But there it was—thankfully—a nicely sized hard-on. And when you are drunk, high on something new, and desperate, itching, needing to be scratched, you focus on the hard-on. It’ll all be over soon anyway.
We did it on the couch, simple sex, my head and upper back on the arm, legs up in the air, and him on top of me, doing it simply, rhythmically, like fingers tapping on a calculator, adding one number to another, totaling it all up. I was silent throughout, I am almost always silent. He did it deep, which I like. He did it without variety, which I don’t like. But you can’t ask for much from a complete stranger.
When he stopped, he lay flat on top of me, and I let him catch his breath for five minutes. I clocked it, I usually give them ten minutes, but this guy, he had to go. He could almost depress a girl. I said, “So, thanks. That was great. Just great.” He lifted his head. He looked like he didn’t believe me. “No, really.”
Why was I assuring him of anything? Why did I need to stroke his ego? I had every right to say, “You fuck just as I thought an accountant would.” Not that I had ever thought about fucking an accountant before.
“It was just what I needed,” I said. “But now you have to go.”
He pulled himself off me. I pulled on a robe, tied the sash at the waist. He pulled on his pants, jumped up in the air to get the tight denim over his hips. I handed him his shirt, the flimsy cheap cotton scratched against my fingertips. He sat back down on the couch and slipped his feet into those goddamn hiking boots, and then, slowly, began to lace each shoe up. I stood there, hands folded across my chest, hands cupping my elbows, upper arms squeezing my breasts, a shelf of cleavage pushing against my robe. He double-knotted the laces. Come on, faster. Move it on out. Move it. Fuck.
Finally, shirt, shoes, coat, done. I walked him to the door and gently pushed him through it. He stood outside—why is he still here?—and then extended his long, bony hand for a shake. I had to shake it, this hand that had been briefly inside of me just minutes before. As I reached out my hand, nails bitten, I heard a pound across the hall. There was my neighbor, hair hanging over his face, trying to get in his front door.
“Good night,” said the accountant.
My neighbor heard his voice, turned and spotted me in my robe, and then, gracefully, turned his head back. Respect, I thought. Or disgust.
“Yeah, OK. That’s fine. Just go.” I blurted it out, louder than I would have liked. “God, go already,” I said, softer. And then he was gone, I was safe behind my door, and I thought: I’m really going to need to be pickier in the future or this is never going to work.
MY LOVE LIFE since I moved to New York from Chicago has been like a desert. I’ve had tiny little interactions of love, like finding shallow pools of water to drink from, and then I’ve moved on, hoping that I’ve stored enough love and affection and excitement to get me to the next place.
I’ve been stuck with a string of unsuccessful two-month relationships, the deaths of which have burned out almost all my romantic instinct and desire. I was in love with Alan, but I wasn’t ready for it yet. I’m probably still not ready. But being who I am—not that I particularly know who I am, I just know who I’m not—I felt that I should keep trying for love. I mixed up the real dates with the one-night stands just enough to keep myself satiated. On the dates you did not fuck, in the bars you did. Those late nights at the bars, I recognize now, were just as much work as the dates: the talking, the drinking, the questioning, the laughing so hard at jokes that weren’t that funny. They just never were funny. It’s not funny, none of it, I know.
But back to the dates, the relationships, my flaccid attempts at legitimacy. Online dating has been the only way I’ve met men the last few years: nice, neurotic financial analysts, law students, and advertising account executives who made it perfectly clear they were ready to settle down every step of the way—in their ads, in their initial e-mails, over those first drinks in Chelsea, they were ready to go, if they could find the right woman. Are you the right woman?
I am not young anymore. I need to say that. Or I don’t feel young.
Two months became the end point (if I could make it that far, but often I made it only a few weeks) because that’s when the first (and last) big fight occurred. This led to a gentle fadeout of phone calls and e-mails, no holiday cards were necessary. Rarely have I had a big breakup, because at two months it’s hardly necessary for any sort of scene. No one is invested. I can’t get attached to anything in two months except for cigarettes, and I gave those up years ago. Those things will kill you.