the hammer (part 12)

About six months ago…

Chi-guy and I communicated loosely through email and text, still flirting, keeping the energy flowing.

I confided to him that I had an interview coming up for a more analytical role. On the big day, I woke up to find a message with a fully nude photo of Chi-guy, in profile, holding a hammer erect where his privates should have been. The caption read, “Nail that interview!”

Ultimately, while inspiring, it was ineffective.

Of course I described it to all my girlfriends (and even showed a few of them). “Oh my God, he’s creative, clever, witty and smokin’ hot!” one exclaimed. “Perfect for you!”

It seemed that, just as I was retreating in my desire to get physical with Chi-guy, he might be warming to the idea…

More…

the ex-husband-orcism

Last weekend, I invited girlfriends over to help me perform an exorcism: the exorcism of my ex husband’s belongings, photos, spirit and trappings of our married life from my boudoir and other areas of the house.

I had long been thinking about the idea of a cleansing or a celebration, and I never felt quite certain about what was appropriate or acceptable. My plan took on definition for two reasons:

A girlfriend gently told me that, while I clearly cherished my “mother” identity, it didn’t belong in my bedroom. Every other room in our home is family friendly; my room should be a personal sanctuary, a child-free zone. The family photos and stuffed animals would have to go.
With each passing week that I failed to tackle the project of cleaning and re-organizing the basement, I knew that I was experiencing some major resistance to dealing with it all. This was not going to be an easy job for me.

I was going to have to call in some reinforcements. And I would need them to be both relentless and brutally honest. After all, my closet (and outdated wardrobe) was part of my bedroom.

I invited a bunch of fun girls, knowing that only a handful could or would show up — this sort of thing is not for everyone. In one day, what we could accomplish would be limited, so I prioritized:

Rearrange and organize my bedroom and closet
Organize the children’s artwork (my sister, the art major, would be assigned ultimate judge of what I should keep, purging the rest)
Begin the impossible task of cleaning the basement

I set out a spread of beverages and snacks — brie, hummos and the like — and the girls arrived in early afternoon. We began by moving furniture and de-cluttering in my room. Down came the belly cast from my second pregnancy, out went the family photos, and in came the “welcome to my boudoir” energy. Any trinkets or baubles that I’d received as gifts from my ex went into the garbage. After the momentary feeling of guilt that this might be appreciated by someone else, I willingly, gladly let go.

With a team of supporters around me, it was easy to enjoy the feeling of liberation that letting go, releasing what no longer served me, could provide. Sure, there were a few moments of compromise, a few items that, for sentimental reasons, I was not ready to let go. But mostly, perhaps because I was being watched, it was easy to say no to that oh-so-tartish Roxy tee shirt, a circa 1988 Benetton and a Coogi sweater (yeah, embarrassing) that I’d purchased while vacationing in Sydney with a boyfriend in 1996. What was I thinking, holding onto these for so long? Even after the girls left, I purged books and jewelry with glee.

We never got as far as the basement, but I now feel unstuck, as though the task might be something I could accomplish, little by little, on my own. And I think the biggest surprise to me was how easy it actually was. I thought I might have some bigger moments of resistance or feeling really emotional, maybe even tears. But there were none. It was fun, even empowering!

When the children returned from their weekend with their father, they were energized and began cleaning their own room. We’re on nine large bags for charitable donations and counting.

Sage smudge yet to come.

talking it out with Chi-guy (part 11)

About seven months ago…

I sent Chi-guy’s birthday gift off with a card that let him know what a great time I’d had on our day together. I wrote that I’d appreciated getting to know him better and thought he had a sexy brain. Then I added, “p.s. Next time, more touch!” I enclosed a little something for his daughter, as well, as her birthday was later in the week.

We continued to text each other throughout the week, and he thanked me for the thoughtful gift and my kind words.

Meanwhile, I had rattled off the story of my tragically sexless weekend to anyone who would listen — my girlfriends, my sister and even my mother, who said, “So you finally met a decent man!”

Just more than a week had gone by when we were able to talk again. He had just gotten home from a shopping trip to IKEA and recounted his purchases: a full-length mirror, a dresser and lamp for his daughter’s room, a cinnamon roll and a cookie cutter.

