Stud

It all began innocently enough.

Such matters often do.

Facebook suggested that I add him as a friend.

Who knows why? Maybe it has something to do with the mutual friends we have in common. Or the groups we both belong to. Or some mysterious algorithm used by Facebook.

He looks good in the postage stamp picture, so I click through to his profile. OMG, he is gorgeous! The proverbial tall, dark, and handsome type to whom I’ve always been attracted. He isn’t just a “type,” though. He is sexy and sultry and seductive.

Apart from four pics, the information about him is rather sketchy: From the UK, he lives outside of London and attended school at a British academy. He works as an engineering technician. He’s single, born on June 10th. I’m not good at guessing ages, but I imagine he’s somewhere in his thirties—the prime of life for many men. Of his 2,310 Facebook friends, 227 are mutual.

His pictures, however, are eye-openers. This man is more than good-looking … he personifies the word “hunk!”

A rather rugged picture shows him in the driver’s seat—unless it’s a British car. Layered for winter and wearing a Nike cap, he’s gazing at me directly (I fancy). I do prefer people who look at me eye to eye.

Shoulder-length hair in a second shot highlights his clear green eyes, the color of ripened honeydew. Full and lustrous, his hair shines brilliantly. Sporting a well-trimmed beard that looks so soft, not scratchy, those gorgeous green eyes cast a taunting, haunting, come-hither spell, his luscious lips and mischievous grin seemingly teasing.

“Could he possibly be gay?” I wonder, quickly discarding the thought. Handsome and macho, he appears resolute and self-assured … not that gay men aren’t handsome and macho, successful and self-assured. Besides, what evidence – other than the sexual identity of some of our mutual Facebook friends – is there to doubt his heterosexuality?

The only full-frame picture of him displays a lean, well-proportioned younger man standing in the middle of a sparse home workout room. His belt clinches a white sleeveless T-shirt tightly tucked into his pants, evident more of washboard abs than a six-pack. Judging by the picture, I guess he’s about six feet, two inches tall. Masculine beyond muscular, fringes of chest hair surge from beneath his Tee. If what’s said about shoe size and finger length as genital indicators is indeed true, I’ll be clutching those proverbial pearls and whistling “WOW!”

Twin tattoos, one on each arm, extend from elbows to wrists, enhancing rather than detracting from strong arms liberally accented with vellus hair. Smaller tats are inked on the underside of his left biceps and above his right triceps.

This guy is extremely sexy.

I follow Facebook’s suggestion and send him a friend request.

Within 48 hours, I have become his friend #2,311.

Two months later, he private messages me:

“Hi, how are you?”

The plot is about to thicken.

My husband and I have been together for more than 30 years.

Over those years – living in Northern Virginia and the Shenandoah Valley (Staunton); Racine and Door County, Wisconsin; Jacksonville, Florida … while enjoying vacation homes in Lost River, West Virginia, as well as Andalucía, Spain – we had a commitment ceremony after five years together followed by a legal domestic partnership, civil union, and then marriage. Time being of the essence, we jumped on the bandwagon as soon as jurisprudence and protocols allowed.

Our closeness and physical attraction were obvious to everyone.

I met Tom at my bank, which I visited several times a week to make deposits and financial transactions for my business. One day, he suddenly appeared at a teller station. Immediately, I locked eyes with him before we both looked away. He was beautiful, often compared – as I later learned – to Rob Lowe, Donnie Osmond, and John Stamos.

Those were the days when banks were less automated or frugal and employed people to direct customers waiting in line to the tellers.

Twice that day I tried, without being able to get on his line.

I returned two days later. He was still there. Again, I was unsuccessful in having him as my teller. But this time, I had a plan! I timed my arrival to coincide with the bank’s closing. After conducting my business, I sat in my car, waiting outside in the parking lot. Finally, he came out and headed toward a F-series Ford truck. “How macho for someone so pretty,” I thought, wondering what to do next. As he started to pull out of the parking spot, I noticed his personalized license plates: “King Ego” they declared. Suddenly, I had an idea …

I circled my gray BMW around the parking lot, pulling up next to his truck. “Nice tags,” I said to him. “Thanks. I like yours, too,” he replied, flashing perfect white teeth. My plates were designed to promote my firm’s business: “PR Biz.”

It was Friday and we each drove away, headed to different places.

The weekend passed slowly. On Monday, I returned to the bank. But, this time, I didn’t go inside. I had other plans. Daring plans. Doing something that I never had done.

I tucked a note under the windshield wipers of his truck and placed a red carnation on top of it.

“If you’d like to have dinner with someone just as egotistical, give me a call.” I wrote my number and added, “Luke. The guy in the gray BMW.”

“My God, what have I done?” I asked myself, sitting at the traffic light not far from the bank. “I’m stalking him!” Quickly, I did an about-face, heading back to the bank’s parking lot to remove my message. But it was too late. His truck was nowhere to be found. He’d left already and I was red-in-the-face embarrassed.

