This past Friday, I was prepared, as much as one can be after a 60 hour work week, for a deliciously naughty date.
Decidedly, at this age, the term booty call, (A late night summons to arrange clandestine sexual liaisons on an ad hoc basis), is gauche.
We still have booties as it were, but they are older, more tired booties, and should not be spoken of without the greatest respect.
Regardless of the linguistic box into which you try to neatly categorize whatever you want to call it, I was so looking forward to whatever was going to happen Friday night.
What happened was not what I expected. No, he did not arrive naked with leather ties and stainless steel attached to his tender bits. Nor did he appear tuxedo clad with a bouquet of my favourite daffodils.
He arrived beautifully simple (and late) at my door, and gave me a warm, genuine, hug. You know, the kind you give someone whom you’ve known for years. And we have known each other for years.
I had managed to slip out of my suit and into the bathtub before he arrived (late), having had to circle ’round the city to retrace his steps due to a forgotten briefcase.
I mention the word ‘late’ here, because in the past I would have been seething mad at someone having had the nerve to be late for, well, whatever it is you want to call this.
But with age comes a lot of things other than tired skin and squishy mid-bits. Patience, wisdom, even kindness.
The usual anxious anticipation was gone, and I settled into a deep joy knowing I could spend some time with my not-a-booty-call-guy (even though I have always thought he was totally gorgeous and amazing).
Because of the time mix up, I was not worried about my make-up, my hair, or what to wear.
In the past booty-calls have been scheduled to coincide nicely with a hot bath and my third glass of bubbly in the tubbly. I simply pull the plug, towel off, and answer the door naked. After all, I’m nothing if not practical. Why bother ruining an outfit for someone you wouldn’t tolerate over a three course dinner and a show?
I had settled in with a white wine spritzer, light on the wine (I was on day 20 in a row at work). He settled in with a diet soda, and we stretched out on the couch and got lost in a conversation that was full, rich, and, considering the relationship we’ve had in the past (when we were both in our late 20’s, and full of ego, insecurity and fear), a significant depth.
We met at time when nothing was important and everything was crisis;
Before we knew it, our little visit had taken us to a place on the clock that demanded he make the drive home, and I tuck in for another early morning at the office.
I stole a quick kiss, and a hug, and that was it.
Now, anyone who knows me, knows that after a good round of hide-and-go-seek-in-the-sheets, I glow. I smile non-stop, and I generally exude a radiant, freshly frisked aura.
Saturday morning was not really that different. I woke, felt the warm fuzzies inside from having had such a nice evening with someone I’ve known a long time. Someone whom has always held his emotions close to the vest, but felt comfortable enough to share some of those same emotions with me.
Aged emotion steeped in spirituality is a wonderful thing, even better than cellared wine. Time can be a bold thief, and I’m learning that it can also be a benevolent giver.
So, for a booty-call that wasn’t, it was pretty damn good. Love has many faces, and they can be seen from different doorways. Friday night I saw a new face on an old lover, and I liked what I saw. It may be a week, it may be a year, it may be never, when I see him again, but as always, with this man, he will have a special place in my heart.
Ode To a Watch in the Night
by Pablo Neruda
In the night, in your hand
my watch glowed
like a firefly.
like a dry whisper
from your invisible hand.
Then your hand
returned to my dark breast
to gather my sleep and its pulse….