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Yesterday it happened. I met a man. For the first time I actually got bold enough to say, Let’s meet. It’s not like I knew him on any deep level. We had spoken in chat for about 45 minutes. I was in the main room flirting and chatting with everyone, men and women. I wanted to suggest a room orgy.
I liked his pic. It was right up there on his profile, which I thought, was quite bold. I do that too. In his pic he is standing in a room with art on the walls. Of course the artgirl wanted to talk about that and this fellow told her all about his collection, a nicely rounded assortment of various media.
He had already met with 8 women. So I guessed that he wasn’t a serial killer or he would be in prison. He is very smart. He lives less than an hour from me. He is married and has three children. So no worry of falling in love.
He would be away on business for 3 days.
On day four I went into chat. (We had loosely set up a meeting.) And I just said I would like to meet and there is a little bistro on Rte 47. He said perfect, we will have lunch first. I said it would only be lunch today. He said fine. Let’s do it, noon at the bistro. I tried for 1 but he had a meeting at 3. As I showered I convinced myself that this was only lunch, so no biggie. I wiggled into a black suit…a fitted jacket and a skirt (the white-linen tablecloth restaurant has a dress code and I decided that pretending he was an art client would relieve my nerves.)
I pulled into the parking lot and waited. He zipped in his black Beamer, on time and on the phone. He held up his “just a sec” finger. (He later told me that it was his boss. He is #2.)
I step out. So does he, profusely apologizing. First he is short…5’ 4” maybe 5’ 5”…no way is he 5’ 11”. I am wearing strappy heels. I am a tower! Maybe he shrunk in the morning from all of his business deals…weight of the world you know.
Second, he is kinda chubby. Well, not really. His black suit is high-end. He has moles that stick out rather far. They are on his face. He walks very confidently. He is a grown up. I don’t mean he is really old. He’s 39. It’s just that I date men who are immature. Well, not immature, they just look boyish. But I am high on this meeting and I am dismissing any negatives. Trolls (I don’t mean that in a derogatory way) sometimes make the best lovers…or so I have been told.
He beelines to the bistro. I place my hand on his arm.
“Can we talk first? I want to ask some private stuff and perhaps a busy restaurant isn’t the best place to do it.”
“Sure.”
We end up walking at least a mile. He is very open. He answers my questions dead-on, without the slightest hesitation. He walks nice. I tell him of my nervousness since this is my first meeting with a “net” man and my first attempt at a one-night-stand or in this case, a one-day-stand, or what I call it privately, a stranger-on-stranger, SOS. He tells me I am beautiful, but that I should realize that it is sex without love. The feelings are just for the actual time that the event occurs. Is that what you want? He is brutally honest. He tells me lots of other things…exactly where he lives, the names and ages of his children…his situation, and I tell him mine. I thought we would remain more clandestine, anonymous.
Lunch at the bistro is marvelous. We have French onion soup and Caesar salads. I have French Chardonnay; he has iced tea, no lemon. He is worried about the young French busboy. “He should be in school. How old do you think he is?” He turns out to be 17, looks 14.
This man has a commanding presence and tells me about his latest deals. When we talk about sex his left leg shakes. He is exploring me in a delicate way. He takes my fingertips in his hand. He has a special motto he uses. I wish I could tell it to you because it details exactly who he is, but I will protect his identity even though he takes no effort in protecting himself. His wife has told him to look for sex elsewhere. She isn’t interested in it with him or anyone. She wants to focus on being a mother. What a tragedy!
Dealman and I are sad people colliding, trying to make sense of something.
He walks me to my car. He asks if I know the man behind me. I turn. A stranger is looking at us and talking on the phone. He is parked in an odd spot. He has a digital camera. Oh fuck! I hope not. My “date” dismisses the stranger. He is discussing hotels, meetings…and then he stops dead and looks into my eyes and says, “I can’t do you. A woman like you shouldn’t have to resort to this. You think it will be more than it is. Honey, you are a treasure. I won’t be the one to spoil you. You don’t need this.”
I am thinking whatthefuck? I am tired of the “treasure” crap. I am tired of men protecting me. He asks if he can hug me and whoosh! we both evaporate.
There it is. My mangled SOS.
