It finally happened. On Sunday night, after months of innocent and not-so-innocent flirting and sexting, I got the sleepover I was hoping for. Cody (not actual name, but this is the name we’ll assign to my 26-year-old Phish boyfriend) arrived on my doorstep with a bottle of Syrah and a killer smile. He stepped over the threshold, locked the door behind him, and embraced me in a very passionate kiss. My fingers twirled his hair, traced the five o’clock shadow on his face, and made their slow and gradual descent. I enjoyed the feel of his strong hands on the small of my back and under my shirt. Hot. Steamy. Sexy. It took my breath away and I actually needed a minute to compose myself before grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge to welcome him with.
And then we moved to the couch in the living room and discussed healthcare reform.
I kid. And even if we did, would you want me to go into details? I didn’t think so either.
We made our way into my bedroom and made sweet love. Twice. We woke up early the next morning still hung over with sleep and had some more bunny sex. Despite the lack of sleep, I felt like I was walking on a cloud. The gloomy rain did nothing to stop the spring in my step that day. Because hot damn. I had been waiting for that for a long time.
It was nice to fall asleep spooning and to wake up feeling secure folded in someone’s arms again. He watched me iron my pants from the doorway of my bedroom in my matching bra and undies (‘cause that’s how I always iron, right?). We drank coffee and made small talk. And then he kissed me passionately again, thanked me for a great time, and made his way back to Manhattan.
I understand it for what it is. I was horny. He was horny. I made a stupid joke about him leaving the money on the dresser. I don’t think much else will come of it, but that was a steamy night I won’t soon forget.