I met him in the middle of March. The anticipation of the floral boom of springtime in Atlanta makes it my absolute most favorite time of year.
His profile on OkCupid was enticing – slightly cocky, but still a bit humble. Clearly not looking for anything too serious, but also not looking for just a one night stand.
He was a good man from a good family, had been married for eight years and had two beautiful children to show for it. Divorce had been hard on him – his exwife’s family had come from money, so he pretty much took it up the ass regarding child support and custody. But he made it work. He was a wedding photographer and also, a pothead.
My stomach still flutters when I think about how hot he was though.
The winter of 2008-2009 saw me with several different kinds of men. Overweight, underweight… Successful and… well, not very. After I broke up with my exboyfriend, it was my goal to break my bad-boy dating habits and, in my mind, the way to do it was as simple as taking medicine. Just… hold your nose and close your eyes. I dated guys that were shy… Introverted… Nerdy… The way that it played out though, I wasn’t attracted to men I was dating.
But the single dad… he was a cool drink of water. He was tall, but not too tall, tan, blond and muscular. He had big dogs that he would take down to the river and play in the water with. He was kind of a good ol’ boy and reminded me of the boys I liked in high school – the athletes who didn’t get into REAL trouble, but were trouble just the same. He didn’t have tattoos, preferred sneakers over any other kind of shoe and had live plants in his apartment.
Dating the hot single dad was my break from trying to make the nice guys fit me. He was that enticing hot wave of steam in my face. I didn’t really want to date a super square banker type… I didn’t really want to date a nice guy. I wanted him.
His chest and stomach did it for me. When I opened his profile, there was a picture of him, shirtless. Typically, I don’t give shirtless dudes a second glance. Yes, you have skin on your torso. It covers your ribs and muscles. Thanks for sharing. But his picture was different. Slightly artistic, and his eyes and face were just smoldering… His mouth was slightly open, as if he was caught off guard. His boxer shorts peeked out from his jeans ever so slightly and his stomach – mercy, memories, take me back. He was 36, but his stomach was only 22 in my eyes.
He had a real sort of Matthew McConaughey thing going for him. Athletic and fun and sexy and easy to hang out with. The kind of guy that you COULD get into some serious trouble with, but he’d figure out a way to get the two of you to skate by, scott-free.
On our first date, we met in the city at this really cool tapas restaurant. There was live music, we sat on the patio. It was lovely. He was engaging and interested in what I had to say. We talked about all kinds of things – kids, art, work, dogs. We shared plates and swapped stories. Afterwards, we went over to a bar down the street and played pool.
By the way, playing pool on a date is one of the sexiest activities for a first date, for real. Bending over, holding cues, pressing down onto the little blue chalk cube while you furiously polish the tip of your cue. If you want to see a woman display her sexual prowess, take her to play pool.
We had some beers and had a great time. He was putty in my hands and I liked it. Said good night with a bit of a kiss, lips lingering just long enough to convey my desire to get his clothes off… next time.
The next day, he called. We made plans to meet again on my day off, mid-week. His apartment was nestled against a nature preserve that was on the banks of the Chattahoochee River. I met him there and we took his dogs down to the river on that date and threw the Frisbee into the rippling current. We were covered in mud and dog slobber and sexual tension. Got back to his apartment and cleaned up a little. It didn’t take long before we found ourselves intertwined in each other’s arms and legs, on his couch and then in his bed.
I would come to learn that this was pretty much going to be how most of our dates went: meal, hang out a bit, get naked. Repeat. Sometimes we’d go do fun date-y things, but most of the time, we’d find someplace near his house to eat a little, drink a lot, and get home quickly.
The sex with him was some of the best I believe I have ever had. It was one of those really intense sort of experiences where you are pulled so close in to this person that you feel like your hearts are syncing up. Where you almost feel like you can’t slow down or stop long enough to take a breath and your lungs start to pinch near your ribs. HOT. Where you are walking around, stretching your body the next day to cope with how sore and twisted you feel.
And we’d lay in bed sometimes and cuddle and talk the way people in relationships do… But I knew we were just lovers. Really, he was my first lover. I’ve had friends with benefits before, but it was really just, “Hey, wanna come over and have sex? Then you can leave? Great. See you in ten.” And I was young and that’s just what people did back then. I do feel a little silly using the word ‘lover’ to describe him. Makes me feel like some dried up old lady, day dreaming about the pool boy. But really, that’s what we were. Lovers.
It was all very nice until I realized that my heart was starting to grow legs and was making a mad dash out of my chest and towards him.
This man just got out of an eight year marriage, after a terribly sticky and complicated divorce. He was NOT looking for something serious.
And I knew it going in… I knew it when he unhooked my bra with one hand. I knew it during every meal we shared and during every pitcher of whatever-it-was that we split. But my heart – my fucking heart – would hear nothing of it.
I would run over, in my head, how things might be if we dated… If things worked out. How would our children mesh together? Where would we live? Could I date someone again who smoked pot regularly? Could I marry someone like him? All of these questions sprang from my desire to be logical and, perhaps, try to convince my heart that he wasn’t the right man for me. But going over these images in my mind only succeeded to make me crave him all the more.
The thought had been lingering in my mind to end it with him, but the power of the pull from my pussy was stronger than my brain, at least for a brief while. I kept seeing him for almost two months with that thought squarely situated in the middle of my forehead. Oh, I was seeing other people, mind you. I think he was, too… We were both situating one another on the back burner, but I just could.not.shake.him from my mind.
The day that I ended it, we had a typical date capped off with rock-star sex. We were sitting on his patio, smoking cigarettes together to settle our orgasmic quakes. It was a beautiful moment with a soft, cool breeze pushing the pines, the early summer sun’s warm rays hitting your skin through the scattering shadows. He was sitting on the stairs behind me and I was leaning on the railing. My long hair was blowing and I could smell the lingering scent of shampoo and sex-sweat in my hair. I took a slow, long drag on my cigarette and peeked at him over my shoulder, “I’m kind of awesome,” with a smirk. He squinted up at me, shielding his eyes from the sun with his calloused, thick fingers and nodded in agreement.
We both knew.
That night, he sent me a text to let me know that I had left my razor in his shower. I just told him to throw it out – it’s only a disposable razor.