I know why I am single. It has nothing to do with my looks or how I am around others. Overall, I am an attractive woman, moderately successful, and comfortable with who I am and why. Social situations came easily to me in that I never feared talking to others or making friends of them.
My problem lies with the fact that I am a homebody at heart. I take more pleasure from staying at home with a good book than I do from a night out with the girls, unless of course, the mood to go out hits me. A big night for me is a few good movies, a bottle of wine, and a tub of popcorn.
It never bothered me until I came home from California, a day after my encounter with Chris in my parents' PT Cruiser. Right there in the middle of a parking garage, we had ravaged one another like frustrated rabbits. Never mind that we had no romantic history and had not seen one another for ten years. Never mind that within fifteen hours, I was on a plane back to Louisiana.
Chris had awakened a need in me that I had not felt in a few years, since my last boyfriend and I parted on less than wonderful terms. In the past two years, my outings with friends were punctuated by the fact that I was either a no-show, or the first to leave. I did not date, and in fact, in those two years, excluding Chris, I had engaged in sexual activity with another person only once. That experience is one that I still don't know whether to call tragic or comical.
Now, I felt like a caged animal. I had not yet unpacked, and I needed to get out of the house and be around people. I needed to do something with myself that did not involve much thought, for my thoughts were filled with none other than Chris.
For the most part, the conversation we had before the incident in the Cruiser stuck in my mind. We were so alike, compatible even. It seemed that in those few hours of conversation, we had caught up on the past decade without pause, never a second of awkwardness between us.
I kept checking my email, though he had not written. I kept hoping for the phone to ring, though when it did, it was either my best friend or my mother.
Then, during the quieter moments, I thought of his tongue teasing my clit, his fingers pushing up into me, enveloped in wetness. I thought of the way he felt inside of me as I rode him, and the way he tasted as he shot his load down my throat. In two days I masturbated to those images every time they invaded my thoughts. To count how many times the recollection made me come is impossible. To say that it was satisfying to masturbate to a memory would be a lie.
I wanted him. Of that, there was no question. I supposed that it was lust, a feeling that had eluded me for so long, but a part of me swore that there was more to it. Chris had become all that I looked for in a man, and never did I imagine that I would find it in him.
I regretted not making passes at him while we were in high school. I regretted not being able to get together with him earlier on during my visit West.
Did I bother to email or call him? Heavens, no! I have never chased a boy in my life. The temptation was there, but I resisted it, for I knew that it would only serve to make me edgier in waiting on a response to an email. To call him would leave me tongue tied from the get-go. If he did not email or call me within a week, I would know to leave that night, and most likely, Chris, far behind in my bank of fond memories.
