He was tall. He was cute. He was unbelievably muscular. His name was Josh. He came over.
I was poised for an evening of pure bliss, of wild fun with his adonis-like body.
What I got…wasn’t.
We watched Ted 2. We fell asleep. We spooned. He hugged. We played around. We woke up. I started up the usual “there’s a hot man in my bed” morning routine. I got his arms in the right position. I got closer. I leaned in for the kiss…and promptly got shoved away.
That’s when I remembered: He’d previously told me that he was Catholic.
I gave it some time. I tried again. But after a Catholic guilt bomb goes off, it’s not just a delayed response, it’s a crucifixion. He couldn’t get out my bed and away from my front door fast enough. It was 7am. Well, frankly I was glad. If I wasn’t gettting any more action I wanted him out so I could get on with my day. Which I did. Gym, shopping, writing.
It didn’t bother me, exactly, although usually once a man gets into my bed neither he nor I are leaving until we’ve had what we wanted. It was just slightly odd. I somehow thought, with a body like that, we’d just fall into a wild night of animalistic passion. In some ways, I’m glad. My bed wasn’t full of sex-juice. My mind wasn’t full of post-sex haze.
And yet somehow I felt satisfied. Because I knew that the “just-for-fun” phase was wearing so thin. I now knew that just because a guy has the incredible body, just because he has biceps the size of pillows, doesn’t mean he’ll be in any way a good lover. It was a pleasent way to have the spell of the fantasy broken.
It made me realise that I’d rather wake up alone than with a man who wasn’t into me, or who wasn’t into me for the right reasons.
I mean, they are delightfully warm when they’re in your bed. But they do take up a heck of a lot of space. If there’s one thing we’re all short of in London it’s real estate. So if I’m going to give up some of my space for him, he sure as hell better be worth it.