I have a new bathroom. A fancy new spa-like shower. It’s a Japanese-style shower/bath combo. Meaning a wet room where the bathtub is in the shower. You can see one like it here. The bathroom itself is incredibly indulgent and sexy. And I’ve just (re)discovered the bliss of having music in the shower. My new bathroom is my escape from the stress of my life. Sometimes I get a few minutes to have a hot shower ALONE in my bathroom. (Other times I begrudgingly allow a tiny human to take a bath while I take a shower). The music adds an element of sensuality. It’s also uplifting and can take me away to another time and place. My Spotify moods have changed daily, even hourly. If it’s a Saturday morning I may play Stevie Wonder. On a Sunday night I’m listening to Ryan Adams. And the other days I’m rotating through Florence and the Machine, Brandi Carlile, Pete Yorn, Patty Griffin, Ben Folds and My Morning Jacket. Lately I’ve wanted to be carried away quite often.
If you read the last post you’ll know that I sent a Facebook message to someone I had a one-night stand with 18 years ago. It was actually a thank you note. “Thank you for one of the best nights of my life 18 years ago.” About three months to the day of sending that message, and thinking that I would never hear from him, I got a message back. The response came at such a strange time for me. I was on vacation with my family and having a wonderful time! The week couldn’t have been more perfect. We were at the coast with perfectly clear, sunny, warm weather ALL week! Everyone was getting along. It was stress-free and easy. I was feeling so grateful toward my husband because he had stepped up and was cooking most of the meals. We weren’t bickering. We were experiencing a peace and calm that my family rarely achieves on a daily basis.
On Thursday, in the middle of the day, a Facebook messenger message popped up on my phone screen. My heart skipped a beat and I grew flush immediately. My throat felt tight. I had a pit in my stomach. His tiny picture was on my screen in a bubble. This wasn’t an email he penned hours ago that I was just now reading. We were in real time! 2300 miles away he was responding. I was so nervous to open the message. Was he going to say, sorry, I have no idea who you are? Or, no, I don’t remember that night, are you sure it happened? Or, I’m married, you’re married, what gives? I let out a deep breath I’d been holding (possibly for 3 months?) and tapped on the bubble.
His reply started off innocent. Wow! It had taken him so long to see it. “What he wouldn’t give to read that journal.” I was laughing inside and thinking, well, we did share the experience together so if I was going to share the journal entry with anyone it might as well be him. He asked if I’d written anything about the gap between his teeth. I couldn’t believe he remembered how much I love that. Remembering my love of the gap signaled to me that we both had a pretty strong memory of that night. My messages grew more flirtatious, but just out of the reality of the explicit journal entry. What brought us to that moment in time was a very x-rated recounting of an amazing night. So it’s not so surprising that there would be a sexual overtone to the conversation. I told him there was mention of another body part! And that I’d wondered if he ever got to play MLB (Major League Baseball)? He asked “How long was it? The journal entry, of course. Ha,ha.”
The exchange started off that Thursday evening and picked right back up on Friday morning. It seemed innocent, albeit exciting. After all, I was chatting with the person whom I’d had one of the most significant sexual experiences of my life. I wasn’t announcing it to my husband. In part because I didn’t want him to know that I’d contacted this guy in the first place. But also because of the super frail male ego. I didn’t want my husband to think that one sexual experience in my twenties was comparable to the hundreds we’d shared together. It was just different. That was the first clue to myself that maybe I was hoping for something else, something more. But I didn’t know what or how.
And then the conversation picked back up on Friday night. At first I was clueless as to the direction we were heading. It was late. I was in bed when my phone dinged. My husband was snoring like a freight train in the next room. He’d fallen asleep in a bunk bed with our daughter. “Who are you with?” “Let me see.” See? See what? See me? Why? I’m wearing leggings and a fleece and my hair is windblown from the beach. Just go look at my profile on Facebook. And then his phone number appeared. “Call me.” I fumbled in the dark to the living room downstairs and wrapped myself in a blanket. I was nervous and shaking. But also very excited. I dialed the number and and heard “hey.” It wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar voice. Even 18 years later I could hear the person with whom I’d made such an incredibly magnetic connection.
And for that night and the next i found myself doing something I didn’t even know I could or would ever do. I had phone sex.I could not have predicted that one month later I’d be sitting in my bathtub, drinking wine in candlelight waiting for the ding of my phone from someone 2300 miles away.