by Olivia London
(02/27/08)

I see the blissful shape of a man's penis -- it's perfect, I tell you! -- every night before going to sleep. Unfortunately, that image straddles eight feet above my head, molded into an ingot of flaking plaster. Every night, I position some pillows, lean back, and begin tracing the predictable cracks in the ceiling. There he is again: the curve of a buttock, the planes of his adductors...the fault lines of a male torso beckoning.

Everything around me, it seems, is mocking my celibate state. Were I still a Catholic dutifully making the confession circuit, I'd duck into one of those unbosoming booths and say to the shadowy figure behind the cloth: Bless me Father, for I have sinned (masturbation being idolatry -- worship of the hand). It has been way too long since I've seen or felt a naked body. I don't smoke, drink or snort lines of sugar. Aren't I entitled to a little recreational sex?

My last boyfriend turned me off the hunt for a while. Impossible to please, Barry was a strange combination of craven nebbish and power-tripping hothead. The sex, alas, was fantastic. After we split, I figured I'd read all those books I always meant to read, like the ones on my shelves. A year passed this way. Then two. Walking alone downtown, men still noticed me, but their quizzical looks were morphing from once asking Is she single? to Is this woman young enough to fuck?

As I approached Café Trend where I was meeting my friend Daphne for drinks, a stocky business-type bumped into me and said, "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

"Oh, no!" I cried. "I'm not ready to wear the Cloak of Invisibility."

Mr. All Business huffed a good-natured laugh, then eyed me seriously, nodding as if to say, You still exist, but you're on your way home.

Daphne was looking deliciously soft and feminine despite her designer eye wear and sensible shoes. She was sitting cross-legged at a table overlooking the cobbled street and my favorite honeycomb of a bookstore. Inwardly grateful Daph left her beret at home, I gave her springy red curls a squeeze and sat down to nuzzle the mocha she had thoughtfully ordered for me. Leaning immediately into familiar territory, she asked, "So, how's your love life? Still staring at the ceiling, counting cracks?"

"Ease up, vixen. Any woman could date a guy twice her age. You're not being very original, you know."

Daphne pursed her lips and blew me a fake kiss.

"Henry is only a generation my senior. He's picking me up in that embarrassing car, so we have to talk fast."

"He's jealous of our friendship, Daph."

"Duh."

"You should just work. Get a job."

"You don't think looking good at our age is work? Anyway, I'm worried about you. I'm having far too much sex and you're not getting any. We need to balance the situation, at least hypothetically. For example, would you consider dating a blue-collar guy?"

I laughed at the absurdity of her snobbery, reminding her we both had humble starts in life. Amazing how quickly people can distance themselves from the land of trailers and strip joints; for me, Daph, and our ilk, those places were playgrounds and places to look for our parents when we were growing up.

"Yeah, well. That was then. Anyway, I know a handyman who is rumored to be handy at a lot of things. Want his number?"

This made me break into song. "A handyman who can/Would that he be my man..."

"He'd only be yours for an afternoon, hon. Doug is married."

"Married!"

Daph looked at me like I stepped in excrement and didn't have the sense to wipe my shoes. "Sweetie, you know if a man's straight and doesn't have spikes coming out of his ears, he's taken."

Before I could respond, a stern male head appeared above the din, with a face struggling to find an expression.

"Oh, look. There's Henry. Darn, he's early. Listen, call me if you want Doug's number. Opportunities like his physique don't come around often. Not for you anyway." With those kind words of admonition and a peck on my cheek, she was gone.

"Have fun with Daddy," I called after her.

I stayed for a bit, finishing my coffee, reading a novel and feeling the weight of my solitude in an atmosphere of couples, boisterous fun and conviviality. I felt pathetic.

It started raining and of course I didn't have an umbrella. I rarely splurge on cabs, but taking the bus after meeting with Daphne makes me want to commit seppuku. A few yellows were lined up already, eager to pounce on a fare. Rainy day etiquette calls for patrons accepting the first ride in a lineup, but I've learned to be a vigilante consumer. The first driver was glaring at the world, arms crossed in a genie stance, and looking at me like I was pampas grass he wanted to run over with his car. The second fellow was inhaling smoke as if his life depended on it. My third option actually smiled and -- to my shock and amazement -- left his station to cross the street, offer me the aegis of his brolly and (I may come in my seat just writing the words) opened the door for me.

"Where to, Miss?"

I thought: Wow, he called me 'Miss,' not 'Ma'am.' Yippee! Big tip.

"You're awfully jolly, tonight," I said.

"Yeah, well. I just broke up with my old lady. She moved out yesterday and my sanity moved back in."

"Oh." Though the jolly fellow was cute in a "bet you can't guess if I'm suicidal" kind of way, I quickly opened a book, not wanting to encourage a lengthy confab. Lately, the men I meet either expect me to save their lives or give them directions to the nearest folk festival.

