“How long have you been dating?” The massage therapist grilled me with all the questions as she massaged my body.
“About fifteen minutes,” I said.
“Ooo, and he’s treating you to a massage? This guy is a keeper.”
“He is. A genuine guy, caring, compassionate, dedicated. Loyal.”
“So you’ve been chatting for a while?”
“Yes. He lives in St. Louis.”
“And you’re from here?”
“Yes.”
“So if you’ve all been dating for fifteen minutes, it’s probably too soon to be talking about who is going to be moving where? Or are you just going to do the long distance thing?”
“Well, he appears to be pretty perfect, but he has a boyfriend.”
“Oh, I see.” She kneaded my shoulders, working in silence for a few minutes. Her tone of voice had indicated that she was dying to know more, but didn’t want to appear too judgmental.
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, how do you feel about him having a boyfriend?”
“Oh, it’s fine, really. This is all just practice until the real one comes along, sweeping me off my feet.”
“That sounds like a pretty open-minded way to view that.”
She moved to my feet and started started working on a knot in the center of the arch.
“What part of the body is that connected to?”
“Oh, it’s connected to a muscle that goes up the back of the leg to your calf.”
“No, I mean reflexology, what is it connected to?”
“Oh, right. It’s connected to your intestines. The G.I. track. Sometimes people get knots here when they have a lot of stress in their life. Particularly if you have a lot of change. Men tend to hold that stress in their stomachs.”
On the upside of getting a massage on a first date is that all the stress of the day, week, and quite possibly the month gets worked out. But on the down-side, when you have the knot connected to your intestines rubbed out, it can only lead to one thing: flatulence.
So much for making a memorable impression on a first date.
Gassy and bloated, I sucked down water and wine to cover for my excessive trips to the restroom.
Despite what felt like a suffocating dying baby kicking its way out of my body, we had a pleasant conversation over dinner and our time together was enjoyable. Airport Guy approached life with an emerging sense of adventure, and I could tell he was on his way to single life, even if he didn’t know it. Together, we might possibly be each other’s rebound.
When I returned from the bathroom for the twentieth time in about an hour, I came back to the table to a text message from the other side of my table: “Would you like to stay with me at my hotel tonight?”
I quickly tapped out a reply: “I thought you’d never ask; I’d love to.”
* * *
We continued talking on the phone and chatting over text. E-mailing each other on a regular basis. About a month later, he found himself coming through Chicago again. I had the opportunity to go to the Boat Show with either the Paralegal or Airport Guy. By this time, however, it was apparent that Airport Guy was more interested in remaining stuck in his life, and not interested in moving his life forward. He was just looking for me to be his Chicago Boy Toy for when he came to town.
Internally, I struggled with that concept. Not really opposed to the idea, I couldn’t reconcile how I could develop something with the Paralegal while at the same time establishing something so shallow with Airport Guy.
While I knew I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship, I knew I deserved more. I told Airport Guy to not stay through the weekend; that when his business was done, he should return home.
And then I called the Paralegal.
A few months later, I received a lengthy e-mail from Airport Guy. He had moved out, ending his long-term relationship, the promise of the unknown providing more safety and comfort than being stuck in the known. He said there were three men who had been pivotal to his decision and that I was one of them, and he was grateful for our friendship, our conversations, and the kick in the ass I had provided him.
Newly free, the possibilities warmed my heart. Things were not rock solid with the Paralegal.
A week later, he explained via text he had met the new love of his life while running a marathon in Memphis. They hit it off. It was the greatest love ever. And this guy would be moving to St. Louis.
For a moment I felt kicked in the stomach, like I had been looked over, or a knot was forming in the arch of my foot. Or both. Out of sight, out of mind, completely powerless to the ways of the universe.
A month ago, Airport Guy said he would be coming to Chicago for business again, and asked if we could get together. I wasn’t opposed, but I wondered what his story was. I asked him about his new Memphis Boy, but his reply stated he’d just given up on men altogether.
Curious, I brought a flatulent-free sense of mystery to the table to find out what happened, where he’s at today, and why, while in Chicago, he’s still making time to have dinner with me.
