Landing With Airport Guy

            I had a date with Airport Guy.  After months of going back and forth, we finally crossed paths again.  I had met him sitting in the Admirals Club in St. Louis while on a layover on my way to Atlanta.  This was nearly ten months ago.  We hit it off instantly, and have managed to stay in touch.  Not two weeks after our initial meeting, he was on a business trip to Chicago and we had arranged for our first date.

            Joint massages at his hotel spa followed by a leisurely dinner.

            “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.” 

Thrash Him With a Dozen Roses

            I was torn between two lovers.  Feeling like a fool.  One lover, inside of me, wanted to lash out against the Paralegal.  The other lover wanted to respond with love and compassion.

            Neither felt appropriate.

            The First Lover wondered what the sense was in keeping any semblance of secrecy to this blog.  Part of the reason it was anonymous was because the Paralegal had gone to rehab.  Now that the rehab storyline appeared to be completely fiction, it didn’t seem to matter.  Why not come out of the closet?  Why not send a link to the Paralegal with a note saying, “I know you like a good story; this one should be a pretty good read.”

            But the First Lover was not completely satisfied with that concept.  Why not send a dozen roses to the office, the card reading, “http://breakingboynews.blogspot.com”?  The women in the office would turn rabid.  They would have to know who sent them, ripping the card from his lying, texting fingers. They’d gather around a computer, unable to pull Internet Explorer up fast enough, only to discover the corporate firewall is preventing them access. They’d swarm from computer to computer, trying to find one allowing them access.  The skirts would chase the pants suits, who would take the lead shoving unsuspecting men out of the way.

            Someone would try pulling it up on their Blackberry.  Another racing for the site on their iPhone. 

            “AT&T, don’t fail me now.”

            Chaos would erupt as a pants suit would be to task breaking into the office of a partner who is gone for the day.  The link would spread like wildfire, as people fired off e-mails to their personal accounts to dive later from home.

            Finally, they would gain access, and the nosey, resourceful pants suit would begin to read it for all the ladies swarmed around.  Their hearts would collectively break as they realize the coworker they adore is not the coworker they thought they knew.

            It was delicious; First Lover savored the thought.

            “It’s just going to cost you eighty dollars, and you wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing that because he would never share that with you,” the Office Ladies said.

            They were right. And the Second Lover realized that he reached out to me. He accepted my friend request, and he had to know that I would discover the truth, yet he still reached out.  He’s wanting to connect, and it’s quite possibly the most he can do.  I should be grateful for that.

            The two lovers inside of me were having a spat that escalated to a full-on argument with screeching back and forth. I made a bag of popcorn as I watched the scene unfold in my head, munching on a kernel at a time, wondering what might happen next.

            But the next morning when I went to restalk the Paralegal, all the Wall posts that had any connection to me were gone.  The message he was missing someone, that he was at the gym for four hours on my birthday, that he was getting a sunburn while he was supposed to be in rehab, they were all gone.

            It was as if he was trying to erase his past mistakes.

            Yoga Girl suggested that I send him a message, saying what I learned from reading his Facebook page.  It sounded like a good plan. I could say what I wanted to say, I could convey the pain he caused. I could demonstrate to him how deeply he hurt me.

            It sounded like First Lover was taking over.

            I had come to discover that if I eat a big bowl of spaghetti with meatballs before I head to clairvoyant class, I’ve filled myself with the gluttonous comfort food that helps ward of the desire for four chocolate martinis after class.  While sitting there, sucking down a noodle, I realized that I actually don’t have to do anything.

            First Lover clearly was in a food coma, allowing Second Lover to take over.

            Let him come to me.  And then, if he does, I can say to him all the things I wanted to say to him.

            I was feeling good about arriving at this point.  I shared it with a friend in my clairvoyant class.  She listened carefully.

            “You want some feedback?”

            “Sure,” I said, excited that maybe she held the key to the universe and was going to unlock some universal knowledge.

