Teterboro waits – Meet A

Spontaneity and simplicity is incredibly sexy.

Wednesday. A perfectly mixed cocktail of excitement, nerves and fear pulsed through my body–a body whose shape has never been better. Perfect, some say.

A body that has yet to become acquainted with ‘A’, but whose mind is intrigued.  I have never met a man like A. 33. Incredibly successful. Laidback. Funny. And doesn’t give anything away. Translation= I really have no idea how he feels. I met him through my bestest friend and ex, P, in New York. Upon meeting A, he suggested I stay with him for a month as nonchalantly as asking the time. Our first three interactions were comfortable and full of smiles. And then I returned to Puerto Rico. 

———

Weeks of loneliness and disconnection and a remembrance of so many of the words that fill this blog, so many of the emotions that are highlighted in a double life. And I realized how much a catalyst a double life is for loneliness and here I was, facing it, yet again. 

My first conversations with ‘A’ after leaving New York taught me that I would not relive the fibers of my past long distance romances.

This realization perhaps bore an apathy. And infrequent messages passed between A and I. I, as guilty, if not more than he.  And then A texted, “I think about you constantly. I miss you.”

Tuesday, he bought me a ticket . . . so we could have dinner Wednesday before he left for Europe. $700 for a couple of hours. Practical, no? But oh how I love.

Perhaps the scenario should conjure images of dinner at Per Se. Dressed to the nines, Louboutins, Him, a suit and tie. My long hair cascading perfectly. But no . .

 

I arrived. To his apartment alone. Another houseguest. A college friend. A, the buddy and I, in my white tank, jeans, and leather Varvatos, go to a low-key dinner. We laugh, we enjoy–as if this is how it has always been. And I would have it no other way.

Sure, I long for his thoughts. I want him to tell me he is crazy about me. Give something away. Barely.

He does however, recant the words of his text and how great it is to think about me, how wonderful to anticipate. We will give “us” a go. I can fly every week. Wednesday through Friday so we can get to know each other–date. And those five minutes were as much as I received.

His flight the next morning seemed to magically not exist. The hours passed and his trip to the office and the plans I made, seemed to fade away. At 2pm he finally left. At 5pm, he was headed home to pack for his flight that evening. I returned at 7pm. TV, Pizza and the buddy. Hours melted into the evening. Sleep took me. And the next morning, A was still there. By my side. Hesitant to leave.  No words were given.

And I can only wonder did A and the private jet wait 36 hours because of me. . . .

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Just bring your passport. -the stranger.

I wonder what it is. I note a difference-one that transcends the now that is relevant.

A perfect weekend. My thoughts drifted to S but not without relief. A heart wasn’t pained, just pensive. This weekend isnt what I expected. A man who I have never before dated spontaneously invited me to the British Virgin Islands. Hours later we were in flight. I welcomed the adventure and the departure from thinking about S.

Now truly “what next?” is something I wonder- I am not sure. I am apprehensive. Commitphobic. I can continue and will, but without pressure, without being bound. As long as I can see where this goes before it involves rules. I now wear S’s shoes. I am the one that doesn’t want the tethers of a relationship with this new man.

 

virgingorda

I sit writing watching pelicans nosedive into brilliantly clear water. My toes crinkle the fine sand that engulfs them. It is Monday morning. He is in the room sleeping. We are in a famed romantic hotel on the the most amazing unspoiled island. This place secluded and exclusive. A truly special hotel. The spa perced on the mountain offered a blissful Sunday.

I feel extremely comfortable with this man, and more importantly, I am happy. But I question what home will bring. Could this be a relationship? I am not yet ready. With S, I never questioned. However, it was not effortless. The process was vulnerable. I believe we didn’t trust eachother, trust a future us.

The new relationship is intimate without pretense, comfort. But, how could it not be? A business lunch with a casual last minute invitation to an island I knew nothing of. Hours later I filled out one custom form per his deciding we were “married.” The holding hands and “dear” to play the part, soon became the norm. He kissed me later and every hour since has been as if this is the way it has always been. Him and I.

But I think of S. I think of my desire to not publicize this and be bound. And I think of the strangers’ comments on Friday just hours before I came to BVI. I spoke briefly of S and she noted how much he meant to me. How I changed when I said his name. How he clearly struck a chord with me and is in my heart. How right she was and is. I recall his words and take them for face value. “Take care Smith.” We have spoken regularly since. I question if it is out of courtesy. I desire to see him and say something. I am not ready to let my almost go and his actions tell me perhaps nor is he.

But a man would reverse an end not meant. I need to see him and close the door, to know if it is open for I return now, “married” in an effortless romance to whom I deem, the Impulsive Gentleman.

A story in eyes

Thoughts indistinct.  Movement without significance. No moments this past weekend elicit a painting. I write of noise.

A weekend in Vieques. Following my last minute decision, an impulsive text was sent to the very handsome man stranger from the gym Friday morning:

Going to Vieques if u want

One wrap following a work out and two lunches is all we had shared. I had always noticed him and while we had spoken, our eyes never had.

The quick meals shared in the last two weeks unveiled intelligence and shared philosophies. A heart and a gentlemen. Something was still missing. Our eyes still failed to speak. Though, curious about his continued lunch invites. And intrigued with my combined attraction and indifference, hence the text.

What time
3pm
Calling you

“Well, we’d have to share a room, but there is a seat for you on the plane. I won’t take advantage of you,” I joked.

In my mind, I didn’t foresee a budding romance or a weekend of sex. I simply was inviting a man on a plane, to an island, to my bed and was more or less, indifferent. Sleep like siblings should I wish.

 

The weekend was not a catalyst for emotions of color. Highlights. Experiences. Memories. However.

 

 

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Dancing with Mr. Handsome. Physically, we are the perfect pair. Such ease and sexuality, our bodies seemed as if every inch had been explored. The truth is it was their first meeting.  A couple that you couldn’t watch without imaging them fucking. A comment from my dear gay, “What a hard on everyone had watching you two.” A weekend that brought a second truth to the fact that dancing is not a perfect indicator of the horizontal same. Decent. But my thoughts shift to Caballito with who I had two left feet. I enjoy Mr. Handsome, but emotions, there are not.

 

 

 

capturedviequenese

 

2am. Our corner spot was closed. We waited for the crowds to leave. To reenter and dance after hours with just our group. The locals walked to their mode of transportation-horses (a species higher in population than people in the amazing island of Vieques). I approached. Bored. Waiting for the doors. “Quieres montar?” One said. Thinking I was just some pretty gringa , he would lead me for a little walk.

I mounted. My legs bare. Took the reigns and one kick. In a minute, the crowds were far behind. Rhythmically gliding in the saddle. My hair flying.  His friends attempted to ride alongside me. Their faces shocked, in awe. I noted my continued amazement at the fact that languages divide, riding never does. Hugs envelop me without words or touch. Their eyes, their acceptance. Applause from the crowds. The boys following me as I turned the corner, bringing the canter to a halt.

 

Highlights. Memories. A lesson in eyes.