“Who was this man and why before have our paths never crossed?” There was something in the way he had sex that made me feel present, like what I wanted mattered, like my pleasure was as important as his…”

“The lady in red,” I messaged to which he responded, “That’s an opening line but so vivid in restoring the moment and memory.” Hmm, I thought, what a very flirty response, one that absolutely caused me to blush.

“How are you doing?” he continued. I responded with “I am admittedly impressed that you seem to remember. I am well. What about you?”

After the pleasantries were out of the way, the remaining conversation was primarily introductory where questions sought to gather personal details about me. Though brief, it was surprisingly pleasant and I somehow looked forward to more dialogue the next day. It became almost customary, to my chagrin, during conversations, for guys to spit unoriginal lines and to immediately steer conversations in such a way that the topic would involve sex; or for guys to use abbreviated text which oft times included grammatical errors. This conversation felt different and actual words were used and punctuation; oh gosh there was punctuation. I was impressed by this and wanted more. He did not disappoint and not only did he message the next day, but for the most part he messaged me daily, even if briefly, for the following two months, typically inquiring about my well being and the tone of my day. I started to appreciate it, grew fond of it.

After two months of frequent messaging, I visited him at his home one evening on my way home from a meeting. The intention was to hang out for a little while before heading in. This would be our fourth interaction since we shared mutual friends, but this would be the first time spending time alone. We sat on a couch in the patio of his house where we drank and talked. We spoke on varying topics and we shared information about ourselves. A few minutes had turned into hours and before I knew it, it had gotten late. Throughout the night he would top up my glass with whatever alcoholic beverage I wanted and it was maybe the alcohol that kept the night interesting. After a few hours of conversation he leaned into my personal space and kissed me. I was taken aback but reciprocated the kiss. It wasn’t the best I have had but it was not half bad. I was slightly conflicted. I was certain it was the alcohol which was making him do strange things because I refused to believe there was any interest on his part. We kissed again and he suggested that we go inside the house. Although filled with alcohol, I was clearly still sober since there was a mental warfare about whether or not I should. He assured me that I did not have to do anything I did not want but he confessed that he would like to taste me. Like any responsible, insecure female, I immediately considered whether my lady parts were ‘tidy’ and thus palatable. Deciding that ‘chiquita’ was presentable I swallowed the remainder of the liquid confidence in my glass and followed him into the bedroom. With naked bodies and dimmed lights, he did more than just taste; for half hour, he licked and sucked and fingered, exploring all sections of my vagina until my body convulsed in a climax of euphoria. “That just happened,” I thought. He lay next to me, true to his word, not at all daring to suggest we do anything else. It was obvious that the alcohol had finally made its way to my head or maybe I was still exhilarated by the previous thirty minutes or maybe I felt like he should be rewarded for his performance. Whatever the reason, I heard myself utter, “we should have sex.” He slipped on a condom and got on top of me where his penis expertly found its way to my still very wet vagina. His strokes were almost paradoxical; gentle yet robust and very well-timed. He liked to kiss and I later credited him with awakening that attribute in me. His kisses were passionate completely enveloping my mouth with his mouth and caressing my tongue with his tongue. Amidst all of this there were forehead kisses and moments where he asked if I was okay. “Who was this man and why before have our paths never crossed?” There was something in the way he had sex that made me feel present, like what I wanted mattered, like my pleasure was as important as his. For me that was a new feeling for most of my previous sexual encounters were either ‘pornagraphic’ in nature or I was made to feel somewhat used as though I was simply a vessel in the facilitation of their deposited seed. After about twenty-five minutes of stroking and kissing and gyrating, his penis pulsed rhythmically and he collapsed on top of me, satisfied. “That definitely just happened.” Ordinarily this would be the end of the night and in similar situations, with as much dignity as I could muster, I would do the walk of shame back to my car and drive home. That night would prove to be different; he simply laid with his head resting on my tummy after a few tummy kisses. Further, after rolling off, he laid next to me and we quasi-cuddled and spent a further hour talking some more without him ever hinting that I should leave his house. By now it was almost 3 a.m and I had been there from 9:00 the previous night. I decided I had overstayed my welcome and it was time that I left. He walked me to my car, kissed me and I left. “Who was this man?”