My driver's name was Jeff and I tried not to notice a certain jaunty Jesuit-boy appeal when he rolled back his Oxford sleeve and looped an arm behind the seat as if he had someone up front to show him the way. My high school boyfriend attended Catholic schools all his life then went on to a Jesuit college. My family never forgave me for not marrying him; he was considered a real catch.

Now I live alone, wear my own Oxford shirts and typically don't clean unless I need to find something. I gave Jeff my address and we drove in silence for a few minutes until we stopped at a red light and observed a woman who was obviously a prostitute run across four lanes of traffic to jump into a moving vehicle. The woman wasn't wearing stockings with her pumps and I felt old suddenly, as that was the first thing I noticed.

"No one should have to live like that," Jeff muttered, clearly disgusted.

"Well, she doesn't have to," I reasoned. "I don't see anyone pointing a gun to her head, saying 'Hey, lady, run across the street like a crazy person.'"

"No, these ladies, I see them every night. I pick them up in my cab, I don't charge them. Who can judge? I mean, really. Who are we to judge?"

"That's a generous attitude, Jeff."

"These ladies, they just haven't found a better way to live. I just hope that they will."

I could have kissed him just then, compassion being an underrated aphrodisiac. I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror: a bit bloodshot and weary, but kind. Yes, I thought. I could definitely kiss him. He'd be my first lover to ever refer to an ex as his "old lady." Maybe we could exchange mood rings. He had the dark, messy hair and tragic brow of an Irish playwright so we might pass off cryptic love notes while we were having a go of it. What did you mean by -- ...Well, I only wanted to say -- ...

For a time, Barry and I would trade journals, until I made the mistake of correcting his typos. In a rage, he tore our books like junk mail and threw them into the trash, all the while insisting I ruined the spirit of the project.

My mother and her shellacked friends used to cackle a saying while trying to inculcate me with feminine guile: Throw your knowledge in his face / You'll never get to second base. But aren't relationships about sharing knowledge along with intimacies and private gestures? Must life be a game where players calculate every move and nuance? These questions remained unanswered as we reached my dwelling: a place that eerily resembles Jack Lemmon's bachelor pad in The Days of Wine and Roses. Oh, how that movie made me weep.

"Wait there, now. I'll get the door for you."

Before I could protest -- this wasn't a date! -- Jeff was opening the passenger door and wishing me good night. There was an awkward pause as my inward dialogue made notes to self: What are you waiting for, Jane? The ceiling to fall and the earth to crumble? Are you waiting for Godot, you dope? It was when I was waving farewell, wishing Jeff luck with his ex, when I saw it, the ultimate deal maker. There, on the front fender of the cab, was an "I survived Catholic school" placard.

"You look like you want to say something," he said, grinning.

"We could be kindred spirits, that's all."

Jeff blushed. He actually blushed. "Well, this kindred spirit would like to see you again. Like...tomorrow?"

We had a date.

Which I shouldn't have told Daphne about, as, right away, she shrieked, "A cab driver? Haven't I taught you anything? He probably owns nothing but a driver's license."

"You know, Daph. You have taught me something: I don't want to be anything like you. Goodbye."

Jeff was in possession of many fine things: an apartment (not much bigger than a parking space, but cleaner than mine), deluxe brownie mix, a beautiful voice, love tunes, a sensitive soul and the shape of a shillelagh right where I wanted to be.

Now, there's something about a man in khaki pants trying to move and flow with a hard-on under his zipper that I just find irresistible. Plus, he made me laugh. A man with a sense of humor is at least deserving of a hand job. A man who is funny, literate, opens doors, offers to make you brownies and looks at you like you're a woman who could make a movie out of a molehill, is -- in my book of poems -- blowjob worthy. So, before Jeff could pop that mix into the oven, I lathered his cock with chocolate velvet and proceeded to lick it off...very slowly. Mmmm. Delicious. I went down on him like Narcissus sinking into the pool offering his own reflection, then I sucked on the head, swaying it with my tongue until I almost came from the sheer joy of giving pleasure.

"Jane?"

"Yes, Jeff?" Jane and Jeff. We could have been a school primer.

"Jane, I need to be inside you."

"Not so fast, driver. Don't make me give you a ticket."

He pulled me into an embrace, running his hands up and down my back, stopping at that nuisance of a bra hook. (Three loops! How do manufactures expect fellows to unlatch those things?) Then he gently guided me to his bed, which was conveniently located in the living room a few steps from the kitchen where we'd mixed our brownie snack.

He fancied my breasts the way I adored his cock, slow, but persistent. I had to have more brownie. I kissed his neck all over the place, which I read somewhere was an erogenous zone, then zigzagged my tongue back to what my taste buds craved.

He pulled my head up, looked me full in the face for a long time while stroking my hair and cheeks; I wasn't feeling the least bit invisible, for a change.

We kissed, exchanging brownie crumbs and electric waves of hope.

"Jane, my lovely Jane. I want to make love to you."

I pushed him on his back and before taking him into my mouth again, said "Not yet." I grinned. "I want to finish my late night snack."

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