How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel (5 page)

“Yes!” I reply, before realizing that I don’t. I love to dance, and I’m looking for someone who wants to dance with me, but I’ve never actually done salsa dancing. I quickly correct my mistake, “I mean, no, but I’ve been dying to learn. I love dancing!”

One thing I’m not sure he has figured out yet is that I would do pretty much anything, if it means I get to do it with him.

“And what about backpacking? Do you like roughing it?”

Do I? Well, if he’s there…

“I’ll try anything once!—I mean, not
anything
—“ I hope he knows right now that I’m referring to anal sex. Best not to be too clear about that, though, because I’ve found that it’s never a good idea for a woman to be the first one to bring up sex of any kind. Once the topic is on the table, guys seem to be able to think of nothing else, and before you know it, all his desire to get to know you goes right out the window. If you don’t trust me on this one, just bring up your boobs the next time you’re having a nice conversation with a man.

“But stuff like, I love hiking and camping,” I continue, “so—yeah, sure, I must like backpacking, too, right? I'll totally do that with you.” Ooh, was that too obvious? I’ve got to work on my subtlety skills. I am not being very demure right now.

He doesn’t notice, though, because it seems we’ve arrived.

“Here it is. My favorite place in San Francisco.”

His favorite place is the top of Alamo Square Park. Even if you’ve never been to San Francisco, you would probably recognize a picture of its view. It overlooks that row of famous Victorian houses that are called “The Seven Sisters” or “The Painted Ladies” or “Postcard Row” or “those cool houses from the opening credits of
Full House
”.

“You can see everything from here!” John explains enthusiastically. “See the downtown skyline, and the top of the Bay Bridge? And that way is a piece of the Golden Gate Bridge,” he says, swinging me around excitedly, “and Twin Peaks over there! On a clear night like tonight, you can see it all!” It’s beautiful. And the miles of rolling window lights coming from the houses and apartments lining the hills of the city, only amplify the dreaminess of our surroundings. It’s not hard to see why this might be someone’s favorite place.

Smiling at the view, John takes my hand, again shooting the excitement of anticipation through my body, and says, “Isn’t it amazing?” Then he pulls me into himself, wraps his arms around me sweetly, and asks with just the slightest fear of rejection, “So, what do you think?”

What do I think? I think that I love having your body pressed against mine. I think that my favorite part of the view is your face, your eyes, your perpetual smile. I think this is the most romantic moment of my whole life. Who are you and where did you come from?

What do I say? That’s a whole other story. But I forgive myself because my feelings are so strong that I can’t help but indulge the slightest bit of insecurity that I may not be so special.

I try to keep it light and jokey, “You probably take all your dates here.”

“No. You’re the first,” he reassures me with a chuckle, and I believe him. I guess he’s perfect, and I’m just lucky.

“I mean, my wife and I came here a lot,” he concedes with a nonchalant air, “but that’s just because we lived around the corner.” I relax a bit, that makes sense. “I mean, I still do live there,” he goes on, “but she doesn’t. I bought her out of the house and all that, so—“ he suddenly changes his tone to a more upbeat one, “why are we talking about her? I don’t want to talk about her.”

Well that’s a relief.

With his hands still wrapped around my back, he glances at his watch, and adds with his soul-melting smile, “Especially now that it’s midnight. Happy Birthday.”

Oh my God, I am actually thirty years old now. A full blown, bona fide adult. No more playing dumb. No more “I didn’t knows”. No more excuses. From this moment forward, I’m expected to actually know what I’m doing in life! And I would keep freaking out about that, but I can’t, because John has leaned in, and decided to kiss me.

Now I’m “Oh my God-ing” for a whole new set of reasons. Oh my God, I’m kissing him. Oh my God, that feels good. Oh my God, I like this man. When was the last time I did this? I don’t even remember. Whenever it was, I have a feeling it wasn’t this powerful. How could he be so perfect for me, in every way? How could I be so lucky?

He stops kissing me for a moment to look into my eyes. I hope he can’t tell just how insanely into him I am. My pupils must be dilated all the way to my eyebrows. I hope he doesn’t know that that’s what happens when a person is really, really into you. I’ll bet he can’t even see the green color of my eyes peeping past their expanded black centers, right now. He flashes me his signature smile, complete with puppy dog eyes. I just wanna take him home and rub his belly! I can’t help but smile back.