            “I keep hearing, ‘you, you, you’ in what you want to say to him. What about you? What do you want? What do you need? Why not something like, ‘I’m in close intimate relationship with people who can be open and honest with me.’ “

            Clearly, First Lover was not in a food coma, Second Lover was.  Chocolate martinis and meatballs are a strategy of first lover.

            As her words resonated through me, Second Lover began to shake off the food coma.  I realized I don’t have to heal the Paralegal. I don’t have to right his wrong. I don’t have to reach out to him.  That’s not my responsibility to clean up the mess he has created or to solve his problems.  And if he’s going to be in my life in any way, he’s going to have to fix the mess.

            For whatever reason he reached out to me. For whatever reason, he is trying to erase his past mistakes. And in that moment, is it right for me to thrash him with a dozen roses?

            I can just keep on keeping on, living my own fabulous life. Posting my own fabulous Wall posts and photos.  He will see the same messages motivating people to say, “I love reading you posts, your life is so interesting.”

            And that’s the me that I want the Paralegal to fall in love with.  If he can step into that space then, great. And if not, that’s his experience.  If for whatever reason he can’t step into the love I have to give, that is his choice, his loss, and its not mine.

            Second Lover was on to First Lover.

Rabid Hot Mess

            Vodka lemonade. Black Eyed Peas.  Katy Perry.  Lady GaGa. Michael Jackson. Midnight free shots. The summer night was hot and Yoga Girl and I were dancing on a bench at our favorite watering hole, Big Chicks.  We were fully accessorized in the chakra crystal of the month, and dancing into the morning hours.

            From the bench, we had a view of the entire dance floor, where we looked at boys, made eyes, flirted, and used our developing clairvoyant powers to move energy about the crowd.

            A short straight chick climbed onto the bench next to me. Her spiked heal pierced through my sandal, stepping on my toe.  She clung to my new designer shirt, like a pawing sorority girl, trying to steady her drunken self.  She is the textbook definition of Hot Mess.

            “You are so handsome.”

            She thrusts her breasts into me.

            “Thank you.  Step away, please.”  I continue dancing, not making eye contact.

            “Oh, my gosh.  So cute. I should take you home.”

            “Step away. You are in my space.”

            “Don’t you think this dress makes my breasts look good?” She shoved her breasts together, looking down at them, and then me, smiling.

            “They’re lopsided. Not into that equipment. Back away, please.”

            She threw her arms around me, grinding her hips into me, as if feeling her flabby rolls of womanhood rubbing against me would transform me into a new man.

            Occasional a random Hot Straight Girl Mess gets lost on the Northside of Chicago and will wander into a gay bar, thinking her straight bar tricks are going to work in a gay setting.  Why women think their space should be respected by a man when they say no, but that courtesy is not returned is beyond me.

            “This is the last time I am going to tell you to stop touching me.”

            Despite my final warning, she continued to run her hands up and down my chest, which forced me into a defensive dance pose, swinging my elbows wide and out with great force.  My elbow jabbed her in the ribs.

            “UHHH!”  She belted over. Her two gay friends reached to grab here.

            “Honey, get down from the bench.  You’re going to fall over.”  One coaxed her off the bench and on the ground.

            Yoga Girl and I didn’t miss a disco beat.

            Recovered from the rib jab, Hot Mess went rabid, throwing me the bird as she danced.  I didn’t react but kept dancing in my own world.  When Rabid Hot Mess didn’t get the reaction she hoped for, she recruited her two gay boyfriends to also throw me the bird along with her, as if the triple bird is some sort of Achilles’ heal to my gay superpowers.

            “Take it back to Wrigleyville and try it in a straight bar, you Rabid Hot Mess!”

            Yoga Girl tuned in to what was happening, and went ballistic.

            “Oh, get a grip, Sister! Your heterosexist power doesn’t work here!”

They'll Send Us to Rehab

            “Sisterfriend, I found this place that does free energy healings every Thursday.  You want to go?” I called Yoga Girl as soon I found the Clairvoyant Center of Chicago.

