Needy Times

I’m at a singles mixer for women who love fire fighters though I’m not one of those women. I am, however, single and in need of mixing. Like a chocolate soufflé, I am ready to rise after handling.

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.