Then he asks, “Have you made any special wishes for your birthday?”

“I think my wish may have already come true.” Well, if my pupils didn’t give me away, my loose lips sure did. Oh well. Now I’ve gotta go with it. He has me and he knows it. When did it become so scary to have feelings?

Good news is he doesn’t seem to mind what I just said. I think, in fact, that he likes it, because he kisses me again, but this time with a passion that I’ve had yet to see from him. The tenderness is on the backburner. Now he wants me. And I want him. Why shouldn’t we want each other? Everything tonight has been out of some fantasy that doesn’t ever happen to two real people. I feel it. Now I can tell that he feels it too. Everything he’s said until now proves his longing to be loved, and now he knows I will give that to him. Maybe it was good to be vulnerable?

I suddenly feel a shiver up my spine. To be honest, I don’t know if it’s from the sexually charged energy between us, or the fact that it’s San Francisco at night, and I’m naturally freezing my ass off.

“Brrrr…” I mindlessly blurt.

“Are you cold?” he asks, the sincerity of his concern warming my heart.

I nod, ever so slightly embarrassed at being such a weather wimp that I’m going to ruin a perfectly romantic moment.

“I have heating at my place,” he suggests. “It’s right around the corner.”

Oh, the moment of truth. We both know that if I go to his place, I’m supposed to have sex with him. I usually like to wait to have sex, but this just feels so right. The moment is perfect. The guy is perfect. It would make this whole night, this whole birthday, perfect. I don’t know what to do. I want to have sex with him. I want to make love to him, even. Why should I wait, when I know this is right?

I’m drunk. I’m cold. I’m smitten. I’m going.

Chapter 7

He wasn’t lying. He literally lives around the corner from Alamo Square. His house is stylish and sparse, and demonstrates just the right amount of matchiness. The mood of the place maintains a consistent tone that signifies a man’s dominant presence, but hints that a woman has passed through. Furniture in rich shades of brown, walls painted in soothing earth tones, off white accents on the Victorian molding, giant, lush throw rugs you want to dig your toes into, which sit on top of mahogany wood floors. He has the kind of décor that most of us crave but can’t afford, demonstrating both taste and humility. Everything is placed as if in a showroom. I’ll take the lamp and the ottoman, please. Oh, is that really what those retail for? Never mind. I’ll just take a piece of this complimentary butterscotch candy, then.

Like everything else about this man, this place is ideal. I tell him so, but he contradicts me.

“Honestly, it’s too much space for just one person. It’s much cozier when two people live here.”

I raise my hand in my mind, silently screaming, “Pick me! I’ll move in. I’ll fill this space up for you. I’ll be just the other person you need.”

Instead I say, “You keep it so clean and orderly.” I sound more surprised than impressed.

“Thanks. I think how a person keeps their place is a good reflection of how much they respect themselves.” Hmm, note to self, don’t invite him over to my apartment. What may seem perfectly livable and cozy to you, could appear as a complete lack of self-respect to the man of your dreams.

He plugs his iPod into its dock and asks me, “Have you heard of Les Nubians?”

“No. What’s that?”

He turns on the music, and soft harmonious tones of two women singing beautifully in what must be some African language fills the house. I can see why he’d choose this as the soundtrack to the romantic moment we would likely soon be sharing. He sways gently to the music, clearly enjoying himself immensely as he lets the rhythms fill his soul. He closes his eyes, and goes deeper into his perpetually happy mind as he tells me their significance, with the excitement of a small child who’s just discovered that gravity doesn’t prevent airplanes from flying through the air with people inside.

“They’re my favorite group. I saw them in France one hot summer night, outdoors. And I felt so alive, that the next day, I went out and bought all their albums! Their sound is so sensuous.”

Yes. Sensuous. That is exactly the word I would choose to describe this sound. I want to be in that place with him, and I think he reads my mind, because he takes my hand, and leads me into his dance.

“What were you doing in France?” I ask, as I fantasize that he’ll take me there with him one day.

“Eating,” he replies, unromantically, “I love French food. Are you a good cook?”

“I do alright for myself,” I brag, while making a mental note to go out and find some French recipes to practice making as soon as I leave this place.

