Roger’s idea—that I interview his client as a replacement for going through with the session—had merit only because my window of opportunity was so short. I couldn’t stay in New York until Roger recovered. And based on my research, I wasn’t comfortable with any of the other dry humpers I’d investigated.
That said, there was absolutely nothing amiss about me going through with a professional dry-humping session. I was a journalist. This was for a story. And even if I hadn’t been a journalist, it wasn’t like I was in a relationship.
Stewing in my aggravation, I decided that Matt’s meddling might have been cute at first, but now it was completely inappropriate.
I’d really and truly stopped holding out hope for Matt, that he would change his mind and be open to exploring something lasting with me. I couldn’t make the horse drink the water.
I. Could. Not.
Therefore, I was at peace with the nature of our friendship.
Plus, there’s the two small elephants in the room we haven’t discussed yet: is he still seeing his lady friend and the fact that he’s being pursued by his old employer.
Eventually, he would have to tell me of his plans to move back to California, if he had such plans.
But a very distinct possibility existed that we would never discuss the woman he’d been snogging in the hallway more than we already had. Because just like me, he could have his opinion about what I did and with whom, but it wouldn’t matter. His feelings for me were platonic and therefore his platonic feelings should remain unaffected by any physical intimacy I chose to share with another person.
Right now, I didn’t have anyone’s feelings to take into consideration other than my own.
“What prompted you to try Roger’s services?”
Zara, Roger’s client, glanced up and to the side, as though consulting her memory. “Dating in New York, at least for a woman, is horrific.”
Her frankness made me smile, but I didn’t commiserate out loud, wanting to keep her talking.
After Roger had messaged Zara, she came by almost immediately. When she’d seen the state of things—how sick he was and how we’d helped him—she immediately agreed to the interview. Presently, she and I were sitting together at Roger’s small kitchen table, talking softly, while he dozed in his bed.
Matt sat on the couch with his laptop open and headphones on, wanting to give us privacy for our conversation, but still not willing to leave me alone with strangers.
“But that wasn’t the thing that made me seek him out,” Zara said, as though making a grave admission.
“What was the thing?” I prompted.
“I was assaulted on a date,” she said matter-of-factly, but it was clear the incident had—and continued to—affect her deeply. “It happened four years ago. I couldn’t bring myself to go out again, not for a long time. Men . . . became these frightening creatures. I saw threats everywhere. Reasonably, I knew I’d been hurt by just one man. I knew that. I know that. But knowing and believing are two different things.” She gave me a self-deprecating smile that made my heart ache.
I tried to return it with understanding, not pity.
“So . . . when I finally did go on a date, I had a panic attack.” Her attention moved to someplace behind me. “My therapist suggested immersion therapy, but it’s difficult to be exposed to a date or physical intimacy without actually going on a date. One of my therapist’s colleagues suggested—informally of course—Roger’s services.”
“And, if you don’t mind my asking, has that worked?”
Zara considered me for a long moment while she thought about my question, finally responding with, “I don’t know. I mean, Roger has helped me. He’s a beautiful soul.”
“Do you think you find him non-threatening because of his sexual orientation? That it’s easier to trust him because of it?”
She tilted her head to the side, like she didn’t understand the question. “What do you mean?”
“That Roger, being gay, is—”
“Roger isn’t gay. He’s bisexual.”
“Oh.” Didn’t see that coming.
“You thought he was gay?”
“Yes. My colleague—who recommended Roger to me—implied that he was gay.”
Zara shook her head, giving me a warm smile. “No. He’s not. And to answer your question, I don’t think of Roger as safe because of his sexual orientation. I think of him as safe because of his sexuality.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“He’s free from shame,” she said simply, one of her cheeks showcasing a dimple as she smiled. “It’s so refreshing to be around someone—a man—who doesn’t feel like he needs to prove his masculinity by being tough or by not being vulnerable. I trust him because he is willing to be vulnerable. Roger is loving and patient and truly wants to make others feel good, in the moment and about themselves in the long-term. In a sense, he’s a modern day Don Juan. A lover of lovers, and a lover of love. He’s shown me that being sexual isn’t something to be ashamed of. Not when it comes from a place of mutual respect. Just as important, he’s shown me that being sexual doesn’t mean having sex. It can be wearing a sexy outfit, or holding hands.”
“But you said,” I glanced at my notes, “you said you felt like Roger had helped you, but you weren’t sure if his services had worked.”
“That’s right.” She nodded, taking a deep breath as though preparing herself to speak weighty thoughts, or admit something unpleasant. “I know I should want to have a partner. I know I should want to date someone who I don’t have to pay to be intimate with me. But I don’t. I don’t want to.”
“So, you haven’t been on any more dates?”
“No. I haven’t. Roger has helped me, definitely, but whenever I think about dating someone, I still feel the same crippling anxiety. Except now, now that I have Roger, I have no reason to address that anxiety or clear that hurdle. He gives me everything I need. And so I don’t feel like I need to date anyone. Ever.”
19
FreeHAL
A self-learning conversation simulator (chatterbot) which uses semantic nets to organize its knowledge to imitate human behavior within conversations.
Source: Chatterbox Challenge
“Marie?”
“What?” I blinked, bringing Matt back into focus.
His eyebrows were expectant arches suspended on his forehead as he glanced meaningfully to the side. I followed his gaze and found our waiter had returned.
Crap.
We’d left Roger to Zara’s gentle care and walked the Village streets until we found a promising-looking and wonderful-smelling bistro. Matt pulled me inside and now here we were.
“I’m sorry,” I split my attention between them both, “I still don’t know what I want. Can I have a few more minutes?”
“Do you mind if I order an appetizer then? I’m hungry.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“In the mood for anything?” he asked.
“No. Please. Go ahead. Order whatever.” I read the menu, hoping something would jump out at me.
“We’ll take the beets au gratin and the baked brie tart. Oh! And the chicken liver paté. And a bottle of wine. Red something. I trust your judgment.”