Why Do I Torture Myself?

I just spent the last twenty minutes stalking a guy online. I'll call him DD. No. That sounds like a reference to my cup size. And in case you're wondering: yes, I'm a 38DD. You can wear my bra as a hoodie. But I digress... Oh, whatever. DD it is.

So DD and I fucked a while ago. The sex wasn't that great. Scratch that. It was pretty bad. His dick was small, he came too fast, and he isn't all that to look at.

Okay. Wait. The first two are definitely right. That I remember. How could I forget?! He was just so puny and so... Remind me again what the point of promiscuity is?

Anyway, when I first met DD, a year or two before we actually had sex, he was pretty good-looking. He was the kind of good-looking that sits somewhere near the intersection of Hoodlumm Hottie and Artistic Sexy, a juncture well known to women who are rough around the edges and need a guy who thinks outside the box. His eyes were the kind of green that seem to be the doorways to an underwater cavern, full of mystery and intrigue. His hair, when braided, hinted at his street roots; when loose it fell haphazardly around him, a distinct indication that he couldn't care less about your opinion. All of that is well and good, but what got me is his attitute. He was brazen. Bold. He'd start feeling me up in public in a way that suggested he was the man - and somehow it didn't come off as needy or swarmy. His words had meaning and thought. There was a sense of purpose and duty to his air.

So yeah. I fucked him. The act itself was pretty bad/forgettable. But I'll tell you what I do remember:

That first night, in between repeatedly fucking DD - what can I say? I'm quick to give out second chances - we had meaningful conversations. Not the kind of gushy sentimental bullshit that guys feed you when they want to get laid. Not the nonsense verbal spillage of couples who talk just for the sake of talking. But actual conversations: the kind that made me think and communicate insights. The kind that opened me up to new thoughts and ideas. The kind that are so rare they don't even happen often between best friends.

After the sex was had and the weed was smoked, I said I'd drive back to my place, but he insisted that I stay. That we actually sleep together. That I maybe stick around in the morning to talk some more. And now that I think back on it, I'm surprised that I agreed; back then, I was quick to hightail it out of a scene after I'd gotten some tail.

So we slept together, and in the morning, I took a shower and he heated me an empanada for breakfast. He played hiphop on his Mac, sat on his balcony, writing, and left me lying on the bed to do the same. Deep in thought, I scribbled away and studied his walls, which were littered with remnants of his childhood, reminders of his goals, retainers of his memories. Now and again, a line from a track on his playlist would pop out and one of us would break our mutual silence to exclaim how great it was, or to start a conversation about artistry, or to get the others' attention and just smile.

Even though the details of that first night we fucked are getting hazy, I remember a lot about the feelings of the next morning. They're painted in that perennial shimmer of bliss which taints your heart every time you think of something pure. I know that we "talked" for a bit after that, and that when drama started coming up in my life (as is often the case) he didn't want to/didn't know how to deal with it. I know that I let myself become needy for a day, then decided that I was better off on my own. And I know that I'd rather I have that great memory than have started something with DD that more resembled an actual relationship; I sure as hell wasn't ready for one back then.

More than all that, I know that DD knew how to kiss, and that our lips seemed to compliment each other like interlocking pieces of the same puzzle.

******

So maybe that's why I made out with DD a few months ago, while Rob and I were on one of our ubiquitous breaks. I dunno... What I do know is this: I'm not the same person I was when I slept with DD, and he's definitely not the same person that he was. He seems less confident, more needy, definitely less physically attractive. And no, his kisses don't do for me what they used to.

Now and again, though, I still like to think back on him, relish in the sheer feel-good feeling of a particular encounter, and wonder if somewhere on his bedroom wall is hanging a short poem that I wrote while lying on his bed.