He pulls himself away from my embrace, just enough to shoot me one of those adorable, vulnerable smiles, which he unknowingly uses to get anything he wants from me.

“Maybe you could cook for me sometime?”

My whole face lights up as my own smile bursts through my cheekbones to my temples, practically erupting my brain. Real future plans. Not just the bullshit kind about random things we might do sometime, but the actual groundwork for a second date. I know what I’m doing for my birthday now. I’m going to plan the menu for our next meal.

He sees my delight, and kisses me again. This time it’s in harmony with the music. Our kiss becomes just one more part of our bodies dancing.

We move through the house to the melody provided ubiquitously by the surround sound multi-room speakers, blasting the soundtrack to the next phase of my life. Les Nubians. My new favorite musical styling. I already know that the next time I hear this, it will instantly bring me right back to this experience. To this feeling. To this pure and utter bliss.

When I open my eyes again, allowing myself to glance in passing at the reality of the present moment, I realize that I am in his bedroom. Clearly the master, it is large and spacious with more than enough empty floor space to accommodate Can-Can lines of about seven dancers on either side of the California King size bed. It is so large, in fact, that those dancers would be able to perform their act without the slightest fear of banging into the dark wood dressers lining the walls, or into the armchairs, which form a little conversation nook, in the corner. Like everything else I’ve seen of this man, the layout and color schemes exhibit a pretentious-less class.

Still kissing and pressing up against each other, we fall together onto the bed. I’m facing the master bathroom, which is big and luxurious, with a spa tub directly behind the toilet, and across from the bidet. I can see all this because the bathroom has no door. I am instantly disturbed by this.

How is that gonna work? There’s no doubt that I’m going to have to tinkle at some point—let’s hope that’s all I have to do—but in my blinded kissing, Nubians-enhanced passion, I didn’t make a point to locate any other bathrooms on my way to this bedroom. Not that I had any way of knowing that his master bathroom wouldn’t have a door. Why wouldn’t he have a door?!

I’ve seen this design before in fancy hotel rooms, but never without thinking it was a bad idea, and never in a family home. Maybe this is why he and his wife broke up? I mean it’s hard enough to keep the attraction alive in a long-term relationship without having to watch the other person doing their business. In fact, there is nothing that a couple should watch each other do in the bathroom. Even when you’re not sitting on a toilet, cleaning out your private parts, or getting snot out of your nose, you’re doing stuff to make yourself look more attractive to your mate. Stuff that’s supposed to be secret. Stuff like putting on makeup and styling your hair. Stuff that’s supposed to maintain the illusion of perfection that they fell for in the first place. Yeah! I don’t want him seeing any of that.

Men are very visual creatures, so showing them how we get from A to B is the same as pulling back the curtain on a magic show. Sure, we all think we’d like to know how the trick is done, but when we find out, all we’ve really learned is that magic doesn’t exist. And that’s depressing! Everyone knows that the key to a successful marriage is separate bathrooms, but it goes without saying that the key to separate bathrooms is closing the doors.

“Are you ok?” he asks me, noticing that my mind has slipped off somewhere.

I don’t want to bring up this thing about the bathroom door, but I’m me, so I do.

“How did you deal with that missing bathroom door when your wife lived here?”

He glances over his shoulder to see what I’m talking about, “Oh… We were married. We didn’t care.”

Weird. This definitely has to do with why they aren’t together anymore. There are some things that you just shouldn’t know about the person you’re supposed to get it up for.

“Well, now that you’re single,” I offer, “you should probably get a door.”

He smiles in that way that draws all of my attention back into him, and says the one thing that seems to make it all okay.

“I don’t plan on being single for long.”

He kisses me, almost as an extension of the beautiful thing he’s just said, and my rigidity about the situation starts to disappear. I have to admit to myself that if he has to have one little flaw, there are worse things than wanting to share the inner workings of your bathroom time with your loved one. It is, after all, a form of intimacy. And if he could be that intimate with his ex-wife, why shouldn’t he also be that intimate with me? Not that it won’t take me some getting used to, but maybe it’s a small compromise to make in exchange for the rest of the package. And I can always take myself on a self-guided tour of the house once he’s sleeping, and do a little recon to find the next closest bathroom.