Wednesday, January 29, 2014


"I can't tomorrow," I responded to K's now live-in girlfriend when she asked me this past Sunday if I would help with her resume, "I have a sex date."

"Okay," she responded, without a flinch of her 22 year old face.

"A what?!" P's girlfriend piped in, suddenly realizing I may have said something odd. "I mean I can only imagine, but what," she knowingly questioned. I nodded in confirmation of what I'm sure she had imagined, while she sat there, mouth still slightly agape. I think I caught her off-guard with my candor, but this was something I had been looking forward to for days.


It started with a dream: HG was there in my parents’ house, crying to me about his job; sporting a sheer crop top - black, trimmed with cream. My dreams take the last things in my head and go play for the night; he had texted just before bed. I’m sure my nightly lullaby of Golden Girls helped.

“Even your subconscious thinks I’m gay,” he responded when I told him the dream.

“I don’t think you’re gay,” I said.

He scoffed, as if you could scoff via chat. But he had a point: When we dated two years ago, I questioned his orientation because of his manner of dress. (And perhaps for a reason again after that, years later.) He dresses impeccably well. If you knew me better, you would take this as a compliment: Gay men just dress better on average. It’s scientific fact*. Previously, I had dated people whose best dress was likely a pair of drawstring sweats, but this kid brought in a new kind of sexy: gingham - mmm... gingham - proper fitting slacks, and a beautiful array of shoes.

Well, I certainly didn’t mean to insult him. "If it makes you feel any better, I think we had slept together the night before in my dream. That part wasn't part of the dream though, just an assumption the morning after - although awkward, considering we were at my parent's house," I said in an attempt to fix my insulting sub-conscience. "Your voice is too good to be gay," I continued like an honest band-aid, "It would be a tragic loss to the female heterosexuals."

"Thank you. That helps," he responded. I then promised I would work on a dream in which we would be having heterosexual relations. Because these are the normal conversations people have with other people, right?

Golden Girls was now on pause until I reached my new goal.

I tried to direct my dreams and instead I had a really awkward dream where he was balding - and badly. In the dream, I was at a picnic with my mom and, with hesitance, I responded to a text he had sent. He immediately invited himself to the picnic, showing up with his balding comb-over, awkward lack of self-confidence, and two huge kites made out of balsa wood and a baby blue fabric. He was chasing after me and it was uncomfortable. “On the plus,” I offered upon telling him this failed attempt at sexual dreaming, “there wasn’t even the slightest hint of sheer crop tops in this one.”  Little assurance of my sub-conscience, I added, “I’m going to need some better material.”

Some days later, the disturbing visual of his balding head was still in mine. Bothered still, the conversation came back up when I saw him pop up on chat just before I was about to shut down my PC for the evening and go to bed. What transpired was perhaps the most surprisingly delightful exchange in my gchat history. The quiet numbers guy took the challenge of “material” and wrote a mother fucking (not literally) erotic novel. Being that it was midnight and he was still at work we began the story as such: I was his financial consultant coming up for a late night consultation, past the security, I exit the elevators; he continued:
you hear a voice... (an awfully deep voice) say hello from behind you.

Oh, he’s good. Play to my wants, weaknesses and the strength of his voice; a baritone god.

you are already jittery from sneaking in, so you jump at first, but smile turning around to connect the voice to the smile waiting.

Oh, this was great. At this point we're about 50 lines in and I’m getting into this story, and never having been one for off-site (phone, skype, etc.) sexual relations, I was suddenly understanding why GFN is always reading erotic novels full of “dusky nipples” and random erogenous zones. Ironically, I never knew words could have this kind of effect. Realizing I'm actually digging it, he begins to think more about what he’s typing. And, thanks to Gchat and the power of technology, I can see him typing while I abide in a captive anticipation:

[HG] is typing…

He presses enter:

i naturally extend a warm "professional" handshake and thank you for coming, but with a bit of a look of mischief behind it.

[HG] is typing…

surely you are a busy woman and don't want to be kept waiting, so I'll offer to take you straight to my office where we can discuss the important financial matters at hand. in a more discreet setting appropriate for such matters.

My breath heavys, my heart races.

[HG] is typing…

Oh, for shit's sake!

the hallway ahead is dark, but lights turn on as we pass through, dimming again behind us. 

This visual, so clever and subtly seductive. More! I think, now nearly drooling.

[HG] is typing…

leading you through a frosted door into the corner office. i step in behind you after you've stepped through. quietly shutting the door behind us.
you can almost feel me touching you inches in front of me.

[HG] is typing…


It was like dial-up porn: And in and out and wait and buffer and wait and there’s a nipple and pixels and wait and penis and wait and loading. In the moment I was piqued, curious and forgiving the pauses, wanting to see exactly what was going to happen once those frosted doors closed behind us - and as he went on, it became well worth the waiting. However, when I retold the story aloud, it was with an unexpected rupture of laughter in between the parts of organic, baited erotica and the breathless pause of a drooling Pavlov’s dog staring at the bone of [HG] is typing….

Regardless, I was so impressed with his erotic literary prowess that I insisted he come over the following week to meet for the conclusion of this tale. A financial consultation, if you will, of which I very much anticipated - all because of some words. Who knew? I bet if more erotic novels ended like this, they would be a lot more popular. Choose Your Own Adventure: The Notch in the Bedpost. Sex date, is that a thing? Choose your own adventure. It is now!

*No it’s not. It’s my own observation. And probably yours too.  

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