If you choose to join me both forward and backward in this journey, please do so without judgment. Many roads that were taken during the course of the story were not high ones, and I am not proud of some of my decisions. But I would not change any of them as they brought me to the magical place I am now. I am profoundly in love, engaged to be married; I have found my soul mate... and now, finally, I am going to tell of the sordid route we took to get here. Welcome along.
going back
It was 2001, pre 9/11. WHY, I'll never know, but Fate, in her infinite humor, had us meet where I worked in a strip club in Fort Lauderdale. I was a dancer; he was there with a friend. I approached them, sat down and he said: "Hi. We have money and no morals." Can you imagine?! The man who would become the love of my life-- those were his first words to me?! I dutifully responded with some strip club bullshit-- it came with the territory and contained approximately 0% truth. What wasn't common was my eventually falling head over heels for the person with whom one of these exchanges-- this particular one-- took place. He truly is my soul mate, my prince. FH was, I found out that night, the CEO of a small but successful and rapidly growing company near Philadelphia; he was in town for an electronics convention. We talked (among other things) for a while and sincerely enjoyed each other's company. When he asked me to have dinner with him, I suggested-- as any good stripper would-- that he compensate me for the money I wouldn't make coming to work and he agreed. The following evening, I met him in the lobby of his hotel thoroughly without expectation; he had already proved to be enjoyable company, he was attractive and successful and I was getting paid to have dinner. Nothing more. I dressed modestly to show that I didn't carry my stripper persona outside of the club. I wasn't nervous while I waited to see him, but made sure I looked just right for the moment he walked in and saw me. And-- for some reason I vividly remember the moment I saw him walking toward me in the lobby. Wearing a stylish shirt untucked with good jeans and nice shoes. It was a confident walk; he was classy and understated. Now-- no angels sang; it was not a this might be the one kind of moment, but it is nonetheless etched in my memory. That night went on to be the best first date of my life. Conversation flowed; it was natural, easy, fun, intelligent and stimulating, with an undeniable undercurrent of sexual tension. Halfway through dinner we were making out passionately at the table. There was an electricity between us that was irrefutable, and we shamelessly gave into it, no doubt to the discomfort of our fellow diners. After dinner, we roamed downtown Ft Lauderdale somewhere just beyond tipsy, sang karaoke (for my first and last time) to Def Leppard and made out. A lot. We managed to say goodbye that night without, you know, going all the way (according to Bill Clinton), and at the end of the night when we said goodbye, I didn't know if I'd ever see him again.
The next night, I went to work. Another moment which is burned forever into my mind's eye is when I was walking through the club mid-shift and saw him. I stopped in my tracks and my heart skipped, I admit. He had come back, for me, I knew that. We spent the rest of the evening together and agreed to go out again the following night. This time, no charge. That was the best second date of my life, and at the end of it we did go all the way. No surprise; it was phenomenal. Then he was going home to Philly. He said he'd call.
To my mild surprise, he did call. In fact, he called a lot, and then he came down again... and then again, and again. I never went to Philadelphia, but he was coming to see me more and more. We stayed in various hotels in FL (I lived in a scuzzy beach house with two guy roommates; not the most romantic destination) and in addition to a lot of unbelievably good sex, we spent hours deep in probing, fulfilling conversation, we laughed, we played. It was becoming apparent that there was something more than physical, and it just kept getting better. We were Carrie and Big-- the curly haired, sexy free spirit flitting around while the business hotshot watches in appreciation with a smile on his face. I was fun, mischievous, silly and sensual. He was articulate and engaging, funny and ridiculously smart and a great dresser. I was attracted as hell to him. It was intelligent and hot. We talked, laughed, kissed, delved into each other like mad and couldn't get enough of each other. Being together was fantastic in the truest sense of the word-- it seemed surreal how into each other we were. Strangers on the street stopped us to say how happy we looked together. This was something major, and we both knew it. It was that feeling, the one we all crave, the one movies are made about. The one that terrifies you.