            “Oh, absolutely. Sounds like an adventure, Sisterfriend.”

            “I was thinking dinner after work and then find our way to the Center for a healing.”

            “Hey, maybe we could swing by the Chakra Shoppe to see Blanche. I’m thinking I need some more crystals.”

            I absolutely love Yoga Girl’s unquestioning willingness to set off on an unexpected adventure, as well as her ability to up the thrill quotient with her own contribution. 

            We’d been going to the Chakra Shoppe for quite some time, and have found it is the Target for the New Age, with a wide selections of crystals, incense, books, herbal teas, chakra sprays and lotions, music CDs, and candles, all organized into departments by chakra, as if they are as ubiquitous as housewares and sporting goods. Like Target, we always manage to find stuff we didn’t know we needed, and it’s hard to get in and out of there for less than one-hundred dollars.

            The place is run by a woman named Blanche Black who, with a name like that, was destined to specialize in chakra balancing and healing merchandising.  Wearing flowing lavender gowns, she appears to be in her fifties, but Yoga Girl and I actually suspect she’s 253 years old, born amongst the Redwoods or something, preserved only by the chakra spray that she mists into her aura every day.

            We looked at the merchandise, trying on hematite rings and tigers eye neck charms, picking up rose quartz figurines.

            “Looks like that crystal wants you,” Blanche said with a shoulder shrug, a no-pressure sales technique the moment we drop something.  “Looks like it picked you; it jumped.”

A Romantic Tragedy

            “I think you should come to Chicago for I.M.L.,” I said to the Franciscan on the phone.  We had been in constant touch since the big masturbatory weekend, and I knew him well enough to know that the International Mr. Leather Weekend, with its parties filled of men donning fetish costumes drawing crowds from all over the country, this was right up his ally.

            “Oh, man. I’d love to. But the boyfriend is taking his mom to Hawaii, so I’ve got dog duty,” he said.

            “So is that an invitation for me to come visit?”

            “Yeah. It could be. If you want to come visit. I’d love to see you and spend time with you.”

            In learning to focus on my needs, I discovered that if I didn’t have a pro-active plan for the holiday weekend, I’d feel abandoned and alone. That was the energy I took with me when I found a ticket purchased for a few random miles on a credit card I no longer used; it was a plan, and it would fill my weekend.

            I packed every condom I owned.  I didn’t pack any lube, assuming he would have plenty; lube is hard to transport across the country – you always have to check your bags as the three-ounce limits for liquids and gels is never enough for one good night.  And certainly not three nights with a former Franciscan Monk I met through a weekend of eroticism.

            But even as I packed the supplies for potentially the biggest boy time of my life, I packed without expectation, having an open mind and an open heart.  If I was in the guest room for three days, then I was in the guest room.  And if we had non-stop sex, then we had non-stop sex. Whatever would unfold, my intention was to rest and relax in the company of man who I had a great connection with, and pass the weekend without the abandoned toddler demon taking over.

The Conversation We Needed To Have

            I waited on the sidewalk outside the Violet Hour, a bar in Bucktown. A funky space with no windows and no standing room, one waits outside until a seat is available, at which point a gentleman dressed in a suit that was retro before Mad Men made the look of the ‘60s fresh again calls your cell phone. It’s an old-school bar, with true mixoligists who create drinks your grandparents would have enjoyed during prohibition.  I’d read about the Violet Hour in Chicago Magazine and had hoped to check it out. So when the Clairvoyant called suggesting we meet for an impromptu cocktail, I figured this was a sign from the universe.

            Either that, or he was reading my mind.

            We had been chatting on Grindr, and there was a good exchange of energy.  It quickly progressed to telephone chat, which I’ve come to learn is a good Grindr sign.  The banter on the phone was playful and lively. I checked his vitals: Career, check. Life goals, check. No mother issues, check. Ability to converse, check. Super smart, check. Emotional intelligence, check. Star sign, Scorpio – highly compatible.  Mercury had just come out of retrograde, and I made some reference to how it was a particularly challenging period.

