A cup of coffee (and you may want to get one as this is a bit long...)
Nine years ago I was coming out of a particularly bad stretch of things--divorce, a job that had me traveling 'most all the time, a falling out with my family, and the icing on the cake was a psychotic stalker ex-girlfriend who cost me many sleepless nights and many thousands of dollars in legal costs to simply leave me alone. (She was truly mentally ill but decided that taking her meds was optional. Lucky me. Amazing how a high-functioning physician who happens to also be a crazy person can keep up a facade for two months of dating...but I digress...)

My trust in people had been badly shaken, my ability to relax and enjoy anything was gone, and my relationships--friends, family, and romantic--had all suffered. I was a mess--alive, but not well, drinking quite a bit, teetering on the brink of depression. It was only a matter of time before I came off the rails completely.

Part of the way I acted this out was by becoming something of a sexual adventurer (read: lothario, aka male slut.) I began having fairly anonymous flings but never getting involved. I discovered internet dating and sites like adultfriendfinder (in its early days quite the place), alt.com, nerve.com personals (great site--they billed themselves as "literate smut", and attracted slightly more intellectual horny people) and even match.com and yahoo personals would yield up occasional liaisons. In 1999-2001 it was still a novelty, and there was much casual sex to be had in and around the San Francisco area where I lived.

At that time if one was in his early 30s, could write an entertaining ad, could follow it up with good email banter, was decently handsome, and in the case of the adult sites, had a few nice pics of key body parts, one could fall madly in bed almost at will. My record: two hours from initial email. That includes a one-hour drive.

Trust me kiddies…while this may sound like fun and games it's not all it's cracked up to be. Despite all of the beast-with-two-backs-making, it's hollow as hollow can be and it's a short step from there to full-blown (snicker) sexual addiction. It can distort one’s view of life and love and women and men and one’s self. But it was also exciting as hell (will she be a goer? will she pull a knife?) and for someone who had stopped feeling very much except lust it was a way to remind myself I was still alive.

So…where was the beauty in all of this debauchery? I shall only call her L, for she enjoys some fame and success in her field. Eight years older than me, an artist in Chicago, and a sharp-minded flirt. While not classically beautiful, she had quiet charisma, an air of goodness, and a hot petite body. Some email and picture exchange, chat, and phone, and within a few weeks I am on a plane to Chicago for a weekend of…who knows what? Like I said, not knowing what to expect was part of the thrill.

She met me at the airport, we kissed on the way to her car, and by the time we reached her apartment we were tearing one another’s clothes off—in part due to passion, but also because Chicago in July is bloody hot and humid. We proceeded to do the dirty hula for a few hours, took a break to have dinner, then went back to her place only to go at it again until the wee hours. I remember her falling asleep on my chest, sweaty and sticking to me, and as I drifted off I wondered if she would tie me to the bed in the night and cut out my liver. Luckily, my liver would survive only to be abused for many more years.

I didn’t feel her slip out of bed in the morning and was only barely aware that I was someplace new, but as I spent most of my life in hotels this was not unusual. When I finally became fully conscious and opened my eyes I took in the scene as I heard L puttering about the kitchen. The morning sun was slanting through the windows, dancing across the offbeat, eclectic décor. Her cat was stretched out in a pool of sunlight, flicking his black tail. It was not quite cool, but the heat of the day had not yet arrived, and all of my bits had that wonderful pearly ache of having been ridden hard and joyously for several hours.

And then…there was L, curly red hair still mussed, smiling, barefoot, and wrapped in a sarong, strolling across the apartment with a mug of strong, hot coffee and milk for me.

In that moment, the havoc and tumult of the preceding four years largely dissolved. The simple act of bringing me a cup of coffee in bed touched me and reminded me of the goodness that people can do to each other. A solitary gesture of kindness, a bit of generosity, and curling up in bed next to me as the coffee cleared away the cobwebs was all it took to bring beauty and a measure of contentment back to my life.

That weekend was the last time I saw her. We stayed in touch for a while, but ultimately agreed that the distance was too great, and I was a bit too mainstream for her tastes. Nonetheless, I will go to my grave with the beauty of that moment in my memory and gratitude in my heart for L.

Length…I think that’s rather obvious now, isn’t it? And width to match...
(grundig Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!, Wed 11 Aug 2010, 3:41, Reply)