The Thrill is Gone
After the perfection of our time together in San Francisco, I was dying to see F again on the east coast. I’d already been planning to visit my best friend in Philadelphia in late September, so the timing was perfect.
F was busy with work, so we had to make a concerted effort to coordinate our schedules. When I finally met up with him at his Brooklyn apartment it had been two weeks since we’d seen each other. I wish I could say it was worth the wait, but it felt different from the time we shared on the west coast.
Once I settled into his luxury studio apartment we agreed it felt like we were on a first date. It was only our third time hanging out in three years, and our first time outside of a hotel room. I was also on the clock and had to work until the wee hours of the morning, which didn’t help set a sexy tone.
The first thing I did was connect to his wifi so I could continue my shift, which began hours earlier and went on as I traveled via NJ Transit, then the subway ride to Bushwick. The visit got off to a rocky start; I waited an excessive amount of time for F to come get me from the lobby. He took so long that I sent a text asking if I was in the right place. He eventually appeared, kissed me right away, and told me he had been stuck on the phone with his boss, unable to enter the hallway because he would’ve lost service.
Per usual, F was the perfect gentleman, immediately relieving me as he took my overnight bag and slung it over his shoulder. “What do you have in here?!” he joked in reference to its weight.
Inside his clean and spacious digs, I felt right at home. Feng shui is everything to me, and it was definitely a place where I could get my rocks off. I expected nothing less from him — a well-put-together, clean-shaven man who liked to shower right after sex.
F poured us glasses of red wine to break the ice and then headed to the kitchen to impressively whip up a pasta dish. I periodically checked in on him, hugging him from behind as he simmered capers, olive oil, and Italian-imported tuna.
We kept the dinner casual, taking to the floor to eat on a tablecloth he beautifully spread on the rug in front of his couch. I’m pretty informal, so despite him having a perfectly good table, I was happy to enjoy the meal in a nontraditional way. It helped break the tension and reminded me of being in my own studio apartment, where I almost never eat at a table.
We used my hour-long break to have sex. I won’t say it was bad, but there was a missing spark. For me, it lacked the excitement and thrill of the first two times we hooked up in California. It felt mechanical.
Afterward I found it hard to suss out his vibe. I couldn’t tell if he wanted my company or if my being there was a nuisance. Then, it was a bit awkward when he was ready to go to sleep and I had to finish my shift. He almost insisted on leaving music playing as I continued to work. I had to stop him.
“Do you usually go to sleep with music on?” I asked.
“No,” he admitted with a nervous laugh.
“Then turn it off,” I said. I didn’t want him to feel like he had to do anything differently just because I was there.
When I eventually climbed into bed with him I soon realized he wasn’t a cuddler, something I hadn’t noticed in San Francisco (probably because I was drunk). I mentioned it in the morning and he offered, “But I love having sex with you,” as a sort of compensation.
I was surprised when F asked if I wanted to get coffee because I suspected he wanted me out of his hair. When we walked to a nearby cafe it felt like we finally landed on the dynamic I’d known us to have on the west coast. We were affectionate, talkative, and relaxed. Maybe work (both his and mine) had us stressed out the night before?
Riding the subway was probably my favorite part of our time together. There was a sense of relief from expectations being lifted and the night being behind us. F was frisky, giving me loads of affection as we waited for the train on the platform, and continuing as we rode into Manhattan. This was what I came for. As we approached my stop we squeezed in our final kisses before he sent me off with a sexy “Ciao bella!”
Thrust back into the world as a singular entity, alone with my thoughts, I tried to figure out what part of the formula that originally produced magic between us was missing. It dawned on me that it was spontaneity.
Our other rendezvous were impromptu, unexpected. Planning to see each other two weeks out, one of us playing host as the other commuted and worked… it was all very contrived. It seemed like that just wasn’t the sort of match F and I were. It wasn’t part of our relationship’s ethos. And that was okay.
Days later I quietly flew back to Los Angeles, leaving F in his element in the Big Apple. Ensconced in the hub of Hollywood, I nonchalantly shot him a text that said, “missing u.” It was sent in part to feel him out, and in part because it was true.
His tepid reply affirmed that our time, at least for now, had run its course.
