After four marriages and several boyfriends, you might think I’ve had enough love=making in my life, but it ain’t so! I separated from my last husband in 1998, and subsequently lived with my new boyfriend Steve for a year, 2004-2005. Since then, no boyfriends (although at-tempt-ed:), an occasional lover thrown in.
Years of not feeling the heat of a man sleeping butt to butt with me, I languish in a super soft set of mossy-mint green sheets that feel like warm baby alpaca as I crawl between them during the cold of winter. Definately not sufficient!
Although I dance four nights a week, it is rare that I feel an attraction to a man that meets my hopes, until of late where 2 Latinos have turned me on while dancing bachata. Pablo has flirted with me, saying, “I have never made love with a slender woman”, as he clasps his rugged arm tight around my waist. I reply, “Let’s have lunch so we can get to know each other better.” The phone does not ring; sparks flying, never landing, between intermittent trips home to Panama.
More recently, Puerto Rican David has danced so close that I give him my card, and he does call; but there is no phone number given where I can reach for him. Another month goes by where I do not see him out.
Then, two days before christmas 2011, while ringing the salvation army bells in front of Northside Beverage, David flies out the door, wine in hand, hearing my voice, he swings around and crushes me with a hug that is warm enough to be felt through my thick winter coat. His cologne hangs onto me, as do his brown eyes that stare into mine. A glint travels between us as he makes sure that he will see me Tuesday for salsa.
That same day I am leaving my credit union, and Pablo is facing me with open arms, that hold me long, feeling his arms slide up and down my back as he keeps me close. He’ll be back from Panama in two weeks, he says before we kiss each other’s lips, a first, and too quick.
Watching a news magazine that evening about the centuries old monastery Mount Athos, Greece, there is an in depth interview with several monks about how they spend their day: praying ‘father have mercy on me’ as they work, eating 2 meals a day while only allowing 10 minutes to chew down their food. Those interviewed say they don’t wish to leave and want to die there, while I am wondering if they ever think of sex. No questions asked about that; so I ask myself, are they homosexuals in hiding?
Today is the day after christmas, and I am reading when I answer my cell phone with “Jimmy” lit up on the screen. Surprised is puttin’ it as if being hit by the new year’s eve Times Square falling ball. This is the man that stood me up on a planned date in august and also was my lover briefly over a year ago. He tells me that he has me on his mind so much that he had to call, and that he likes “the energy” we have between us…this inexplicable CONNECTION he capitalizes later in his email. I ought not be amazed at this point in my middle-aged life that I had emailed him a couple days prior to his phone call (says he had not read) after no communication since august when he was too afraid to answer my emails inquiring if he was all right. He’s not; he stands me up again on new years eve. I don’t cry. I understand. I enjoy argentine tango’s embrace in a stunning dress.
It’s new year’s eve day (2011) at the Kwik Fill Gas station, when I hear shouting, “I love your license plate, we’re crybabies!” CRYBABE reads my license plate. I turn around, to see a gray-bearded man leaning out his window, maybe an older teen daughter sitting in the passenger seat. I reply with delight, “I’m not a crybaby, I’m a crybabe!” laughing with the feeling of heat filling my cold hands and cheeks, realizing that men are becoming proud of their vulnerability! As I drive away I’m aware that I’m still smiling.
Then, the day after new years, I am at the Mate Factor, a cozy cafe where a fireplace radiates flames of blue, red and orange that can’t compare to the heat I feel rising in my chest, as a man walks over to me, only a railing between us. He smiles, “You’re the woman that writes books about crying aren’t you? I’m Tim.”
“Yes,” as my blue eyes light up like those fireplace blue flames, which become steadfast to his as this thirty-something man continues, “I’m regretting that I held back some of my tears at the movie I just saw. I was too concerned about the people around me. I didn’t have anything to wipe my tears so I walked to the side aisle, took off my shirt and my t-shirt, so I could use it to blow my nose and wipe my tears.”
“WOW!! that’s awesome!” I reply, not caring who hears us, in fact wanting my new date to hear, or anyone else who cares to listen. “Good for you! that you intuit what your heart and body needs.”
“I didn’t used to be able to cry, now I can, I know it’s good for me”, says Tim.
My heart is piping hot with the heat of love-shared. It may sound silly, but whenever I cry, which happens close to daily now, my hands become warm.
My new year (2012) has begun like a sandwich, new years day sliced between encounters with 2 men: strangers spontaneously connecting with me because they have opened their hearts to tears, on the days before and after new years day. Like a double scoop of my favorite Death by Chocolate ice cream on a summer’s day, I am happily melting (synchronistically) by the warmth of more and more men who are accepting, dare I say proud, of their vulnerability that is valiant, and vigorous.
A valentine of real love before february!