It’s been almost two years since my last sexual escapade. Maybe even more than two years. After 356 days, they blend together like coconut cream and milk when making a deliciously sweet coquito. Still, I am not one to break promises. It’s been my choice to refrain from sex; my choice to wait patiently for the next relationship where I will give of myself, emotionally and physically, willingly. Yet here I sit at a singles mixer for women who love fire fighters though I’m not one of those women.
Attention: we all want it, crave it. It is that need to feel attractive and desired (though no one is the object of desire) that led me here: Midtown East. I’m not the only one. I watch as a man winks at a brunette with bangs. She beams, pushing up her breasts and poking her booty, and though her desperation is saddening I’m no better. I actually giggled when a fire fighter with dimples and beautiful, almond shaped eyes said “Hello.” And when he said “conversating” I still wanted him to stay close, just in case I needed a little pick me up.
Is it desperation? No. It’s just a need. Like a woman who stuffs herself with chocolate to substitute her sexual yearning, I replace passionate, physical touching and oohing and ahing with a smile, a wink, a purchased alcoholic beverage, a merengue on the dance floor. It will have to do for now, until I meet my long-term fireman.