# # # # #

Sunday evening, heading home from returning my son to his mother after our weekend together, my car telephone rang. This was before cell phones, smart phones, mobile phones, or whatever you call them.

“Luke?”

“Yes, this is Luke. Who’s this?”

“It’s Tom.”

“Tom?”

“You know, the guy from the bank. I got your note.”

“Oh … I’m sorry. I tried to remove it before you saw it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s embarrassing! Never in my life have I done anything that brazen.” I was feeling a bit of vertigo as the conversation continued.

“I was flattered. I wondered who the good-looking guy in the BMW was. I thought your note was quite sweet and I loved the carnation!”

“You did?”

“Yes, I did.”

A bit of silence ensued.

“Is the invitation still open?”

“You mean, to have dinner with me?”

“Yes. I think I’d enjoy that …”

“Would you be willing to come to dinner at my place?” I asked. “I live in a townhouse a couple of blocks from the bank.”

More silence, hesitancy on his part, followed.

“I guess that would be all right. Although, to be honest, that’s something I’ve never done … going to someone I don’t know’s house, especially since Jeffrey Dahmer still hasn’t been caught.”

I stifled a laugh. Me, a serial killer?

“Hey, I understand. We could meet at a restaurant if you prefer.”

“No … it’s ok. I’ll come to your house. What’s the address?”

I gave him the address and asked if Saturday at 7:30PM would work.

“That’s fine. I’ll see you then,” he said.

“Will I see you at the bank this week?” I asked.

“No. I’m needed elsewhere … at the branch in McLean.”

It would be a nail-biting week ahead.

# # # # #

I don’t cook. Not really. Oh, I make a great tuna fish salad; I can smear peanut butter and jelly on two pieces of bread; grilling hotdogs is a no-brainer; and, if he requested it, I could whip up a mean meatloaf for my son. My two specialties, though, were comfort foods: lasagna and crockpot franks and beans. My secret ingredients? A pinch or two of cayenne pepper and a handful of honey covered peanuts … at least with the tuna.

But I wondered what to do about dinner on Saturday.

Fortunately, Costco was within walking distance. I liked the frozen Michaelangelo brand Italian food that they carried—especially the chicken and eggplant parmesan. That’s what it would be. Just pop it in the oven for the time on the package and – Ouilá! – out it came, browned on top and perfectly cooked inside. I also bought some fresh asparagus as a side dish. Between Costco and home was a Martins supermarket, where I tossed veggies from the salad bar and chose a couple of chocolate pastries from the bakery for dessert. I was well stocked on red wine—Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Shiraz.

Dinner was planned. It was only years later, in retrospect, that Tom told me asparagus didn’t really go with eggplant parmesan and that he knew I hadn’t prepared our meal personally.

Not that it mattered. Dinner was but a prelude to what happened next.

The dining room looked down over the living room, where I had lit a fire before we sat down to eat. I told Tom to go sit in the living room while I took care of the dishes. “Let me help,” he insisted. “No,” I replied. “I might not be the world’s greatest cook, but I can clean off the table, wash the plates and utensils, and put them in the dishwasher with the best of them.” He laughed, but I detected a subtle expression on his face that told me he approved of washing everything before putting it in the refrigerator. “Why don’t you go sit down in the living room? Pick out some music or turn on the radio. I’ll be down in a minute or two.”

Downstairs in the living room, he had sat down on one of my two facing couches, rather than the matching loveseat in front of the fireplace. He had put on a Streisand album. Arms spread across the top of the sofa, he appeared to be comfortable and relaxed. I sat down opposite him.

Small talk between us lasted about 40 minutes: Where did he go to school? We both were surprised that he had graduated from the same university where I was a professor. He majored in psychology. (Not my field.) He worked at the bank because he had worked there part-time while in school. He hung out with friends at JR’s, a popular Dupont Circle club known to be frequented by the LGBTQ crowd.

Any doubt I may have disappeared then and there. He was family!

Our conversation had become lighter and flowed easier.

“Would you be offended, Tom, if said something rather personal?”

Looking directly at me, he replied, “No, please, go ahead.”

“I find you incredibly attractive. Would you let me kiss you?”

“I think you’re quite handsome, too … and, yes, I would like you to kiss me.”

Moving from my couch to his, I put the palm of one hand on the back of his head and the other on his cheek. He came closer.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” I prodded him.

“Not on the first date.”

“Okay, then, don’t move … I’ll be right back.”

I went upstairs and brought back a blanket, which I tossed over us as we got more comfortable by stretching out on the floor in front of the fire.

For someone so bonito, he had an amazingly masculine body!

We lay together touching and holding, hugging and kissing, squeezing and stroking, for what felt like hours. And although we technically didn’t have sex, it was the closest I had come to making love with a man.

To this day, we joke about our first encounter.