“Cookie cutter?” I inquired.

“Yeah. I was reading the paper yesterday and well, you know, it’s back to school season, and there was an article with ideas for packing school lunches…”

The knowing mother, I chimed in, “so you’re going to make sandwiches in fun shapes for your daughter’s lunch . . .”

“Yeah, I thought that would be fun,” he affirmed. I swooned.

We chatted casually a bit and then I took a deep breath and began:

“So last time I saw you, I really enjoyed the time we spent together, until the end of the evening, which was very confusing for me…so I wanted to talk about that and try to understand what you were thinking?”

Him: “Hmm…what were you thinking?” Coward!

Me: “Well…do you remember when we had coffee last summer and you told me you were getting a divorce? …My heart went out to you because I know (even if we’re approaching this from different angles) how much it hurts and how difficult it is, and I felt so bad for you, because I could see that you were hurting. But somewhere inside, there was this little part of me that was screaming ‘YES!!!!’…

“Aw, that’s sweet,” he replied.

“…And I started thinking that there’s always been a kind of energy between us, and that we seem to have an attraction for one another, and we’re both recently single at the same time and – what an opportunity! I rarely travel to Chicago, and I’ve got three trips schedule for Chicago this autumn…I thought, you seemed in such a bad place last summer, that I would help you get your mojo back…”

“Oh…”

“I know, isn’t that noble of me? My intentions were soooo altruistic!” I giggled.

“Wow. I guess I just thought that we were flirting and that it didn’t really mean anything and I thought, ‘she couldn’t possibly want me.’ Besides, I think I’m falling for you…”

Now this is where a smarter woman, a woman who is more fully present, who understands how to communicate in a relationship would have stopped to savor the moment and, perhaps, to investigate. To this day, I wish I could go back and ask him to tell me more or explain what he meant. Or even just ask, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

But I was not that smarter woman. No; I rambled on, intent on advocating my case that we should go to bed together. Me: “Even if we were flirting, I was being very genuine about what I felt and what I wanted. When I told you that you have a sexy voice, I wasn’t just stroking you, I really dig your voice. There’s something about the resonance that drives me wild. And when I asked what it was going to take to get into your CKs, it’s because I genuinely wanted to get in your CKs!”

Him: “But wouldn’t it just have been meaningless?”

Me: “I think there’s a difference between casual and meaningless. We seem to have some concern for each other, and I think we could give ourselves a free pass, and share something really beautiful that doesn’t have to be about our future or anything. I think because we’re in a very similar place right now, we’d have a lot to offer one another – and it would be really fun!”

Him: “That’s a good distinction. I wouldn’t have thought about it like that…”

I asked him about other things he had said to me that night, about The Road Less Traveled and his moral compass — did he truly intend to be celibate until his divorce was final?

“No. I’m a guy,” he said, “I’d like to sleep with any woman who I’ll never have to see or talk to again.”

We laughed; I admired him all the more for his candor. I went on to argue (again) that we were adults, we didn’t have to play games, we could be friends and lovers, too, and that the similar timing and situations made our circumstances all the more ideal.

By the time we finally said goodnight, I had spent the better part of an hour convincing him — I thought successfully — that it would be fine for us to sleep together. And before I’d even hung up the phone, I regretted it.

We were expressing our gratitude for one another when, suddenly, I realized there may be something special about Chi-guy, something worth holding out for. I didn’t want to be his rebound girl, after all. Rebounds never last. Here was a guy I loved talking with, who had genuine companionship potential, who was a loving father and making thoughtful changes in himself. And I no longer wanted to share myself with him for a cheap thrill.

I had no plans, no future in mind. We still lived in different cities and were likely to for some time, given the bonds of parenthood. But — and maybe this has to do with my seeing Eat, Pray, Love in the movie theater around that time — if ever I were to share something with Chi-guy, I wanted it to be when he had forgiven his ex, had forgiven himself and could believe in love again. And I would have to leap those hurdles myself, too.

