Clive, of course, resurfaced on a hookup website. I’d joined the site at the urging of a couple of friends who couldn’t understand how I’d gone sixteen years without sex. It’s out there for the taking, they said. Standards are overrated.
So, yes, Clive and I hooked up. Once. Twice. Neither occasion was the mindless wham-bam I’d imagined. I was determined to keep things light but Clive went beyond. He showed up when I went to Emergency for a minor mishap. Took me to dinner. Shared a long story about his readiness for commitment. Cooked a vegetarian dinner for me. Talked of taking me to Palm Springs for Christmas. Insisted I spend the night so he could wake up with me by his side.
And just like that, I could see myself falling for this guy. Again. The chemistry seemed explosive.
But then just like that, Clive performed another vanishing act. I’ve compared him to Carrie Bradshaw’s Mr. Big on “Sex in the City” but that’s not quite right. After all, Carrie gets Mr. Big in the end. Clive is more like Lucy with the football. And, good grief, I’m that gullible Charlie Brown, lured back into the game and falling flat on my face.
We’d had another tentative date set up but, without texting me, he wound up going to a gay bar with a friend. There was no apology the next day. Only this: “Ya kinda felt obligated to go out. Anyhow what are you doing today?” I had plans. And I kept them. And that was that.
Clive did text again while he was on vacation in Hawaii last month. “Let’s connect up again when I get back!”
And, again, that was that. Nothing.
I’m done with being Charlie Brown and, quite frankly, I always sucked at football. I have no urge to play any more games with Lucy/Clive. That’s a good thing. There are those who tempt us. When it gets to the point that it feels like they’re taunting us, it’s time to walk away. Leave the ball. Take up fencing instead.
So there you go. Sorry I’d left that dangling. It can be hard to admit being played for a fool. I went out for coffee again today. On my own. No helmet required.