Misstropolis

Monday, July 07, 2008

Big O (or none at all)

by Carly DeValle

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The first touch was electrifying; the first kiss pulsating. The anticipation of our first time together was more than I could bear. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that the night it finally happened would be a totally anti-climatic, non-climaxing event.

Big O is what we’ll call him. The courtship began when my pre-schooler was a toddler and my soon-to-be third grader was halfway through kindergarten . The strapping Latino reeked of sexuality – all muscles, tattoos, shaved head and machismo – I was a goner from the start.

I have always been a sucker for olive-skinned boys: my twenties were spent in delicious dalliances with Italian-born or Latino men. I would get sucked into an intoxicating vortex of food, culture, language and sexual gusto – something I could never find in the Jewish-American men I sporadically dated, mostly out of guilt to my brethren.

I never saw Big O outside of the Shop (not the real name, of course) donning his standard uniform – long shorts revealing smooth calves with respectable tattoos, rubber orange clogs, tee-shirts whose sleeves cut right into his toned biceps and a short, white apron tied around his waist. This is the way I gazed upon him every ten days or so for two years as he served me Humboldt Fog, Point Reyes Blue or Istara cheeses.

On the days he worked the oven, I stole glances through the wire cages that held the masterpieces his large hands had created – scones freckled with raisins; puffy rolls topped with parmesan and red pepper flakes; sourdough baguettes dressed in seeds and fennel – to where he worked. On these visits my little ones were always in tow. He sometimes asked them about their day and offered nibbles of warm, sweet dough. Even my children were giddy in his presence.

There were always smiles and few spoken words between us, and, a mutual attraction? I didn’t want to acknowledge it at the time for fear it would only harm me during the rapid demise of my marriage. But when my marriage did end and I’d had some time to heal, I sauntered into The Shop having shed 15 pounds of marriage fat with jeans Adriano Goldschmied had practically hand-painted on my body (later I would find out Big O’s weakness was the derrière) alone. I randomly gathered overpriced Italian fig jam, quince paste, a loaf of dark rye. Big O was at the register and there was no one behind me.

We smiled, exchanged niceties. He asked where my kids were and I gushed forth with a hasty declaration of my soon-to-be “Separated” status. He looked genuinely concerned, immediately asking how the kids were faring. I explained that this was the weekend we would tell them so even they didn’t know yet.

Three months later I was happily ensconced in new digs and an amiable custody agreement with my co-parent. I had not been with a man in any sense of the word for nearly three years – yes, that includes Mr. co-parent. I got up the nerve to visit the Shop and discreetly slip a business card on the cheese counter while he assisted a patron. He winked - hooked, or so I thought.

We met at a local pool hall on a Saturday night. He walked toward me and embraced me in a hug; it was the first time we touched, and my knees buckled. I felt like the schoolgirl I left behind on my ex’s doorstep.

We wined, dined, shot pool. Though I am a bit of a pool shark, I lost the first two games and found myself promising to hold up my end of the wager later – for every loss the loser sheds one piece of clothing. As I was wearing a mere four articles of clothing I was promising to be naked after only an hour. He merely has to disrobe his tee shirt. For all the seductive playing with balls and sticks I was surprised to see him let out a yawn.

I asked him about it flirtatiously and learned that he had risen at 3:00am for the baking shift as he does every Saturday, and today had missed his nap.  As a look of disappointment and concern crossed my face, he grabbed my ass, pulled me close and whispered “don’t worry, I have enough energy for you. “

At this point in the story I should mention that my co-parent was with the kids AT MY HOUSE. And that I actually had a curfew of 10:pm. The reason is that our family home (where co-parent has refused to move out) is for sale and the kids cannot sleep there for fear they would spot the seemingly spotlessness interior. On his nights, he stays with them at my house.

After my three-drink maximum Big O takes my keys and drives us to the house where he is house-sitting. High school moment #2. While he feeds the animals, I put on some sexy world music in the funky, dimly lit sitting room and tell him to sit on the couch. I am ready to perform my first striptease as a newly separated mother of two. By the time I’m down to my panties and bra (lacy, maroon/white matching set, thank God!) Big O can’t hold back and ravishes me on the couch…for a few minutes. He carries me to the bedroom and throws me down.

You might want to reread that part. Key words here are “he carries me.” I certainly can’t remember that last time that happened to me and let me tell you, it was sublime.

And then - wham bam, thank you mom. I couldn’t believe it, was he rushing to meet my curfew or his? I didn’t care how early he had to work the next morning, he was practically de-virginizing me all over again and he wham bammed me?! His selflessness switch was definitely not turned on, and neither was I. I declined his invitation for a sleepover, despite a brief thought that his stamina might spike after a little shuteye.

He walked me to my car and I told him point blank what I wanted. I may have spent seven years working on my marriage but I wasn’t investing that kind of time on my Sexual Reawakening. Would he care to join me in a lovely relationship of Friends with Benefits? He would.

Cut then to phones unanswered, calls unreturned; or when we did speak, unconvincing assurances that our agreement would be honored. He was just so swamped with work. Blah, blah, blah. We’ve heard it all before.

Well, this self-proclaimed independent, sexually aware, no-strings-attached, formerly neglected mother was not going to beg, so I decided to erase Big O from my life – except for my visits to the Shop (which I will never give up, despite him) where I was all smiles when I saw him. I refused to fester or fume for too long, especially with all the olive skinned, tastefully tattooed fish in the sea.

One afternoon I found myself greeting Big O again through the wire as he brushed oil on hot, glistening bialies and he motioned for me to join him in the back. Stunned, I did as he asked and stood next to him by the hot oven. After a minute he asked me if I was free that night, adding that he was also free the next morning. No wink wink needed.

I couldn’t help but laugh, I even told him I’d erased his number - thank you No. Wink wink.

He followed me to my car and asked me again to take his number. I did, I don’t know why, but then ironically enough, my Blackberry erased the entry. I waved him over again, told him my phone dumped him and with a smile he walked away (is he leaving me a second time? I thought to myself irrationally) But he returned with a piece of paper. “Hold onto it this time, woman!” he uttered close to my ear. And I drove off, unsure whether I was more shaken by his forcefulness or by my desire to succumb to his command.

A lot has happened in the eight months since our tryst and a lot more will certainly happen in our next, should one occur. I am learning to not over-analyze situations between men and women - in the end we are all creatures looking for love. Some of us taste it and run, others stop and savor it and many, far too many, miss its charms for fear of making a fool of themselves. I don’t worry about that. Isn’t laughing at ourselves one of life’s greatest joys?