It had been months since I heard from Charlotte. Like, four solid months. That last exchange, by text, had ended abruptly with her disappearance.
I don’t chase Charlotte. Charlotte’s been in a monogamous* relationship for a while now. Charlotte’s much younger than I. I’m an imperfect practitioner of the campsite rule (leave the younger person better off than when you found them), but I do strive to practice that rule. I have power over Charlotte. I know that. I know that, for example, the chances she’ll ever have fifty orgasms in a single evening with another partner is, um, low. I know that I represent a sort of time-shifted version of what she wants: she doesn’t want me, but she wants someone who offers a future that looks something like my present. That’s quite different. I know that, like me, she’s weak when drunk. I know she’s struggling – as we all do – with conflicts between what she wants in the moment, what she wants in the medium-to-long term, and what she wishes she wanted. And, I know how easy it is, how small a push from me it takes, for her to teeter into an… indulgent… space in regard to these conflicts.
So. I don’t chase her.
I’m not such a big man that I don’t respond when she texts. I really enjoy Charlotte. I like her. I miss her when we’re not in touch. There’s so much I can, could, write about the ways in which she and I are well calibrated. I’ve had a few good relationships over the years that have made me feel well and truly alive. My relationship with Charlotte is one of those. The “aliveness” aspect of it is powerful – for both of us.
So, when Charlotte texted me a few weeks back, a full four months after her prior disappearance, “Hi! It’s me again.” I responded almost instantly. “!” [I have a way with words.] Thirty minutes later, we’d very broadly caught up (still in her relationship, plotting an exit, let’s meet for dinner), and made plans. I was excited. But I wasn’t planning to have sex of any sort with her.
Charlotte showed up. She’s so fucking cute. So fucking hot. So fucking sexy. I had the sense she tried not to look hot, not to look seductive. Charlotte’s cleavage is a big part of her self-presentation, usually; it wasn’t, on this night. She was demure. Classy. Casual.
The evening was relaxed, easy, comfortable, long. We ate. We drank. We smoked. We drank. We smoked. At a certain point – I realized, I have no idea, no memory, how this happened – I was touching her more sexually, and it wasn’t five minutes before my head was between her thighs, my tongue on her clit.
She lay back, she peeled her jeans off, saying something like, “I’ve needed this for so long,” as I dove in. I don’t remember if it was before or after her orgasm (I think she only came once, if that – interesting) that I learned that Mr. Monogamy doesn’t, um, go down on her.
I wish I could write more about the evening, but I can’t, because it’s a food/alcohol/smoke/cunt haze. Mostly what I can say is this: Charlotte makes me feel alive in the best possible way. I don’t want to hold her back in her quest for a partner, and I won’t. But I will gladly be a way-station in between targets. 🙂
* I hate the word “monogamous” as a descriptor. When I started writing this post, I reached this asterisked word and stopped writing, and penned this post.