“I wouldn’t go upstairs on our first date,” Tom tells our friends. “But I was willing to take all my clothes off and get it on with him on the living room floor.”

Sometime around two in the morning, he said he had to leave. Tomorrow was Monday and he needed to get up early for work.

“You’re going to have to come back soon, you know,” I warned him. “Now that we’ve had our first date, I want to go upstairs and spend the night together with you.”

“I think that can be arranged,” he said, putting his clothing back on … he neatly folded and handed me the blanket, then left to drive home.

Alone in the bedroom, my body still tingled.

Hi,” I reply to his message, stumbling over whether I should say “Howdy,” “Hello,” or my Spanish/Portuguese “Hola/Ola.”

“To what do I owe the honor?” I continue.

“I like your profile,” he answers, introducing himself by name: Andy.

My Facebook profile is rather full, so I wonder what about it he likes.

“Everything,” he tells me. “Especially your pictures. Some say a picture is worth a thousand words. When I look at your pictures, I am completely speechless!”

“Are you kidding?” I ask. “I’m an old goat. You’re a young stud. Surely, there are plenty of others more your age to your liking.”

“Actually, I like older men. And I find you extremely attractive.”

Me? I catch my breath and let it out before saying anything more.

“I’m flattered. And humbled,” I manage to reply.

“Can I ask you a personal question? he says.

Where did I hear that before?

“Sure,” I respond. “But that doesn’t mean I will answer.”

“LOL!”

“So, what do you want to ask me?”

“Are you married?”

“Yes. I thought you read my profile …”

“I did but must have missed that.”

“I am very happily married; we’ve been together for over thirty years now, possibly since before you were born.”

“HAH!” he snorts. “To a man or a woman?”

“To a man. Earlier to women, though. To two women, in fact. Why? Does that matter to you?”

“No. Not at all. I just like to know.”

“Honestly, why do you ask?”

He doesn’t answer but asks me another question, instead: “Are you monogamous? Do you fool around … either together or separately?”

“No,” I declare, a bit too emphatically. Truth be told, many years ago we had experimented once with three-way sex. It didn’t work for us. We both are very possessive, and it seems as though someone always feels left out. There’s the jealousy factor. A year or two into our relationship, in fact, I had caught Tom meeting up with a man he had met in on AOL. Confronting him, Tom swore that it happened just once and that all they did was masturbate. Not together, but at the same time. Then, there was the time when we vacationed in Cancún. On the very first night, he took off with some guy we met at dinner and didn’t return until four in the morning. I waited up for him. “All we did was ride around Cancún in buses,” he swore. “That’s all. There was nothing more to it. You were tired and wanted to go to bed early. I wasn’t,” he explained.

“I wanted to have sex!” I exclaimed in response.

Another time, too, Tom had disappeared for hours with a relative stranger. That’s all I can remember now about this upsetting episode.

Early in our relationship – around our fifth year or so together – we had developed a deep and close friendship with another male couple about the same age. Our “fooling around” was intimate enough; but we nipped it in the bud before anything more sexual occurred.

I, too, wasn’t without blame as I enjoyed flirting and once, when Tom was away, met up with a Latino diplomat from somewhere in South America. Though he was eager and passionate, I wouldn’t (couldn’t) go any further (farther) because of major guilt pangs.

But I digress.

“You’re an engineering technician?” I ask Andy, changing the subject. “What do you do?”

“Not enough,” he replies. “I don’t have a complete toolbox, so I’m limited in the jobs I can do. I’m still studying …”

I stifle a laugh. If anyone has a full toolbox, it’s got to be him!

“Lately, I’ve been driving a truck to make some money,” he continues. “I’m also doing some modeling.”

I can see why.

“Are you still in the UK?”

“Nah … can’t make any money there, mate. I’m in Texas now.”

“Texas, as in the USA?”

“The same.”

“My son, daughter-in-law, and grandchild live there, outside of Dallas, but I haven’t seen them in more than six years. Never have held my granddaughter,” I add.

“Why not?”

“Because we won’t go back to the USA—not even to visit. It’s too scary, especially with the current political climate and tensions rising. Texas and Florida, where my son and siblings respectively live, are the two states I refuse to set foot in.”

“Hmmm … I lived in Suffolk, United Kingdom, for about 16 years. It takes an average of two to three hours to travel from Sudbury (Suffolk) to London by train.”

“But now you’re in the USA, Texas?” I reiterated.

“How long can you stay there?” I queried him. “I know that Americans can only stay in the EU for 90 days without a visa. Do you need a visa to stay in the USA?”

“Nah. I was born in the states and hold citizenship for both the United States and UK, which makes me a dual citizen for both country.”

“Very interesting! Anyway, what can I do for you?” I ask him, anxious about the private message thread flying back and forth.

“We’ll see,” he says. “Let’s keep in touch.”

“Sure, why not,” I agree. “I look forward to hearing from you.”