Last week The Vet(erinarian) and I met up at a fancy restaurant by his place for a drink. We sat at the bar – not far from where we sat on our second date – and laughed and talked and ate. Our glasses kept full by an attentive bartender.
Plates of decadent food later and with a deep, warm buzz we looked at one another when she asked if we wanted more.
“I’m down to go for it,” I said. “Is it ok if I crash on your couch?”
“Yeah! Of course!”
So off we went deep into our cups, jokes, and disagreements about the intimacy of “ripping a huge, juicy fart” in front of your partner. I didn’t feign my disgust even as I laughed uncontrollably.
Tipsy past the point of what could be called responsible, he paid our enormous bill and we left.
Back at his place, on his giant leather couch, I would eventually and quietly lean over away from him, close my eyes, and sleep. Alone.
As the sun rose in the east and painted the sky with pastels he padded out into the living room in his underpants and a t-shirt. “You could’ve slept in my bed,” he said. I told him I was cool where I was.
We talked for a while and then I walked the long halls and rode down 10 levels to the garage. The truth was, I’d made a promise to myself that if I were to fuck him ever again, it was going to happen sober, and had I gone in that room with him I don’t know what would’ve happened.
As close to him as I felt, as safe and appreciated, it didn’t come close to feeling actually wanted by him in a deliberate and mindful way, and these days – when it comes to him, anyway – I want to be a choice, and not a happy accident [for his dick].
I want more than that. Dicks are a dime a dozen and I’m a precious mother fucking gift.