probably as close to squatter love as I was ever going to get. I kind of liked it.

As I continued struggling to breathe under his firm kisses, I suspected it had been a while for him. It was also difficult to move around on the twin mattress. Between the two, I started to get tired. And then something dawned on me...

A little background: I’ve never faked it. It either happened or it didn’t, and it never occurred to me to pretend it had just to spare my partner’s ego. In my early years, I was easy to please so it was rarely a problem. And then I’d had a long dry spell. And then, well, I got back in the game and had spotty success. If I’d only just faked it with #111, maybe we would have lasted longer. Then again, it’s best it didn’t last longer, so maybe not faking it weeds them out.

At any rate, I could tell that, with #126, the window of opportunity for a natural reaction had closed—but that there was definite future potential—so I was OK with putting a stop to things.

And then I began….as I did, some thoughts went through my head:
“Wow, that really does sound like how I sound.”
“I wonder if I could fake myself into it really happening…fake it ‘til you make it.”
“That was pretty convincing. I was fooled anyway. I wonder if he believed it.”

A minute later, he was done and we laid there for a while as he kissed my forehead, cheeks, neck, telling me how beautiful I was, how womanly and delicate I was. I actually liked him better afterward. He seemed smarter, funnier, sexier, manlier, more engaging.

We talked for an hour and then I told him I had to go. He told me I could stay. I really didn’t want to. I was ready to get back to an apartment with furnishings and flattering lighting.

“Bye, gorgeous,” he said at the door. As I walked the block and a half home, I called Zoe.

“I’m just coming from the vet’s.”

“Oh, I was so worried. You’d left the lights on and it looked like you were going to come right back but it’s been hours. It occurred to me you might be with him. So, yeah, come on, what happened?”

I broke the most exciting news first: “I finally faked it!”

“Well done, darling,” she said.

Signs of Hope: He’s a vigorous lover with definite potential for orgasmic success.

Red Flags: He could have at least bought me dinner.

Turning Point: When we turned back toward his apartment.

Diagnosis: For both of us, this could be a lot of fun.