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Sparkle (4)
I almost had sex one night with a young, sexy saxophone player. It all began with a little IM sex. OK to be honest, it was more like IM foreplay. Either way, the IMing almost led to real-live sex, with a real-live sexy sax player. It would have been smoking hot too, if only he had a car instead of a bike; and by bike, I don’t mean a bad ass Harley or a racy Ducati, I mean a bi-cy-cle. As in a bike -- that you pedal -- like when your 15 year old boyfriend wants to bike over so you can make-out on your parents couch, that kind of bike.
The night started out quietly, with no hint of all the sex I was about to almost have. My kids were away for the night and, as was often the case when they were gone, I could not sleep. Restless, I stayed up working late on a paper for school when I got an e-mail from Mr. Sexy Sax Player with whom I had a class. We e-mailed back and forth, and soon the e-mails turned to IMs. He was so smooth, so sexy. His technique was so seductive; it didn’t take long before we were off our computers, and onto our phones. Closer contact was definitely needed.
He continued with his seduction, made even hotter by his low, breathless voice, “You are so sexy...” as he led me on a tour of my body describing all the things he liked about it. I was impressed. He had obviously been paying attention in class, maybe not to the instructor, but at least he was taking notes on the things that interested him.
He went on with even more sexy talk and then, finally, the big play, “Let me come over,” he cooed. I freaked. My divorce was still fresh, the scars even fresher. I laid it out for him, “I have never had casual sex.” I admitted. “I wouldn’t even know how.”
“Let me show you,” he whispered.
Holy sh*t!
“When can you get here? Can you come now?” I asked. “No problem,” he assured me. “I have my bike. I can ride really fast. I can be there in, like, 15 minutes.” SCREECH! That was the sound in my head as I mentally hit the brakes, turned around, and left the scene before a crime was even committed. I had forgotten he didn’t have a car, forgotten his license had been suspended or revoked, or something.
I imagined him, all fired up with legs pedaling wildly as he raced across town to have sex -- with me? Who was I kidding? I was a 40 year old single mom with three precious, young daughters, and he was a hot, 30 year old musician, with a history of who knew what else. This was not a made-for-TV movie, but my life; a life I was working hard to keep peaceful and safe for both my children and myself. With the dull ache of regret lingering in my loins, my dignity intact, and the sanctity of my household untarnished by all the hot, steamy love-making I was so close to not having, I hung up with my sexy, sax player and went to bed -- alone and lonely, but secure in the knowledge that I had done what was right and true for me, if not for him.
I lay there in my big bed, and in my mind’s eye I imagined the scene with a different ending. This time my sexy, sax playing smoothie was on my doorstep, sweaty, and out of breath from his energetic ride through the darkened streets of our quiet, little town. This time, my dignity was not intact at all, and I was very much tarnished, tired, and finally, ready for sleep.
