The man from Saturday, The Golfer, has been flirting with me and I honestly can’t figure out why.
In the harsh Tuesday morning light I look at myself and don’t see much worth physically desiring. He was drunk, that’s how he ended up in my bed, otherwise why would a gorgeous 35 year old man want my middle aged and rapidly sagging-where-it-never-used-to-sag ass?
It’s not the right time of the month for me to be feeling this way – I can’t quite make sense of it – except that I must still have an emotional hangover from that night.
He came and sat with Tina and me already drunk, but massively charming nonetheless. I watched her drape herself all over him and flirt like she was drowning, but I sat in between them and seemed to inadvertently block any real foreplay between the two of them.
He was there for something, but he wouldn’t quite come out with it. Then he told us he’d hit a major professional milestone, a jackpot, if you will. I heard him say “multi-millionaire.”
Tina, lover of millionaires that she is, perked up and convinced him to order the most expensive bottle of bubbles on the menu then left to go to the restroom. Now just the two of us, I inquired further about the moment for him.
“I’m gonna get sad for a minute,” he said with his head in his hands, “then I’ll be ok.”
I rubbed his back a little and told him it was alright, not entirely sure what he was about to say and not wanting to get overly invested in a drunk stranger’s drama.
“I mean no offense, but today is a really big day for me and I’m spending it with two women I don’t know.”
His friends, nearly as drunk as him, had tried to pry him away to go home earlier, but he’d refused. “I never leave the house, I don’t date, I’m totally alone and I had no one to share this with. Not really. I just tagged along with them, crashed their date.” I kept rubbing his back.
“I know how that feels,” I replied. “Take a deep breath and just enjoy tonight. It’s how I do it.”
Tina returned with her signature bad attitude and the moment was over. We were at a swanky hotel, after all, drinking Veuve Cliquot. The tears would have to wait.
That’s not a normal convo to have with a random drunk dude.
Maybe that’s why I went ahead and programmed his name in my phone, for the simple fact that I’m sad, too. I’m sad that I’m alone and drifting, bouncing from hookup to hookup like a skipped rock on the Lake O’ Many Mens.
I haven’t programmed a name in so long I barely remember the last time. It must have been Elliot, and before that Luke? God, I don’t even know. Both men who for whatever reasons didn’t want to be with me in the end.
As TG and I fucked each other senseless in the soulless black of my room it seemed we both held on for dear life. I wept from the sheer force of pleasure coursing through my body and he acted high on the perfume of my ejaculate and cries.
He flipped me over and licked my asshole and bit my cheeks, he pounded my pussy with his cock and his hands and buried his face between my legs like a starving man with a mouth made of the softest petals.
And then he texted the next day and tried to convince me to come over so we could do it all again. Not only was I hungover and recovering emotionally, but I felt embarrassed. Would he even want me in the light of day? Is it even worth my time even if he did?
He’s tried to get me to come over each night since. He’s funny, awkward, viciously self deprecating, and from what he said at the hotel, hates his mother.
It might appear that he’s one to avoid without question, yet his name is in my phone all the same because I’m sad, too, and for just a minute I’d also like to pretend that someone cares I exist.