            “You pay attention to that?” he asked.

            “Put it on my calendar.”

            “Do you? Why’s that?”

            “How else am I supposed to explain my customers getting all crazy at me on the phone.  Helps me hold the phone away from my ear and say, ‘What happened to your experience?’”

            “Really?  I like that.”

             “So tell me something about you.”

            “Well, I’m clairvoyant.”

            My interest was peaked.

            “So tune in and tell me something.”

            “I don’t normally do that.”

            “If you’re clairvoyant, prove it.”

            I could hear him focus his breathing.

            “You’re really ungrounded in your first chakra right now. Your first and second chakra.  Something is up with your housing. It’s totally in flux. And your second chakra, you’re acting out.  You’re acting out sexually because of it.”

Falling in Love for a Second

            “Gone for now.”

            That was how the Paralegal left for rehab.  I had no idea.  Yoga Girl had no idea.  We had been out drinking plenty of times to know that he didn’t drink like an alcoholic.  Or at least he didn’t drink like the Lawyer.  We could have a bottle of wine for dinner, and then be done.  His work schedule and his fitness routine just didn’t lend themselves to a typical sort of substance abuse.  Regardless, I had no idea, no information, and I was going to have to find a place of peace on my own, and trust that if the Paralegal wanted me to know the details he would tell me.

            I felt in my heart that he loved me and his words were authentic, but what little comfort that provided did not make up for the pain in knowing that he would be gone, the uncertainty of the future, the sorrow for the incredible hurdles he would have to overcome, the anger that I was completely powerless to whatever life might toss the Paralegal’s way or mine, and that, ultimately, whatever his selfish addiction, I would be the one to lose out on his love. Do I have patience? Do I let him go? I didn’t know.  But I knew if I just kept breathing through my fears, the answers would come.

            That was the energy I took the next morning into a workshop I had signed up for.   Sitting on the bus, I meditated on the idea that the answers would come with time.  But then, why did I have to know the answers? The Paralegal was in rehab, he was getting help he needed, and I should be joyful for him.  Why do I have to write the end of the story? Why can’t I just wait and see what happens next?  And if I give the Paralegal the space he needs to do his work while focusing on the work I need to do, then just maybe when I know I’m ready for the next step, the Paralegal will be too.  And if not, then maybe another, more fabulous man would come into my life.

            And just maybe I would meet him at my workshop.

            I had signed up for the workshop months before, not really sure what I was getting into.  Since ending my relationship with my former partner, I just had a feeling that I needed to learn more about emotional intimacy, becoming more comfortable with it.  I could talk to a therapist every week, but that just seemed expensive and slow.  I was looking to fast-track my growth, so the idea of some sort of intensive workshop was appealing. I searched the Internet, and didn’t come up with a whole lot.

             I found weekends in Berlin, but the details were lost in translation.  The weeklong retreats in Costa Rica or Hawaii sounded exciting, but I wasn’t prepared to drop the cash needed.  But one workshop, a weekend, looked like it was promising: Celebrating the Body Erotic, offered by the Body Electric School.

             Only, the details were a bit vague, not getting much more specific than helping people to get more comfortable with their bodies, or looking to connect with people on a deeper level.  So I emailed the coordinator asking for more information.

            He suggest I look at the Web site, indicating the video described in great detail what the weekend dealt with.

            Still, I had no idea, specifically, what the weekend was about.

            So I emailed a follow-up question asking if the workshop delved into issues surrounding emotional intimacy.  He indicated that it didn’t deal with intimacy directly, but by exploring some of the hurdles to erotic energy, it gets at issues of emotional intimacy.

            Good enough. I signed up and mailed a check.

            Over the months that would follow between registration and this moment on the bus, thinking through the energy I was carrying into the weekend, it became apparent to me that the real challenge was not emotional intimacy with others, rather a true and authentic emotional intimacy with myself.

            It weighed on my already heavy heart as I thought about all the questions with unknown answers, and why I must know the answers. Why can’t I just throw myself into the flow of life and see what happens next, with full comfort that everything would be okay?

