how very lucky to be a girl

Well, it was a long time coming. The longest in fact. I’ve never before had such a prolonged period of time before meeting someone in person. Then again, I’d never before been propositioned by an on-line Lothario who sought casual sex from a “sweet girl to fall in love with”, subsequently revoked this offer in a sea of insults when I revealed a hatred of Dallas BBQ (and the date that wanted to take me there), and then returned two months later to tell me that he still found me appealing and was interested in meeting me.

Even that was a month ago. But I was busy and getting ready to leave the country and so it would have to wait.

And wait he did. Patiently. So when he asked if he could take me to lunch on my birthday, I agreed.

We chose an adorable italian cafe in my neighborhood. We were set to meet there at 2:30, but we were both running late. Let’s make it 2:45. He was running late. So we made it 3.

I stood outside the restaurant waiting for a few minutes. I could have gone inside, but I like to see my dates as they arrive. There’s something more arresting about watching a person’s approach than it is to encounter them already settled into their environment. I like to witness their walk. How they move. Carry themselves. React to their surroundings. Besides, there’s an allure to removing an outer layer (both figuratively and literally). And observing. Not just what he’s wearing under his coat. Does he get the door? Does he help me with my coat? Does he stand until I’m seated?

I’d seen a number of photographs of him, but that had been months ago, so as I stood awaiting his arrival, I began to get nervous that I may not recognize him. With every unaccompanied man that approached came an inquiring gaze from me. A sigh of relief with each that passed and hadn’t matched my memory. Except for one. He looked like an Abercrombie model. He didn’t get a sigh of relief. Maybe I should have tripped him and then helped him back to his feet. Offered him a coffee. But I was waiting for my date, so this was not an option. And who am I kidding? This was Chelsea. He was gay.

Down the road apiece walked a pair a blue track pants. Well-aged brown leather boots with neon orange laces. A perfectly worn and beautiful leather motorcycle jacket. And a black leather newsboy cap. When I read this back, it doesn’t sound like it should look good. But it did.

The walk was confident, strong and determined, but unrushed. His arms moved comfortably at his sides, one angled upward because in its firm hand appeared to be a delicate plant. He was tall.

I had only seconds to take this all in as his long strides brought him closer to me until his cheek was against mine and the narcissus plant placed tenderly in my hands. He looked into my eyes. I could tell he was pleased. “Happy Birthday,” he sounded surprised as he brushed my hair from my face, “You’re really beautiful.” So was he.

He suggested we enjoy a coffee outside in the sunshine. I wanted to oblige his offer, but I’d been standing outside for 15 minutes, and I was cold. Also, I wanted to eat. So I asked if we could go inside. He agreed, but I could tell he was disappointed.

He helped me with my coat and took a seat while I organized my things and then settled into the large antique wing chair at our table. He ordered a coffee and some apple pie. I ordered the nicoise salad and a latte.

He told me about growing up in Detroit and then the prairies of the midwest, his time in New York, his current career and many of his others, his thirst for constant knowledge and a history of diverse education and training to demonstrate that fact, his current tango with salsa lessons, and much more. Mr. Casual Sex was a lot more interesting and educated than I’d originally perceived him to be. And god was he handsome.

He removed his cap to reveal a slightly receding hairline, but a full head of soft hair that I really just wanted to run my fingers through. He said he’d put the hat on right out of the shower and asked if its removal was a bad idea. I told him he looked handsome to me. He told me that he gets his hair cut by an old russian woman in the east village who does it fast and cheap and with little training or skill.  But apparently she has huge breasts that rest on the back of the necks of her clients as she works, and he says that it’s no surprise that on any given Friday there’s a really long line of men waiting for her haircuts.  I laugh at the idea of this image.  He’s even more handsome when he’s smiling.  He had inquisitive chocolate eyes, a beautiful nose on which you could vaguely see the scar from a long abandoned nose-ring. He wore a light goatee surrounding lips that weren’t necessarily full but that looked so soft.

He was a contemporary Renaissance man, not bound by convention, in fact averse to it. He was not driven by career or money and cares not at all about the acquisition of things. After wanting and even trying for them with an ex, he decided years ago that he was not going to have children. He’s grieved this already and is resolute in his decision.

He asks a lot of questions. Many of them have sexual undertones. He is clearly a highly sexualized male and he is trying to figure out just who I’d be in the bedroom. He asks about my career. It becomes clear that he is at once intrigued and alarmed by my power and need for control. His line of questioning while not direct, is fairly obvious. He’s trying to assess whether I’d relinquish control in the bedroom. He seems to want it that way.

But the bedroom will probably never happen with us.

I really liked Mr. Casual Sex. I’d probably even enjoy having casual sex with him. But I think getting involved with him would be a dead-end street for me. I know there are no guarantees of anything in life. I don’t know whether or not I’ll have children. But I’d like to know it’s possible, and so I don’t think I want to be with someone who is firmly against it.

We spoke for hours and finally asked for the tab. I didn’t even ask. I just reached for my wallet and paid for myself. He stood up and reached for my coat. Helped me put it on, pulling my long hair out from under it, smoothing it down gently. He reached for the waist ties and wrapped them around me. His touch felt nice. He put his hand in the small of my back and ushered me to the door, returning quickly to the table to grab the narcissus plant that I’d thoughtlessly left behind, and gave it to me a second time.

We walked to the corner. He was telling me a story, but stopped short and said, “Well, that’s a story for another time, I hope.” He embraced me, kissed both cheeks, and left. That was it. It was a really lovely date, but I don’t think I’ll hear from him again. That would be him doing me a favor, because I’m here ready to throw a number of things that are important to me right out the window because there’s just “something about him”. But those important things? They’d work their way up from under the rug and tear us apart in the end I think.

I’m so glad I met him. But the aftermath has me feeling a little bit empty and sad.