As he kissed my neck I remember thinking, "Oh, yes, that is so good, don't move." And then he would move and I would think, "Yes, that's it. Don't move!" Because it didn't matter where he kissed me, it was perfect, it was like medicine for what was ailing me. And what had been ailing me was the lack of his presence. A sickness that I didn't even know I had until he showed up again, three months later.
He put his arm around my waist and lifted me up to him. My back arched, I moaned and prayed that he would do that thing that I love that he never really used to do. He did. As I glanced down, all I could see was the top of his head and I began to shake. I went weak in the knees as my entire body started to convulse. Oh. My. God. Do they offer lessons in this sort of thing? Can you actually pay someone to teach you this? Hopefully, he didn't practice on a real woman, maybe a blow-up woman. Of course, how would he know he was doing it right?
Once, at a county fair, I saw an arcade machine with a big, rubber-man arm, elbow to wrist. If you stuck tokens into it you could arm wrestle it and it would grade your manly strength. Maybe someone had invented an arcade machine with a big rubber-woman's cookie, and you could stick in a token and test your manly abilities. Maybe Todd had spent token after token perfecting his technique. Maybe the lowest light on the machine read: "Arctic" and taunted him to try again.
Perhaps he put in more tokens, varying his lapping speed and cyclone-like motion until he lit up the entire machine and it read: "Red Hot on the Spot!" Yes! Yes! As my eyeballs rolled back in my head I thought that must be it! He must love me very much to do that!
Why is it that after sex people get so weird? It was like we had drifted so far apart and then somehow we'd gotten close again so we had to do something drastic to put the drift back into the relationship. One week after our Earth-shattering sexual experience, Todd called.
"Whatcha doin'?" he asks.
"Sitting in front of my computer wondering what to write about this week," I answer.
"Hmmm. Writer's block?" he asks, distracted.
"Yeah, you could say that. I'm not sure how I'm feeling. Do I love you? Do I hate you? How do I feel?" I say.
"Oops. That's my buddy on the other line. I've gotta run," he says.
"Great. Now I've got my story. I hate you." Click, I hung up the phone.
Why is it that men hate to talk about feelings? I mean, they are human, right? When Kentucky didn't make it to the Final Four he sure the hell had some feelings. But try to get him to talk about how he feels about me, about us, about the future—and he's got about as much emotion as a sewage pump ... tons of free-flowing crap without a care in the world! Hmm. Maybe that's my story.
I love Todd. I fell in love with him almost one year ago to the day. I waited months to tell him. I did it at Simon inside the Hard Rock Hotel of all places. We were with friends and everyone was proposing toasts, and I raised my glass and said, "I love Todd!" I was smiling ear to ear as I said it. Everyone else just kind of stood there. Especially Todd. It didn't dawn on me right away that he didn't say anything back, like, um, "Yipppeeee! She loves me! And, I love her right back!"
I mean, really, what did I expect? I put the guy on the spot, right? I was sure in my heart of hearts that he would reciprocate. That he'd see that I did love him, wasn't afraid to announce it to a room full of my closest friends and that somehow he'd feel comfortable enough to say it back.
He didn't. Hmm. Maybe that's my story. Men who don't love the women who love them.
So here it is one year later, and we haven't made much progress. I walked into Kobe Sushi and up to the bar, and I was nervous.
He turned to face me. My Todd. My beautiful, sweet, noncommittal, heartbreaking, took-me-for-granted and dumped-me-for-no-apparent-reason, Todd. And all I could think was, "Why is he calling me now, after three months of being over with? Was he lonely? Was he horny? Did he finally recognize the error of his ways?"
As soon as he smiled his Todd smile, I was done. Smitten all over again. Although it's been said that you can't chew your meat more than once, I was suddenly willing to try. I was suddenly not disgusted with the prospect of chewing and chewing until the meat was tenderized and loving and capable of spending the rest of its life with me.
I sat down and smiled. Eric, the sushi chef, placed a spicy tuna hand roll wrapped in soy paper in front of me. Just the way I liked it. Just the way I used to order it when we were a true couple. Todd remembered. Suddenly I felt it: I still loved Todd. And I couldn't help but think: Hmm ... maybe that's my story. Maybe you can chew your meat more than once. Maybe once you realize the error of your ways you can go backwards and make things work.
We never even finished our sushi. Before I knew it he was following me back to my place. It's strange to watch in your rearview mirror someone from your past following you into your future. Sort of surreal. But I was thrilled. I was about to put the "s" back in "sex" and I couldn't wait. My palms were sweating and my heart beating out of my chest as I drove home.
The last time he was there with me I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, watching him pack the belongings. I prayed that he'd change his mind or turn around and see the tears welling up in my eyes and decide to stay with me. He didn't. He packed his things and he left.
As we pulled into my driveway, I finally realized, that was my story: "I still love Todd who is never going to commit, never going to change, and I am never fully going to recover from this."