            I hopped off the bus and walked to the warehouse where the workshop was being hosted.

            I stood on the street corner, about fifteen minutes early, waiting for the door to open for the Saturday morning session.  A cab pulled up. The door swung open, and out stepped a man.

            The Principal.

Bad Blind Date

            We were at a cabaret show, a tribute to Stevie Wonder, and it seemed fitting that my friend The Project Manager would bring a blind date.

            But he was a Bad Blind Date.  Such that The Project Manager pulled me aside mid-course, during intermission, to provide the disclaimer: “I don’t know what my friend sees in him that he thought I would actually find this asshole attractive.”

            I nodded.

            “I mean, he hasn’t said one word to me all night long, but he’s managed to talk to everyone else.”

            I sipped my cocktail as The Project Manager excused himself to order another round for the group of friends we were with.

            The Bad Blind Date approached me.

            “Do you need a ride home? I can give you a ride home,” he said, his voice deep and gravely, the outcome of two daily packs for decades.  His salt and pepper hair combined with his leathery face that reflected the age of a continuously good time.  His presence was playful, the depth of his wrinkles containing the memories of yesterday’s parties.  A designer shirt and designer jeans hung on his body oddly, as if he was more about brands than fit.

            “I live two blocks from here; I don’t need a ride,” I said.

            He cupped his hand around an electronic cigarette and took a draw; the LED-tip glowed.

            “It’s water vapor. With nicotine. I don’t smoke anymore.”

            “I see.”

            “So let me give you a ride home.”

            “I can walk, it’s just two blocks.”

            “Please.  You’re adorable, and this guy, I mean, please, save me.  You’ve got to save me.  Please don’t let me get to the point where I have to give him a ride home.”

            I shrugged my shoulders.

Stepping Into the River of Life

A lot has unfolded in the last 48 hours, and I think I've experienced pretty much every emotion there is. From the sadness and frustration that comes from The Paralegal standing me up, to an incredible emptiness and loneliness that I felt while working out with Development Guy. While running on the treadmill and watching kickboxing on Spike TV--think hot, lean, angry men beating on each other--I was able to let go of all of those empty, lonely feelings that just led to anger. And what replaced it was joy, happiness, laughter, and love. And I've been basking in this positive glow for almost 24 hours now.

While working out with Development Guy, I came to realize he's just not available for anything beyond a friendship. And that's okay, I enjoy his company and he's a good sounding board for professional purposes, and he does like a good time. But to stand there as he lifts weights, flexing muscles, waiting for him to ask me out on a date (or at least a date that comes with a little romance), I just don't know if that is ever going to happen. And the more I long for it, the more heartache I create for myself. We were driving back from the gym, and I asked him what his holiday plans were. He gave me a lengthy explanation of what he plans on doing. And then end of conversation, as if I had just asked him for my help. No question as to what I might be doing for the holidays. And that's when I came to realize it's not me -- he's not open to anyone.

I had dinner with Yoga Girl. We both are about the same age, were in a relationship about the same length of time, and then left our Ex-s about the same time. We've been luck to find each other and she has become a willing, competent, and supportive partner in crime. We'll hit a gay bar, and while I collect three or four numbers in a night, she always manages to find the lone straight guy in the bar -- the needle in the haystack. She has a particular talent for this, and if you turn your back for even just a moment, she'll have a man hanging on her.

Following dinner, Yoga Girl and I hit the town for a holiday party. We walked into the condo in Buena Park, and were immediately met with unknowing stares, as if we had arrived at the wrong party. I only knew one of the hosts, and I can't even recall how we met. In fact, it had been so long since we had crossed paths, that I couldn't exactly recall what he looked like. But when we spotted each other, there was a spark. Fireworks that say, "Why haven't we been spending more time together?"

"Sorry, I didn't dress up like the theme," I said.

"Oh, don't worry about it. You look smashing," The Host said. I had worn a green shirt with a red, white, and silver necktie and a grey jacket.

