He flutters his tongue in my mouth like a drowning butterfly. Not a real French kiss, more like something he learned in a sex book only you're supposed to do it at a vagina. He will not open his mouth to me.
But I don't think much about that kind of thing until much later. He's just a good looking guy coming through the gate. The others were dumpy, or freaky. Sloped shouldered, bad toothed, teethed. This one's got steely green eyes and no lines on his face. Yeah, so he takes two steps for every one of mine, bobbing on the balls of his tiny feet like his underpants might be too tight. He has girl feet. Maybe that's part of it.
But I only heard a deep, sexy voice. The kind that rattles your innards a little. Whole Midwest drawl going on, lazy farm boy kind of thing.
He thinks he's a rocket scientist but he isn't. Only an engineer. He just figures out how to put the things together. He doesn't invent anything.
Him and me, for example. He figures how to put us together. Few dates, nice dinners, the right bottles of wine. He doesn't push for sex too soon, but when he decides it's on, it's on. He invites me for a day hike.
Insisting I bring a change of clothes in case I want to shower at his house afterwards, before we have the barbecue. He warns me he's a balls out hiker, that I'm going to need a change of clothes, but it doesn't amount to much. Tromping around in the snow a little, heading down trails that don't go anywhere. His dog rides in a crate in the back of the truck and is supposed to do things when he says words like "deck." She listens even though he sounds angry. I wouldn't. I'd run away.
Back at the pad there's no need for a shower. I've sweated harder trying to swat a mosquito with a newspaper in the middle of the night. He keeps insisting, or failing that, enjoy the big bathtub. Yeah, I want him but not yet. Don't' want to be naked in his house. He leans into the chair, facing me, hands on either arm. "I think you'd feel so much better if you took a bath." He turns away, a pot's boiling. I sniff my pits. Seem okay. Why's he harping on it?
"I don't want to take a bath. We didn't hike that far."
But that's as far as my holding out goes. I'm a grown woman, after all and it's only a matter of days.
Three months. The dates wane while the sex ramps up. He skis on his days off or fucks around with his boat. Sometimes he plays hockey-- why he's so busted up that he walks that way, I guess. He doesn't want to do stuff with me.
Then one day it happens. He's too insistent. I give it up to shut him up, fake an orgasm so we can just go out, have dinner and relax. Afterwards, standing in the kitchen thinking grilled fish, a nice bottle of wine. He says we can go to one of the pho places in White Center. He'll pay if I drive.
When I tell him a few days later I'm starting to have feelings for him, he looks at me like I've just told him I have a raging case of incurable tuberculosis, recounts the damage he took from his ex wife. Twenty minutes recounting.
On Match Dot Com when I get home. He's still on, profile highlighted in green. Skisail1997564. I guess the other 1997563 spots were taken.
He will not take my phone calls or text me back. When I go to his house to confront him he hides inside, texts me and says he's on a ski vacation. He sends me an email, says if I come again he will call the police.
Have I mentioned he didn't know how to kiss? Just sort of fluttered his tongue in my mouth like a drowning butterfly. Sort of like something he must have learned in a sex movie, only he's got hold of the wrong end of things.
He takes two steps for every one of mine. He does not invent the rockets. He just sticks them together.