I later recounted our conversation to a girlfriend. I told her, “I basically spent the majority of the time we talked trying to convince him that it was okay to go to bed with me. And now I don’t want to. I don’t want to be his rebound girl. I like him. He had me at ‘cookie cutter.’ And I think he said something resembling, ‘I’m falling for you.’”

“It sounds as though you two have something special,” she said. “You’ve been incredibly honest with each other. I think you need to tell him how you feel before you see him again.”

I meant to. As it turned out, I didn’t…

reconciling with God

There’s been a shift in my life recently that I’ve been meaning to write about, and it seems appropriate to share on a Sunday: I think I have finally reconciled with God.

I grew up in a small, tight-knit church community. The things I remember most about my church-going experiences were:

Eagerly volunteering (at age 3, my first day) an answer to the Sunday School question, “How do we grow big and strong?” My answer: “spinach.” I knew this from the Popeye cartoon series, duh. (The correct answer was, of course, Jesus.)
Adults and teens around me judging others based on the clothes they were wearing, their make-up or hair, or with whom or where they were sitting.
Our patriarchal God, it was taught, was alternately loving and wrathful. (And, it goes without saying, bearded and white…it’s man who was made in his image, remember?)
The parties (alcohol and porn included) we held at our teen youth group leader’s house. And this same youth leader trying to take me to bed as soon as I’d graduated from his school. But don’t worry, it was a volunteer position — he wasn’t actually paid for getting a bunch of teens drunk, renting porn for the guys or trying to peel off my clothes.

There is no question that the Bible is filled with invaluable lessons and is the basis for much of Western thought, civilization and history. And that many other people have healthy church communities and experiences.

After high school, I left the country for Asia, the Orient, a world in which this whole virgin-giving-birth story simply didn’t make sense. (Eastern religions often incorporate elements of nature; thus anyone who could believe such a tall tale might be considered loony-bin worthy.) And it was commonly known among the foreign (white) population that many ethically-questionable Christian missionaries simply memorized a litany of thought-provoking questions in the local language and nodded politely during the answers they couldn’t understand.

In summary, many of my formative experiences were ones that turned me off to organized religion. I began exploring Eastern religions, such as Buddhism, Taoism and, later, New Age thought. For a long time now, I’ve believed that terms like the divine, collective conscious (or collective unconscious), loving intelligence, universe, universal consciousness, etc. are the same thing as God, but a redefined God — a loving incorporation of our most vile and beautiful energies and potentials all rolled into one, a God with no opposite.

I continue to see examples of faith or religion — Christianity, Islam and others — used to further the forces of evil, such as lobbying against the right for homosexuals to marry. I’ve even heard there’s some wacky group of believers who drive gas-guzzling SUVs and do their best to pollute the environment in the hope that it will speed the second coming, when they will all be raptured away to the kingdom of heaven. But I also see signs of hope. It seems that some congregations are broadening their view of God, integrating mysticism back into the scriptures, engendering hope and allowing for the possibility that miracles can happen in our contemporary lives. It’s nice to believe that not all the “good stuff” happened 2,000 years ago.

Still, for a long time, people bringing up God or religious beliefs made me feel uncomfortable — visibly and viscerally. My mind was prone to make judgments about people who practiced their faiths in certain ways. And even the name God brought up an inner resistance to this notion that the masculine, patriarchal and wrathful could be the creator of all things. The ultimate act of creation — giving birth — is, after all, a feat of the feminine.

Whether this shift in consciousness has been my own or part of a greater, universal shift, I think I can finally say that I’ve let go of the baggage. I respect people for practicing their religions, whether I agree with them or not, as long as they don’t cast judgments on others or use their beliefs as weapons to combat love, acceptance and forgiveness. In the end, religion, science and life experience provides great evidence that we are all more alike than not and that The Golden Rule is the ultimate moral code.

I still don’t go to church, but I’m inching toward beginning a tour of several diverse services for me and my children (after all, I kind of like the music). And now that I’ve redefined my understanding and embraced all the inherent contradictions, I can finally hear or say the word God without cringing. I’m just a little surprised that it took me so long to get here!

on co-habiting with the opposite sex

A girlfriend called a few days ago and, per usual, began a rant about the B.S. she’d put up with in relationship with her child’s father. She rehashed a litany of complaints about his slovenliness, assuming I would jump on the ex-bashing bandwagon. I didn’t.