Days passed and WhatsApp conversations continued and it was rare for an entire day to pass without an inquiry to my general well being. Moreover, requests for him to entertain my libido were usually met with consent and it became conventional for us to engage in coitus in his room with subsequent encounters equally as intimate as its predecessor. I was conflicted. I battled with maintaining my nonchalance and my previously expressed desire to keep things between us simple, sex only, devoid of any romantic feelings and this new found affinity for post coital, quasi-cuddling. Before I came to know him I was a ‘hit and run,’ ‘smash and dash’ kind of female and yet there I was accepting forehead kisses and having mini conversations after sex. There was even one encounter where we participated in two rounds of sexual activity, which was also a first for me. As the war continued to wage in my mind I did the most sensible thing I could think of in order to put an end to this unwanted battle. Without warning, I went off the grid, missing in action (MIA) for three weeks. I blocked his messages and refused to communicate with him during this time. I needed this conflict to end and that was the only way I knew how to accomplish that. Besides, I did not want to run the risk of him developing feelings for me, albeit unlikely. Following my hiatus, he sent me a message; I had once again allowed him access and he checked in to see if I was well and was seemingly concerned that he had not heard me in weeks. Without giving any reason for my hiatus, I told him that I was well and assured him that more carnal sessions were imminent. The war was over; my head was triumphant against my heart and I was pleased and I made a mental note that he would be introduced to my ‘hit and run’ persona at our next rendezvous.

This dalliance continued for about six months, with encounters becoming more infrequent. His job as a doctor kept him quite busy and scheduling meetings became impossible and although communication was no longer a daily activity it was still frequent and I had the sense that the interest remained in tact whenever he did message. As more time passed, however, I started to notice that even when he was not working, my requests to hook up were denied with reasons cited as either him being very busy or the need to find a suitable location with the latter inciting curiosity since it had never been a problem to convene at his house. He lived with family, neither of whom I have been formally introduced to, and it was not uncommon for his nieces to visit and I always understood that our interactions would have to be scheduled around these visits. However his opposition to my request was baseless and not at all due to visits from his nieces. Excuses emerged as commonplace and subsequent attempts to meet were often denied. One weekend in particular he indicated that he had one day without plans and hinted that a rendezvous might be possible. I purposely did not message that day but rather waited to see if he would. He did not and it was then I decided that I would no longer speak to him. Once again I went MIA but allowed him access to message if he cared to.

At the inception of this relationship we set parameters which defined our affiliation as casual and throughout this entire relationship he was usually the one to initiate conversations, since I thought it very important to act within the confines of these guidelines. I never overstepped any boundaries and even went as far as to ignore him in public if our paths crossed. We were not in a romantic relationship and I very much preferred it this way. Telephone conversations were kept to a minimum, numbering approximately five in the twelve month affair. After many an encounter, he would volunteer positive feedback letting me know how ‘amazing’ the sex session was or offer a comment about my ‘bomb pussy’ and how fantastic it felt around his penis. My actions were pretty routine over the months and one could say I was the perfect ‘booty call.’ So why then had conversations abated? Why were excuses more commonplace than encounters? Truthfully I was not particularly concerned with the frequency of conversation but rather the suddenness and inconclusiveness with which access to a decent dick was removed from my grasp. How dare he give me the third best sex of my life for several months only to callously snatch it away without the hint of explanation? I used to think some women were born crazy but I now understand that it is this type of drama that causes a woman to snap. Thankfully I do not possess that ‘crazy gene’ but the desire, in fact the need for closure has been a constant source of turmoil and has birthed an inconsistent idiosyncrasy where days at a time I would message him then sometimes nothing for weeks.

Closure is important and I struggled to let this go. I have accepted that we shall no longer be physically involved but without knowing why was psychologically traumatic. Some schools of thought suggest that receiving closure can be a choice to the wronged and something as simple as writing down your feelings or choosing to forgive can be a means to getting the closure that is sought. Others suggest it is important in order to manage expectations in the next relationship and without it the way we view reality can become tainted. I have found both of these thoughts to be quite helpful and allowed me to find the closure that was so earnestly sought.