I am a human again. I am a man again.
I can’t focus. I’m writing this post between dancing, crying, messaging friends excitedly and having flashbacks of the feeling of his stubble on my chest.
I’d been chatting to him online for a while. He’s 28, his profile picture was cute, he’s a psychologist and he seemed genuinely interested in meeting me and he hadn’t made a single weird request. These were all positives, but my recent experience has led me not to have faith that online meet-ups will actually happen.
We tried and failed to meet last week and when he messaged me this morning and asked me to meet this evening, I panicked. I didn’t want to meet him. This was just too scary. But I didn’t pull out. I agreed to meet him at 7:00.
I spent the entire day at work freaking out, checking my underpants for optimum hygiene and googling how to kiss.
As I walked to meet him, I considered going home and messaging to tell him I was sick. I didn’t. I met him. And he was much cuter than in his profile picture. And he didn’t walk away in disgust when he saw me.
He knew I was Irish, so he took me to the Irish pub, possibly the most heterosexual place in Ljubljana, but a sweet gesture.
We talked. He was quiet at first, but interesting, and we had lots to talk about. I managed to be chatty nervous. Sometimes I’m silent nervous, and that wouldn’t have worked out anything as well.
He was wearing shorts and as we sat opposite each other, our legs touched. I felt thrills of excitement from the contact. I wasn’t sure what he was feeling. And then, he stood to go to the toilet but then sat again, saying that his “excitement” was too evident and he’d have to wait to settle down before he could go.
OHMIGOD. I was in there. He couldn’t have been more explicit, short of leaning across the table and saying “Get your coat. You’ve pulled.”
After our second pint, he asked what we should do next. I said that I didn’t have any flatmates. And all of a sudden, we were on our way to mine.
He came in and went to the toilet. I didn’t know where to sit or stand. I didn’t know if he was going to emerge from the toilet naked or clothed. In the end, I unbuttoned my top button and waited nonchalantly for him, while leaning on a desk.
He came out, fully dressed, because this isn’t TV. We sat down. It didn’t take him long to start kissing me. I didn’t need the internet’s advice. It was fine. It was lovely. My first kiss since April 2012.
I’m not going to give many more details here. Because a lady doesn’t tell. Suffice it to say, that I’m back on the horse. Or should I say, the horse in back on me. I’m back in the saddle, or rather, the saddle is back in me. I’m a man again.
Such wonderful, wonderful pain.
The condom was the one from my toilet bag, one I bought the last time I had a gentleman to bed. It had expired in February. It just might be time to buy a new pack.
It’s been six years and eight months. I had given up hope. I had resigned myself to being an uncle, a gay best friend, a sexless Zeppelin.
But he was genuinely attracted to me. And he was manly, but gentle. And it’s oh so perfect. It couldn’t be more perfect. Midway through our two-and-a-half hour session in bed, I told him how long it had been since last time. And he kissed me and told me I was sexy. And I didn’t cry until after he’d gone, around midnight, to get the last bus.
He says he wants to meet again. Me too!
I have a tummy full of butterflies. I’ve been singing “I Could Have Danced All Night” from My Fair Lady all night long. I can still feel him. A part of me is awake that has been asleep for too long.
He really is attracted to me. He really did want me. And I was able for it.
I’m not the same person I was when I woke up this morning.