“What are you going to wear?” Yoga Girl asked, always the one for fashion, and knowing that I’ve obsessed over it all day long.
“I don’t know. I’m thinking maybe one of the David shirts.”
“Oh, those are all nice. Why not the William?” My wardrobe items have taken on the names of the men who either compliment the shirt or the purchase of the shirt represents the promise of a positive outcome.
“Not sexy enough.”
“The Stalker?” I have a Grindr Stalker who spotted me out and about in a Charlie Brown shirt, and then sent me a message through Grindr, mentioning the shirt.
“Fun, but not formal enough. By the way, I through the Richard in my charity pile the other night. Come to think of it, that was after clairvoyant class and we had to visualize a rose of someone who might be blocking our journey toward clairvoyance. I thought of him and what came up was a dead rose.”
“Oooo, interesting. You’re done with him like an out-of-style shirt.”
Six months ago, I would have never guessed that I’d be throwing on The Dennis in anticipation of seeing Airport Guy again. As I selected the evenings’ neckwear accessory, it occurred to me that I never know what’s going to happen in twenty-five seconds. The challenge is finding comfort in knowing whatever happens next, I can handle and I’ll be okay. And if I can view it as an adventure, all the better.
* * *
He had a glow about him, standing by the bar, that wasn’t present when I saw him in December. We spent the evening catching up. He told me about how he and Memphis Boy went to Hawaii together. That he had spent about three-thousand dollars on a dream vacation, only to have Memphis Boy explode upon him on the airplane home. Memphis Boy had taken complete advantage of his generosity.
“I learned a lot about being in a relationship, and myself.” Airport Guy had a confidence in his voice. I held his hand across the table as he told his story.
“Really? What did you learn?”
“I learned that I don’t need to be in a relationship to be me. That I don’t need anyone else. That I’ll be okay. And if a guy can’t treat me with the respect that I deserve, then I’m better off without him.”
He had come a long way from the first time I met him when he apologized for not being very attractive, to being ready to tell anyone who doesn’t find him attractive to take a hike. It was as if he had bought a package of self-esteem while shopping at Target. I wondered if he had a pocket full of gems and crystals. I squeezed his hand; he could have been my mirror.
* * *
The morning sun bouncing off Lake Michigan poked through the blinds of Airport Guy’s hotel room. Out limbs were tangled in each other. I kissed Airport Guy and then slid out from underneath the covers.
He grabbed my morning stiffness, pulling me back on the bed.
“Where you going?”
I laid on top of him.
“Home. I have to go shower and change for work. Have to catch the train in a little over an hour.”
“You want to go at it again?”
“Yes, I do. But the train…”
He kissed me again, rolling me over, him on top of me. We made out for a few minutes, our tongues exploring our lips. I pushed him off me, licking his nipple as a consolation.
I grabbed a pair of underwear on the floor and put them on.
“Oops. Those are yours.”
“They’re sexy on your.”
“Not form fitting, though.”
I threw on my shirt and he got up to button the buttons.
“I had a really good time last night.”
“So did I,” I said. “It was good to see you, and I’m happy that you’re in such a great spot.”
“Thank you. I’m happy for you, too. I don’t know when I’ll be in Chicago again.”
“Well, when you are, let me know and I’ll make a reservation for the latest hot spot restaurant.”
“That would be wonderful. And if you’re ever in St. Louis…”
“I know. I’ll look you up.”
He tugged on my belt.
“Stop that. I have a train to catch. Save it for next time.”
I walked to the door, turned to give him one more kiss.
“Good bye sweet stuff.”
“Safe travels.”
I slipped out the door. There was a bowl of granny smith apples on the table by the elevator. I took one and bit into it. The bittersweet flavor exploded in my mouth. I was completely grateful for the night I had just shared with Airport Guy. While I enjoyed our time together, it was what it was. For one night, we shared a love and an admiration for each other. We were open and honest and present with each other. I left his hotel room not knowing what was going to happen next. Not knowing if we’d see each other again, or if we would even speak. While the world seemed full of possibilities, there was a completeness to the night that felt comfortable.
And I was completely okay with it.
No comments:
Post a Comment