"Thanks. I didn't have anything that looked like the theme, so I dressed like a candy cane."

He laughed.

"I'm hoping I'll get licked later."

"And I'm hoping I'll get the honors! You do look delicious tonight."

I'm coming to realize that these moments only happen when I check at the door the feelings of anxiety over other relationships in my life that stem from what they are not, rather than embracing fully what they are, and feeling the joy and gratefulness that comes from them.

Throughout the evening, however, in between flirting with The Host, The Paralegal was texting me. I had snapped a photo of me dressed like a holiday candy cane, and he promptly replied that I look so handsome, he just wants to hug me. He was at a party with some DJ and had mentioned the lights were amazing and that he wished I was there so I could write a haiku about the lights.  Yoga Girl announced after a couple hours that she was ready to move on. We were either going dancing at Big Chicks or we were going to fund where The Paralegal is and hunt him down.

Feeling up for an adventure, we went for the later, and I texted The Paralegal to say we were on our way, and he was going to get to claim his hug tonight.

Yoga Girl and I had no idea what we were getting into. We approached Visions Nightclub, which, as far as I can tell, is a more exclusive V.I.P. Club that exists within Excalibur. We walked up to
the line at Visions.

"Are you on the guest list?" A round woman stood in front of a velvet rope, blocking the path.

"No, but we know someone on the guest list--I'm pretty sure," I said.

"The cover is twenty dollars."

We pooled our funds and handed her twenty.

"It's twenty dollars each."

Yoga Girl and I, looked at each other, laughing. We combined all our money, counted it out and all we had was thirty-three dollars.

"Is there an ATM?" I asked.

"Oh, what the heck," she said. She gave us two green coupons and said to go on inside.

The club has multiple levels and is quite the elaborate maze, with balconies overlooking multiple dance floors. It took us a while to find where The Paralegal was. What we have now come to realize is that we pretty much walked right into the more exclusive, V.I.P. club within in the club. And the Paralegal, was in the other area. When we finally found it, it was packed with men. Hardly any women in this crowd of straight men, all facing the stage, where a DJ was "performing." They just stood there, with the fog filling the room, and the lights shining down. Yoga Girl says it was like an alien mother ship landing, and the entire crowd was completely mesmerized by the lights and the thumping techno noise. It wasn't even really music, but just noise.

I set out to find The Paralegal, and when we found each other, he claimed that hug. We stood there for a few minutes, just holding each other.

"It's so good to finally meet you!" He said. "Oh, and I like hugs."

We went to go get a drink. It was not the setting that I had hoped to meet him, but I could say that he is real, and the awkwardness of the first meeting is behind. After weeks of texting after finding each
other on Grindr, I was afraid I was becoming attached to the Idea of The Paralegal--an idea completely formed in my head, rather than the reality of The Paralegal. To continue to put off meeting each other,
would just heighten the anxiety around whether or not I actually like the Paralegal or the Idea of the Paralegal.

We stood by the bar and few a few moments we made out, his soft, kissable lips and his tasty tongue brushing up against mine.

The Paralegal and I stood there, dancing. He is so stunningly handsome, and it was hard to not write out an ending -- that now we've met, he's not going to have any interest in me, that the idea of me is almost better than the reality of me.

"I think that guy stole the battery to my phone!" Yoga Girl, referring to a guy she had met, showed me the back of her phone, its guts completely on display, the battery gone.

"I think he would have stolen your entire phone if he wanted the battery. I bet it just fell off," I suggested.

Suddenly we're on the floor, looking between people's legs, as if we're searching for a lost contact.

It wasn't long after the loss of the phone battery that Yoga Girl and I decided it was way past our bedtime. How it got to be 3:30 a.m., we were not really sure. I hugged The Paralegal one more time. We kissed, and we departed ways.

In the cab home, I thought that i would never see him again, or even hear from him. And that's fine. But for one night, with no expectations of outcomes, I was able to be in the moment, to enjoy it for what it was.