Instead, I told her that I didn’t share her experience: I LOVED sharing my home and my kitchen and my bed and the housework and all of it! Sure, the occasional coat of facial hair shavings on the bathroom sink was a mild irritant and I never liked the layout of the office, which was primarily his domain. But I loved co-creating our life together — from shopping together for what we each deemed necessary kitchen tools and negotiating menu plans — to our concern for one another when one of us wasn’t feeling well. I loved snuggling up against his warmth in bed. I loved the thought of our pant legs and shirt sleeves intertwined in the laundry.

It’s true that I carried most of the responsibility and had to make most of the decisions. The fact that I can clearly recall the time when my ex noticed that we were nearly out of t.p. and actually went to the store and purchased it speaks volumes. He was inflexible as it related to vacation destinations and ruled out countless menu options.

Living with someone can be a pain in the ass, and I am learning to enjoy the blessings of being the sole adult in my home. But I generally appreciated interdependence of partnership enough to overlook most of the little things. And I look forward to the day when I’m regularly waking up in the same bed as a man I love again!

the rest of the weekend (part 10)

About seven months ago…

After Friday’s disappointing ending, I continued to work through the weekend.

Saturday afternoon, Chi-guy brought his daughter to the public venue in which I was managing a promotion. I had gone back to my hotel room to change into warmer clothes for the evening. He texted me to see if I was around. I let him know that I was on my way back. When I got there, I had a few fires to put out, then finally checked back in with him. By that time, his over-tired child had caused him to leave. We had missed each other entirely.

“Will I see you again this weekend?” I texted. He didn’t respond.

I finally reached a girlfriend. “Tell me about it,” she said.

She listened and, at various points, said, “He said that?…But that’s good, right? That’s a good thing!” And then, “Clearly he knew what you thought was going to happen, and it was cowardly of him to do what he did. He’s hurting and sometimes men aren’t able to perform physically for a while after divorce, so it may be that he didn’t want to let you down. You can’t make assumptions or judgements right now. Will you see him again? Can you tell him that you’re confused and ask him about it?”

I would absolutely ask him about it; we had been candid enough with one another for that.

I didn’t hear from Chi-guy for the rest of the weekend. More than once, while back in my hotel room, I wept. This was about more to me than this particular guy. His polite brush-off of my advances had merely triggered all the pain, insecurity and baggage about rejection, being unwanted and unattractive that had built up in the last months of my marriage. He told me he found me attractive; he told me he wasn’t rejecting me; he told me he liked me. Despite all that, these ugly feelings poured out and into the open. Why? Because actions speak louder than words, and I had all-too-easily leapt to some unhealthy conclusions about what his actions meant.

Monday was Chi-guy’s birthday. I posted a greeting on his Facebook wall. I spent my morning on an architectural boat tour of the city, wishing that Chi-guy and I were enjoying it together. My longing, I have to admit, had more to do with commiseration or sympathy — misery loves company, after all — than with any desire for relationship.

When my cab pulled up to my home that afternoon, my son crawled into my lap before I’d even gotten out, as I was paying the driver. I immediately felt more grounded. Of course, the birthday gift, Manhood for Amateurs by Michael Chabon, that I had intended to hand-deliver to Chi-guy had arrived at my home. I unpacked my bags and focused on my children for the afternoon.

But I had also been thinking about this mess with Chi-guy. We had spent a really nice day together on Friday, and I was carrying around a lot of hurt based on a misunderstanding. I decided to set my own pain and baggage aside. It was his birthday and only a complete jerk would not call to wish him a happy one.

As my children and I drove to a late-day appointment, I dialed Chi-guy, fully anticipating that he would let my call go to voicemail. To my surprise, he answered.

“I wanted to wish you a happy birthday,” I said.

“How are you?” he asked immediately.

“I’m better, more grounded, now that I’m home. I really can’t talk right now, but what I can say is that I needed you to be much more clear with me about where you were at.”

