His texts resembled the script from a 2017 AVN award winner, but his actions were more reminiscent of the Invisible Man.
After crossing the threshold to my condo, the bartender didn’t waste any time, nor did he disappoint. He dropped his backpack in the foyer and looked at me with those come-hither eyes as he moved closer. He seized me by the wrist and pulled me in tight against him. I could feel the blood pumping in his veins as I melted into his arms. He was the master of flirty small talk at the bar and the master of making you forget where your body ends and his begins, in person.
Clothes were flung left and right scattered about the living room as we made our way from the foyer to the bedroom.
He stayed long enough to do the deed a few times and then as quickly as he undressed, he dressed.
I would continue the routine of popping into the bar, grabbing a drink, engaging in some amorous chit-chat and then inevitably leaving with a soft, gentle, warm hug. Shortly after each departure, a text was certain, “I definitely squeezed you a little harder than usual.” or something similar. To the other bar patrons, his embrace appeared as a simple gesture of friendship, but I could feel his hardness pressed up against me, and as we separated, a hot flush would rise from my chest to my cheeks. It was the kind of hug that was impossible to forget and only left you wanting more; it left you starry-eyed enough to get you through until the next sighting. Which, unfortunately, were more bar sightings than bedroom sightings. My friends warned me that this was the pattern that came with casually dating a bartender; but I was smitten.
He ramped up his text messages to more than make up for the lack of romantic, physical interactions. I learned that his favorite genre of porn was “cream pie” and his texts were a screenplay depicting just that; leaving little to the imagination. With no shortage of creativity, he told me how he wanted me, where he wanted me, and when he wanted me. Under me, on top of me, behind me, sitting and standing. I think there once was even a mention of the baby grand piano in my living room. His texts to me were Fifty Shades of Grey on steroids while mine back to him were more Meg Ryan’s in You’ve Got Mail on a low dose prescription of the same anabolic steroids.
Over time, the texts were as consistently predictable as he was consistently unavailable. It was a game of Dirty Words with Friends. He would text me regularly with the same vigor. He wanted me and I wanted to be with him, but his window of time was limited. He had to be at work in the late afternoon and would not be off until the wee hours of the morning when his shift ended. I on the other hand worked the nine to five gig and needed my beauty sleep. Finding the time to text came easier than finding the time for a romp in the hay, yet neither one of us stopped playing our part in the affair.
Bitten by the ‘love at first sight bug’ and now infected with his ability to make me squirm in my seat every time my phone buzzed with each text, I didn’t want to let go. The whole affair de coeur was unruly, it was dirty drama, sweet romance and blissfully intoxicating – all on the screen of a cell phone. For my Invisible Man, could his actions speak louder than his words? I would debate just the opposite. His words spoke volumes; with each text describing the actions he wanted to take, he left me launching an internal campaign for more. He played his role like an expert. What role did I want to play? Did I want to continue to play a part in this tawdry script or did I want to walk away without a backward glance?