WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS ADULT MATERIAL. DO NOT CONTINUE READING IF YOU ARE UNDER 18.
“Your Contact Request Has Been Accepted”
I have always embraced the eroticism of distance
Punctuating my days with a skim of the inbox
A check of the phone
A peek to see your on-line status
Finding comfort in the vagueness of it all
Images and dreams fed by little morsels of reality
Some information to fill in the background
Yet the foreground
Remains elusive and foggy
Like a shadow in a dark alley
I sense the reveal will not frighten me
As much as the anticipation
Do I still want to feel the drop of the stomach?
The sudden tachycardia?
Am I not too old for all that?
The woman is well catered for
She will get what she needs
The little girl still craves
The Royal Show
The new Donny Osmond album
The meeting with you
“Have you ever fucked before the first date?” The words popped up on the screen. Call me old-fashioned, but I would have thought a fuck would BE a first-date. He explained further: “Say you had a date with someone on Saturday, and here it was, a Wednesday night, and you just came around to his house and fucked him.”
“Gosh”‘ I thought, “He’s backward in coming forward!”
He had an interesting enough profile: engineer; played music; had interests other than beer and BBQs; was looking for someone intelligent, adventurous and spontaneous. Naturally I looked at myself and thought “Behold: the mother-lode”.
And clearly he thought so too, although at this juncture it was more my adventurous side he was calling to than the intelligent.
Prior to this we had had a couple of chats, and had arranged to meet for coffee on the Saturday. Maybe we were both terribly busy and important at the time, but truth be told, I was putting him off. Like many men who are theoretically interesting, in practice I had found him a tad dull. I basically forgot about him for a week and he became nothing more than a pencilled in diary date and a name on my contacts list.
Until that Wednesday night.
Sitting in bed with my lap-top, I had begun a quick chat with him. Just the usual, conversational padding. Then somehow, amongst all the perked-up drivel, a small “ping” of connection was heard somewhere in the back of my head. The chat got livelier and more engaged. I was impressed out my of ennui by his sharp mind. He was kind enough to inform me that I was making him hard. And, of course, that information just got my juices flowing as well. We got a sort of cyber-bio-feedback loop going.
And that was when he took the bull by the horns and made his odd declaration.
The cyber-safety fairy hung over my shoulders. As did the practicality fairy. I swatted them both away with my instinct. I felt that this was alright. And while this internal dialogue was going on, I was also engaged in the external one with Kevin* himself, raising objections, only to have them knocked down. There ain’t no stopping a man on a fuck-mission!
Eventually I made my decision, leapt out of bed to make arrangements of a practical nature and returned to the screen only to type the words “put the kettle on”. Kevin’s only response was “Oh shit!”. Clearly the poor thing didn’t think I would actually do it.
Twenty minutes later, as he opened the door to me, I leant up against the jamb and just said “Don’t think I make a habit of this.” I now know that this is what men refer to as “the slut defence”. I shan’t use it again…besides which…if I did use it again, it wouldn’t be true! I think that doing something like this can either become a habit, which is dangerous, or be a strike off the bucket list. Having been relieved to find that he wasn’t a psycho, I opted for the latter.
Kevin was handsome in an usual way, polite, pleasant and able to make very good coffee. He put a cup of same in front of me, cranked up some blues (a mutual interest) and settled down so that we could go through the “getting-to-know-you” motions before reaching the main item on our agenda.
After half an hour of conviviality he dragged me (or did I drag him?) upstairs.
Dear reader, I fucked him. Quite a bit if I recall correctly.
And we did, indeed, go out on our first official date a few days later, and a few after that. We saw each other for about a month and then went our separate ways. Since then, we have developed a friendship, which I value.
Do I advocate this as a way to start a relationship? God no! Do I advocate it as a way to behave generally? Of course not. It was silly, and dangerous. He could have been a maniac. So could I. Luckily, it was two erotically adventurous adults having a meeting of the minds and the libidos.
So why did I do it?
I think there is something in being middle-aged, single, available, that leads to a certain need to explore. Sure most of us did some exploring when we were younger. But that was in the context of inexperience, wonky self-esteem, hopes and dreams of picket fences and fabulous careers.
In our 40s, with some baggage behind us, and a more realistic, but hopefully not less enthralled, view of the world, we can choose to do silly, exciting and sometimes dangerous things, with an odd freedom that was not available to us in our 20s. And that is despite our more immediate sense of mortality. Or perhaps BECAUSE of it.
Heeding Kevin’s call that night was potentially dangerous. Or even just potentially revolting. And I am gratefully aware that the gods were kind to me. Yet putting that aside, it was also highly erotic, titillating and strangely empowering.
As Piaf would say, “je ne regrette rien”.
* All names and identifying details (other than my own), have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty and the totally shameless!!