“That’s fair,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I was really confused, and I’m still confused and you pushed some buttons that brought up some baggage I need to deal with, and I’m hoping we can talk about it later.”

“I’d like that,” he said.

What guy ever says he’d “like” to talk about my feelings and confusion and some awkwardness that transpired?! This was certainly not what I’d expected to hear. I let him know that his gift had arrived and that I would send it.

Later, Chi-guy texted me: “Sorry about the BS this weekend. You’re a good woman and you deserve better.”

More…

can an online app help couples stay connected?

News of the recent launch of Tokii, an online community designed to help busy couples stay connected, has me fascinated. Can anything online help couples maintain healthy relationships in the real world? Isn’t the fact that we spend too much time interacting with technology and not even relating to one another as humans part of the problem?

Of course I contemplate my own failed relationship and whether anything could have saved us. We tried counseling, I went on a self-improvement binge and, in the end, when we had ultimately stopped rehashing our problems, we stopped communicating about anything. Sure, there were moments of brightness, during which we might share a laugh, but we couldn’t sustain it.

And that’s why I look at this concept and think it’s positively genius! Two people already in a relationship connect on Tokii (it’s not an online dating site) and use simple tools to help them communicate:

LoveZones is where you can complete a quiz that helps you and your partner understand how you like to receive love. While I haven’t joined and tried it (because I’m not part of a couple), this sounds a lot like Gary Chapman’s approach in his brilliant book The Five Love Languages, and I cannot say enough about how enlightening this could be for couples! Merely understanding how you and your partner innately prefer to give and receive love could solve many communication challenges for those not feeling loved in their relationship.
MoodMeter simply allows users to update their moods, letting their partner know how their day is going (and perhaps what challenges one may encounter when one gets home).
Finally, the TradingPost allows couples to make a playful game of negotiating for what they want, whether those wants involve chores, activities (think getting him to take ballroom dancing lessons with you) or sexual fantasies.

I believe there could be tremendous value in Tokii for one simple reason: Sometimes it’s easier to be honest with an intermediary, even if the intermediary is technology.

Having been in a number of long-distance relationships, I can attest that it can sometimes be easier to be completely honest over the phone or via email than face-to-face. And how many stories have we all heard of people who drag a spouse to a counselor’s office only to notify them (in a safe environment, with an intermediary) that their relationship is over? I can readily see how, during those times when it seemed impossible to communicate with my husband, we might have maintained some small thread of connection if we’d already been playfully sharing our moods and expressing our desires via an online “trading post.”

I don’t know that this tool or anything else can save a relationship that’s abusive or otherwise truly doomed, but I genuinely envision Tokii as a giant leap forward in our collective relationship consciousness. There are computer programs, websites, and online and mobile applications for nearly everything these days — it’s about time our primary relationships, which most of us would say are a top priority, have an app of their own!

alone in my room (part 9)

About seven months ago…

Chi-guy had just left me at the front door of my hotel…

As if in a fog, I found my way to the elevator and pushed a button. The very first coherent thought in my head was, “I must have spent four or five hours on grooming — and for nothing!” It was true: my hair, brows, toenails, legs and bikini area were groomed to perfection in anticipation of this very night.

Wow! I had not seen that coming! We had been flirty and suggestive for about a month now. How had I so completely misread this situation? Clearly we were not vibrating on the same level!*

Back in my room, I plopped onto the bed and turned on the television. Tension pumped through every cell of my body. I had been so ready for…for…for, I don’t know, something more. Honestly, I would have been happy to hang out and talk more, to lie near each other fully clothed, to simply make out, to hold each other and cry…anything.

My mobile buzzed with a new text message. For an instant, I hoped that he had changed his mind and was rounding the block to park.

“Got a parking ticket while saying good night,” it read.

“Bummer,” I responded.

We texted about the pathetic movie selection on cable and he made reference to the statistic about how long on average a porn movie is watched on pay-per-view in hotel rooms. I think I made one last-ditch attempt to express what I was thinking: that two people in very similar circumstances, neither in a position to think of entering a relationship, might be uniquely available to provide comfort and touch in a way that could be healing, nurturing and fulfilling for both.