After a couple of months of this euphoria, I was raving about him to a good friend whom he hadn't met, and she made the bizarre suggestion that I make sure he was single. What!? You must be crazy, I said. I rejected the thought out of hand. FH was, right then, on his way to see me and by the time his plane landed, I had pushed the idea to the back of my mind and thoroughly relished our time together. As always, it was better than ever; the chemistry, the conversation, the interest, the attraction, the spark, the passion-- all there in spades. But my friend's advice crept in and began to niggle; by the end of his visit I was itching to do my research. I had already devised a plan to obtain confirmation that this guy with whom I was infatuated was actually available. Of course he was... please, God.
FH was probably still waiting to board his plane when I sat down with the phone. Hands shaking and a poorly controlled quiver in my voice, I called his secretary and introduced myself as So and So from Blah Blah Blah Company in Philadelphia, inviting Mr FH to an event, and is there a Mrs. FH we might invite as well? I got a cheerful "Yes, there is!" and my heart instantly constricted like testicles dipped in ice water, then dropped into an abyss I didn't know was hidden inside me. I thanked her and hung up and stared at the wall for a seemingly endless stretch of time, silent tears streaming down my face. Well... of course he was fucking married. How could I think something that felt that good could be possible, for fuck's sake?! I was so angry, so hurt that I couldn't think straight. At some point, I wiped my tears, blew my nose and began composing an e-mail, entitled, "The jig is up." I was probably writing that e-mail while he was on the plane, flying home to her. I tore him to shreds, my devastation pouring out into my words. Later, in full scorned, psychopathic woman mode, a girlfriend and I searched online for his home phone number in PA. We called, and a little girl answered. My friend made up something about doing some study for the University, asking the little girl, "Is your daddy Mr FH? Do you live here? You do? And do your mommy and daddy both live there with you?" Well, of course they did. Of course they did. The guy I had fallen so hard for had a wife. And a daughter. I had never felt so withered.
I got his reply via e-mail late that night, time I had spent mostly berating myself, cursing him, curled up in a ball, sobbing, soaked with snot and tears. And though I remember how my heart hammered as I opened his e-mail, I really can't remember the content. The only part I do remember is his calling himself a pussy; I'm sure there was a lot of apologizing, excuses, justification and the like. I also can't exactly remember most of the events that followed over the next few days or even weeks: no doubt several tearful phone conversations, e-mails, apologies, blah, blah, blah. I know it was a miserable time but I can't quite recall any of the specifics. Either I've blocked it out or I was just erasing the hurt with an easily justified Xanax haze. Likely a combination of the two.
I have zero recollection of the first time we saw each other again after "the bust," but it wasn't terribly long after. I know, I know... any rational human being would agree that I should have just cut it off, snip, right then and there. But we were both smitten. He claimed that his marriage was essentially over, that it was just a matter of time before he got a divorce. I couldn't say no to him. No, that's a copout. Of course I could have, but what we felt together was just so good, so fulfilling despite the sick knowledge that I was now contending with-- I knew I wouldn't have the strength to end it. Neither of us would, and now the passion had taken on a sense of taboo which, deep in the darkest, most fearful and masochistic depths of the subconscious, only added fuel to the fire. I exhaustively and repeatedly shoved as far back into my mind as I could the fact that he always went home to her when he left me. Sometimes it took all the strength I possessed, but I managed to do exactly that time and time again. Our romance not only continued, but, despite it all, blossomed.
We soon took our first trip together. He went to the Final Four basketball tournament every spring with a group of guys. This year it was in Atlanta and he flew me there to meet him. I found the whole experience highly glamorous, staying in a hotel on the Chattahoochee, in a city to which I'd never been. I explored Atlanta in the rental car while he was doing his thing with the guys. He gave me shopping money, and I would buy clothes and lingerie to wear for him, then luxuriantly spend hours getting ready for him. I took naked pictures of myself to send him later. He would bow out of gatherings early and sweep me off to romantic dinners. We spent two days together, relishing one another's company and the novelty of being somewhere new together. I can still clearly picture our goodbye; him leaning against the wall outside the hotel, waving, watching me leave in the rental car. As I drove away, I knew I was in trouble. This was not a pretty picture I was painting myself into. We had both fallen, hard.
No comments:
Post a Comment