I had this boyfriend in college. I keep trying to wring my body of him. As if he was some liquid I had absorbed and could rid myself of with enough effort. I met him during a summer haze. I had an internship at an ad agency in Philadelphia. It was humid and hot. I sweated walking to the bus stop. I wore dark shirts so you couldn’t see wet rings under my arms. His name was Daniel. He had a stocky build muscular legs, a salesman smile, a smooth demeanor. The glass was half full he always said. His office walls were cluttered with inspirational quotes and pictures. We went for drinks on a Friday night. I had a fake ID that was two years old. He bought a round of beers and then another. I asked about the ad business but I really didn’t care. I lured him to my studio apartment. He drove me home and I told him I had Beaujolais.
“Beaujolais is young wine. Unaged. Sweet. No depth. And yet…drinkable.” I licked his ear. He trembled slightly and followed me into my apartment. He was no longer smiling. We fell onto the bed and struggled with our clothes. The sex wasn’t quick. He took his time. Over and over.
On Monday I asked him to lunch but he said no. I chased him for a week and finally, he said he didn’t want a girlfriend. Just sex. I was fine with that because the sex was wonderful and strangely intimate. More intimate than pure sex should be without a relationship.
Now I’m thirty-five years old. I post ads looking for ‘just sex’. I keep hoping I will find another Daniel. But I’m older now. Aged. Pain and disappointment have added depth to me. I’m not Beaujolais but some kind of wine that’s absorbed time and the environment. Sex is easy when you’re young. When you’re old it becomes difficult and thick with expectations and emotions. I think I understand why older men seek affairs with younger women. It’s easy and uncomplicated. Maybe I should post an ad looking for a young man.