I washed my face and undressed. My body would not relax, settle down or allow me to sleep.

How did I get here? To this place where I had hoped and anticipated so much and was now feeling so incredibly rejected, unwanted and desperately alone? I mean, this was a guy that I liked well enough to contemplate putting his junk in my mouth! And I kind of thought he was into me, too.

It was too late to call any of my girlfriends.

“Really need to talk. Are you available?” I texted Max, thinking that, far left of here, there was a chance he’d still be awake. But there was no answer.

After tossing and turning for another hour or so and sobbing uncontrollably for a bit, I turned on the light and picked up a pen and notebook. I wrote some of what you’ve read over the past few entries, as well as these thoughts:

I completely respect that he must honor where his head and heart are at right now.
Does he not get that having this conversation has already changed everything? That our friendship can never be the same?
I get that flirting, like talking smack, is a bit of a game and liberties are taken. However, when our flirting became more directional or explicit, I was genuine in letting him know that I’m available. And I feel misled.
This whole thing about “liking me” is weird: we live in different cities and each have children that will keep us there and we’re both in the process of ending relationships, so there is no potential for anything real…nothing to ruin or jeopardize. Where does he think this might go?
p.s. it is now 3:17am and I haven’t slept a wink.

I set my pen and notebook down, turned off the lamp and continued to toss and turn until I had no choice but to get up and begin my day.

More…

*reference to the Law of Attraction, which states that like attracts like.

how my night with Chi-guy really ended (part 8)

About seven months ago…

After dinner, we both got up and went to the restroom before going out to the car. While our conversation had been easy, for the most part — imagine spending an entire day with someone you barely know and never feeling awkward or running out of things to talk about and allowing silence to be comfortable — there was something more. My mind and my body and my heart were all engaged, as though every cell in my body was at attention. Against all expectations and odds, despite his hang-dog expression and hunched posture, I was feeling alive in a way that I hadn’t felt in a very long time in the presence of this man.

I carefully checked myself in the mirror, re-applied lip gloss and emerged to find Chi-guy waiting for me. He seemed to be a bit reserved; perhaps his impeccable manners, respect for me or broken-hearted insecurity were getting in the way of what could happen…I felt compelled to take action to let him know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was prepared to follow through on every flirtatious text, email or phone conversation we’d shared. I leaned toward him and gently kissed his lips.

He recoiled, seemingly taken aback.

“That was nice,” I said awkwardly, trying to recover.

“What was nice?” he asked, confused.

“Dinner was nice. I really enjoyed it.”

And we proceeded to the car. I tried to regain the lightness we had enjoyed earlier and mentioned the possibility of one of those rooftop bars he had mentioned or the condo he had recently moved into. He was noncommittal.

We drove in silence for a few minutes before he began haltingly, “You know how we’ve been flirting…”

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m interested in you.”

“The thing is, I like you.”

“I like you, too,” I said, excited to think we might be on the same page after all.

“But aren’t you afraid things are going to change?” he asked.

My mind began to cloud with confusion and my thoughts and words and what he was saying all jumbled together. I don’t think I ever managed to express that things had already changed, simply by his having said that.

I foolishly recounted the tale of my first post-marriage experience, in an effort to illustrate that we could be adults, both wounded but meeting on common ground, and that we could share something neither meaningless nor too meaningful…

We were now across the street from my hotel. We sat in the car for a few minutes talking, both of us inarticulately fumbling for a way to adequately express what we were thinking and feeling or the points we were trying to make.

“But what about next time you’re in town?” he asked. “What happens then?”

“We do it again!” I exclaimed, smiling broadly at the thought.

My points:

We liked each other — and it seemed we had for some time.
We weren’t in high school; being 40-something and divorced had bought us some hard-earned freedoms, namely not having to play “hard-to-get” games. After all, we’d both been married and had children — we no longer had virginity nor innocence to protect.
Neither of us was in a place to consider getting into a relationship. We could both be mature enough to be friends and lovers without jeopardizing the friendship.
We had a window of opportunity in which neither of us was in a relationship, and I would be traveling to Chicago twice more in the next several weeks. We could view these circumstances as a gift.

