At Least They're Committed

Slightly propped on the couch Saturday with a sweaty guy on top of me I recalled how nearly 30 years ago I’d confessed to my editor that I had no interest in dating or sex because the thought of some sweaty guy grinding on top of me was repulsive. I had not dated for two years; I had no interest.

When eventually I determined that I might want to date again, that same editor, John Gregory, gave me words of wisdom I carry with me about poise and lip gloss and looking like the ZZ Top women. I wish I could find John Gregory. The paper went away, he moved out of town, there was no Facebook and his name is too common to track. I liked John. He was a great guy. We would write articles, do paste-up, drink beer, develop photos and drink some more.

I once went to his apartment after putting the paper to bed. Just the two of us. The walls echoed in the nearly empty box, no couches or tables or lamps, no photos or art on the walls and no sign there ever had been. In fact, there was only a television resting on a flimsy aluminum stand, a VHS player and a single, off-white-once-white, weathered chair that had gone missing from someone’s kitchen table. He sat on the chair and I sat on the carpet and he plugged in Emmanuelle, a French soft-porn movie. I guess I should have thought it a little odd that he invited me to his place for the first time and then put in soft porn, but it didn’t occur to me. We simply watched it and I took mental notes in case I did ever date again and then he plugged in the second movie and fell asleep in his chair with his head back, mouth open and arms flopping toward the floor and I fell asleep on the floor and when I startled awake, I let myself out.

I smiled as I recalled all this Saturday, slightly propped on the couch, patting the back of the sweaty guy on my chest. I kissed the fuzz on the top of your head, Dez, and thought as you slept that, well, I guess it’s a good thing I decided to date again after all.