Elliot met a table full of my friends last night. “Don’t worry,” I texted him when he said he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. “They only just now found out that the friend I’m hanging out with after dinner is a man. This isn’t a big introduction.”
We were waiting to get our credit cards back from the waiter and were sipping on champagne when he arrived. The jokes were off-color and the laughing loud. I didn’t linger long, though. I said our goodbyes and we quickly left.
We drove around north of town talking like I might have done with a date had I ever gone on one in high school. It was innocent and heavily reliant on only ourselves, not booze or loud music or some kind of adult activity. It was pure.
Eventually I suggested we go park at an overlook outside of the downtown lights, a dip in the highway I’d passed 10,000 times in the 23 years I’ve lived here and never stopped to visit. The city high rises sparkled like gems against the night’s sky.
He cut the engine and we talked for more than an hour and played with each other’s fingers. I told him unsavory stories and stressful real life turbulence mixed in with boob and clown-feet jokes. I couldn’t get enough of his soft brown eyes and the way his hair sometimes flopped across his forehead before he’d comb it back with his long fingers.
I wanted to not be there anymore.
“Wanna just go back to my place and have some wine?” Of course he agreed and it was there he saw the Truth anthology on my kitchen island. He picked it up as I puttered around with our wine glasses.
“So what’s this about?” he chuckled. “Doing a little personal research or something?”
I paused and thought for a second as I poured the wine hoping I looked nonchalant. “Nope. I have a piece in it.” He looked at me curiously. “But I’ll have to kill you if I tell you which one.”
He flipped through it and luckily I had dog-eared several stories – mine included – so I was still safely hidden. When he opened the page to mine I was careful to keep my face blank, but I wondered why I had done that.
We took our drinks and sat on the couch and kept talking. Hours and hours of it with my feet on his lap and the dog intermittently annoying us. We listened to U2’s Joshua Tree as I painted layer after layer of my story. Loss, love, hilarity, exploration. And then I suddenly found myself pressed against the glass of my own secrets and I couldn’t breathe. I decided to tell him about the blog and just exactly how Truth had landed in my kitchen.
I didn’t tell him the URL or the name, I didn’t tell him I’m Hy, but I told him I was a writer and I was proud of the content I create. I told him about Sonofabitch and how The Neighbor had been my muse. I told him about the IG account and hustling for money by offering access to a my ridiculous Snapchat account which had actually financed my last two trips to London.
I let it all out: the things I was proud about related to this blog and how important all my friendships were to me that I had cultivated as a result. He listened raptly and not in a little wonderment. He was impressed and honored. Honored that I had divulged something so precious to me and impressed at this new revelation that there was even more to me than met his eye.
The ever-present weight of my secrets lifted and I almost magically floated into his arms. We kissed and tasted and I breathed him in as both me and Hy and I felt my heart melt just a little. My hand strayed to his lap and felt his cock pulse beneath the denim. I let it rest there and squeezed just a little. It continued to surge of its own bloody volition.
I straddled his lap and nibbled his ear. He buried his face in my cleavage and his giant paw grabbed a handful of meat on my buttock. But all our clothes stayed in place. He moves slow, he said, and I am right on pace with this glacier. I had just bared my soul to him. No need to expose anything else.
He stayed until almost 4 in the morning and only physical limitations made us end the date. That and he didn’t want his baby waking up to him being gone when that hadn’t been the plan the night before.
We kissed goodbye in the entryway and he had to duck his head just a little as he left.
This morning I woke up and felt hungover. Not from the wine, but from the sheer intensity of exposure. I felt like I had been well-fucked, though not even my areola had become peeked out in our passionate embraces. My heart had been touched, though. A lot. I had let it out of its iron box and it was seen and held and gently handled. I was spent.
We texted a little throughout today, both sleep deprived and me searingly bashful; we can’t wait to see each other again. He told me between bouts of kissing that he thought all the people in his life whom he cares about would love me, including his wife. And he wants and hopes that we are friends at the very least for a long time to come. I hope so too.
I am the first to admit that I am a complicated woman. I’m excited that I have this unique opportunity to know a lovely man with silly big feet and soft, pillowy lips with whom I can open up and share all my secrets, but also am still aware that I’ll never be his number one. It seems contradictory to all that I yearn for and yet I think being his number two would feel far better than being no one’s number anything – and an opportunity to finally let someone touch my heart because god knows no one has touched that in far too long.
And I like it being touched.