His points:

He was reading “The Road Less Traveled” and trying to do the right thing or be a better person or something — my mind could just not absorb the meaning of this at that moment.
He was still technically married and had never been unfaithful to his wife.
He’d met a woman recently who, when he explained his current life situation, had given him her number and said, “Call me when your divorce is final.” He found this refreshingly mature.* (What did that say about what he was thinking of me at that very moment?)
He told me the story about another woman — part of a married couple he knew — who had kissed him at a party. When he pushed her away she said, “I’m afraid I’m losing my moral compass.” He didn’t want to feel that way.
He told me he was “not really very big.” What?! Did he really just say that?! As if I could possibly have cared about his size! I am not the woman who believes bigger is always better, and I believed that this man was more than capable of satisfying me.
He told me that he was not a terribly strong-willed man and suggested that, if I were really determined, he might be swayed. But I had already put my cards on the table; I would not further embarrass myself by pleading or groveling. I had no interest in going to bed with a man who needed to be talked into it.

We were at an impasse. Chi-guy got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, opened my door and held out his hand. He led me across the street to my hotel, said, “There’s not much to recommend me right now,” and told me about the first time we’d met: “When I first saw you, I thought you were the most vibrantly sexy woman I’d ever seen.”

At this, my bullshit detector was going off wildly, because a) Eva Mendes exists and b) well, what more do I need to say?

He went on to tell me how surprised he’d been when I’d stepped away from that cocktail table and he could see for the first time that I was pregnant, and how he’d nursed a crush on me for some time. I listened, acknowledging neither what I’d thought upon our first meeting nor that I’d seen his jaw drop nor known of his crush. Within a few moments, he hugged me, planted a chaste kiss on my cheek and bid me goodnight.

Dumbfounded, I pushed my way through the revolving door back into my hotel.

More…

*With little introspection, I can easily concede that this is the mature and proper perspective to have, particularly if one is single and has not been through the long, painful, lonely and arduous task of dissolving one’s primary relationship. For those of us who have, we know that, oftentimes, a marriage is well and truly over long before the final paperwork is signed.

a hot night with Chi-guy (part 7)

About seven months ago…

We had just finished dinner and gone back out to the car. We had decided to go to a roof-top bar for a nightcap and view of the city. I felt so alive and energized in Chi-guy’s presence that I was turned on just by being near him!

Up on the roof, I had a glass of red wine; he chose a Perrier. We stood side-by-side, looking out at the lights of the city, our bodies close, feeling connected. The tension between us having built up all day (and for weeks before), we finally allowed ourselves to touch each other more liberally, allowing our hands to linger longer on each other. He told me his memories of the first time we met, and then leaned in, kissing my lips softly.

“You know all this flirting we’ve been doing?” he began.

“Yeah,” I answered playfully, looking directly into his eyes and smiling, “I’m interested.”

“I like you,” he said.

“I like you, too.”

After canoodling a bit longer, Chi-guy set his glass down, took mine from my hand and set it down, and led me out to the car. We kissed in the elevator, in the car, at red lights…we kissed in the elevator of my hotel after tossing the keys to the valet. In my room, we allowed our hands and lips to explore each other further, slowly undressing each other, appreciating every newly revealed part of each other’s body. He must have touched every square centimeter of my skin with his hands or lips. We took our time, allowing the tension to build, enjoying each moment and new sensation before finally, safely, moving rhythmically together toward climax. And then we held each other tightly as our breath slowed. It was cathartic, healing and magical. For months, both of us had been without loving touch, and it was a gift that we had been able to give one another.

At 3am, I woke up and felt him next to me. I gently caressed his body until he responded, pulled me on top of him and we had steamy, middle-of-the-night, barely awake hotness, such that we didn’t notice or care about our breath or anything else. Our desire for one another was intense!

In the morning, he went out and returned with coffee. We each showered and dressed, almost shyly respectful of each other’s privacy, before walking out together and going about our individual days.

We spent as much time together as possible over the weekend, talking, laughing and walking arm and arm through Millennium Park and the city by day, playfully, passionately, tenderly keeping one another up at night.

At least, that’s how I had imagined it might have happened…

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