Magic Mike

             I was wrapped up in bed with Mike, bundled under the covers last weekend, when I glanced over at my nightstand.  On it…a bottle of lube, three condoms, and a can of bean dip.  Those three items were getting me through the blizzard.  And Mike wasn’t hurting either.  No heat.  No electricity.  No hot water.  Thankfully, we were generating our own brand of heat.  Mike, a friend with benefits, was visiting from Manhattan.  We’ve known each other for a few years.  We never really hung out a lot, unless it was horizontal.  So this was the first time we ever spent any length of time together, much less dinner and a whole weekend.  And I was pleasantly surprised.  When I rolled over and saw those three items, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You have to write about that,” he said.  “Just change my name to Mike.”

             So his wish has been granted.  He got here on Thursday, and I assumed that it was just going to be a weekend of sex.  But when the temperature started dropping, my feelings started warming.  To my huge surprise.  We’ve been hooking up for a few years off and on, but this was different.  We were actually talking, actually having a conversation.  There was more passion, more intimacy, more laughs.  And when he left on Sunday, I was wistful and more than a little sad.  And then I began to get irrationally angry.  I began to question why no guy has ever stuck around long enough to know how I like my steak cooked.  And it’s not like I haven’t dated.  I’ve been to every type of restaurant with every type of cuisine.  I’ve been to movies and plays and ballets and museums and hikes and walks and coffees.  Hell, I’ve even been taken to Hooters.  But that was only because he had a coupon for their coconut shrimp.  So I’ve definitely tried.  It’s just that none seemed to take.

            My first boyfriend, Andy, was twenty-five.  I was only twenty-nine at the time, but we were decades apart.  Maturity wasn’t his strong suit.  I was physically attracted to him, and I thought his lack of social skills was charming.  But just that does not a relationship make.  We had a ball together though.  He was sexy and amusing and sweet.  He was also argumentative, manipulative, and somewhat of a slut.  But according to my therapist, I was needy and co-dependent.  So I dated him for about nine months.  However, the labor pains got too intense, so I broke up with him.  Then wanted him back.  Then broke up with him again.  Then wanted him back again.  Finally, he did me a favor and started dating some crack addict.  That was after he took me to Hooters.

I dated sporadically after that in Birmingham.  An older doctor who turned out to be married.  A winner of a guy who I dumped because I couldn’t handle the fact that he was black.  Ignorance tended to creep up on me in the South.

“You didn’t notice I was black when I asked you out?”

“It was dark in the bar,” was my attempt at humor.

It didn’t work.

            And back in New York, I’ve dated some doozies.  There was Michael the bartender who I met a few months after I moved there.  I was in Duane Reade on the afternoon of my first New Years’ Eve in the city.  I called and asked him to meet me later for a drink.  I didn’t know anyone else, and he knew it.

            “Don’t you have any other friends here?” he asked.

            That was the first and only time I’ve cried in the moisturizer aisle at Duane Reade.

            Then there was Adam who was in an open relationship.  I fell in love.  The entire time, he never told me he was leaving his boyfriend.  The entire time, I knew in my mind that he was going to leave his boyfriend.  Then he didn’t call me for two months.  So I naturally assumed the boyfriend won out.  I was right.

            And how can I forget the guy who dumped me via email, the guy who believed he was abducted by a UFO, and the guy who peed on my shoes?

            There was a keeper or two in the bunch though.  Christopher the attorney for Miramax.  He had a great apartment.  A great job.  The sex was amazing.  And he knew Meryl Streep!  Alas, I always follow my heart.  And my heart still wanted Adam.  I was in the throes of missing him and accepting the fact that our relationship was over.  At my last meeting with Christopher, I told him I wanted to take it slow.

            “But I don’t want to take it slow.  I really like you, and I want to be with you.”

            “I just need some time.”

            “You’re just not as into me as I am into you.”

            There they were.  The words I’ve thought to myself in every single relationship I have ever been in.  And rarely had the guts to say out loud.  It pierced to think that I was causing someone else the angst that those words can bring.  But I was.

            Funny how when I start getting sentimental about men, the episode with Christopher is what I sometimes come back to.  Maybe because, if not for the timing, I would be hosting fabulous dinner parties and regaling Meryl with stories from the deep South.  But most likely it’s just the universe reminding me that love is not a guarantee like never finding a taxi in the rain.  That some things are just not meant to be.  And that dating is a two-way street.  Both people share the triumphs, and both people share the blame.

           A little while after I watched Mike drive away, I began to calm down again and laugh at myself for getting so irritated.  And it hit me.  The warm and fuzzy feelings I had all weekend weren’t all totally directed toward Mike.  Sure, a lot of it was.  I’m not one that can turn my feelings off when I’m having sex with the same guy five times a day.  But most of the warm and fuzzies were because it made me remember romance.  I had gotten so cynical in New York and was too satisfied with one-night stands and chasing guys who weren’t interested.  It was refreshing to be in close quarters with someone all weekend who wanted to be there too.  So the weekend reminded me that I do want romance, a relationship.  Sure, a one-night stand or two will come my way again.  But ultimately, that’s not what I want.  I want good old-fashioned romance with a good old-fashioned guy.  Who knew a blizzard and a weekend of sex would make me realize that?  They say Provincetown is magical in the winter.  Last weekend, though, was something else.

            So Mike…thanks for the magic.