By happenstance, as I was walking out my front door, my hands full with recycling and garbage, I walked directly into my new neighbor. He was tall, a little on the thinner side than what I normally go for but he had the cutest dimples, for which I am a self-proclaimed sucker. He looked like he was coming from the gym. His face was flushed and he was wearing sweatpants, sneakers and a baseball cap. Looking like Amelia Bedelia, with my arms flailing in an attempt not to drop everything, I blurted out to this adorable cute, young man, “Hi, you must be my new neighbor?” He confirmed that my guess was correct, said “hi” back, and that was that – or so I thought as we parted ways in opposite directions down the corridor.
A few hours later, there was a knock at my door – which is not a normal occurrence; I live in a concierge building. Visitors are announced. With no peephole, I couldn’t screen whoever was knocking. I had no other option than to open my door. To my surprise, it was my no-name neighbor with a simple, “Hi, can I come in?” I assessed him up and down noting that he had showered, was now wearing clean sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and that he was even cuter than I remembered in our brief hallway meeting. I invited him in.
Within minutes of closing my door behind him, the first of a long night of text messages ensued. He invited me to walk down the hall to his unit, but I sweetly declined, claiming I was much older than he thought I was.
A few days later, which happened to be my birthday, the water in the building was turned off for mechanical issues. He texted me to say Happy Birthday while installing a water filtration system in his condo (athlete thing, I guess.) During mid-installation, the water stopped. He was concerned that he broke something building-wide and was afraid to return the wrench he borrowed from the building’s handyman in case they blamed him. I assured him it was a maintenance issue and told him I also had a full tool box for future use.
The text that came next was the equivalent of unsuspectingly walking into your own surprise party with all the guests bringing you a new pair of your favorite shoes as a gift ~ Prada, Gucci and Chanel. His text was not a new pair of designer shoes, but it was close enough:
“These are the things you need to tell me you have in case I need to borrow them: tools, blankets, extension cord, condoms, dishwasher pods, detergent.”
Right there, buried in the middle of that text was my present. Wrapped up in all-purpose everyday items, he was offering me his most coveted gift and making his subtle move. I guess the age difference I pointed out days earlier didn’t matter.
Celebrating my birthday with my coworkers and friends, all I could think about was unwrapping his package. Several glasses of champagne and two birthday cake shots down the hatch, I was feeling footloose and fancy free.
As a single Mom of two college-aged kids, condoms are not a rare commodity in our home. I arrived home on tipsy feet, mid-banter texting with Mr. Professional Athlete. I knocked on his door, condom in hand. It would have been fun to use the condom right then, but I was a bit too impaired and I really wanted to enjoy myself. I handed him the condom, turned a less than graceful drunken ballerina pirouette – and headed to my own door. However, my message could not have been any clearer. He threw out the first pitch and I was willing to step up to the plate and swing for a home run. A few afternoons later, he tossed an ace of a racy texts and we rounded the plates to score – a single, double, triple and finally, a home run.
He was young and he could deliver. It was the allure of his youth, the brawniness of his physique and the fact that he found me attractive that made me a “fan”. I was addicted. Batter up!