The One - No one said it would be easy

by Goldsmith, J. F.

  When I came back, our gray-haired golden boy suddenly seemed interested in me. We started to chitchat and I noticed that his ice-blue eyes went very well with his gray hair. We also found out – like there hadn’t been enough coincidence already – that we were job neighbors. He was the marketing manager of a large music company and worked literally a few meters away from my office. That sounded good. Being job neighbors gave me the perfect excuse for suggesting we should meet up sometime for a harmless, noncommittal business lunch. The power of networking and all that. Yeah, right! The suggestion found favor, Number Nineteen gave me his business card. Jubilation: I’d managed to acquire email address and phone number of the coolest guy in the entire beer garden! And it wasn’t exactly a small beer garden, either! When he left, Number Nineteen again made a point of asking me to get in touch. Yesyes I will, certainly I will, I said in my most honeyed voice. And then – women can be such bitches! – for no good reason at all, my girl friend threw a wrench in the gears of my freshly awakened hope for a new love. She had of course noticed what was going on, which would have been hard to miss, since my smile-and-charm offensive was radiating full-blast from here to Kandahar. The guy couldn’t help but be captivated, there was no escaping my flirt-attack. As soon as he’d gone, she hissed at me: “Forget it! That guy’s had enough of women. He just split up with his girlfriend of fifteen years.” Dressed up as good advice, it really just meant, hands off. Stupid ass-cow. Still – pleased to hear it, because it meant that he wasn’t attached anymore. Excellent. Watch out – here I come!

  I did of course adhere to the unofficial rules of dating and waited a while before getting in touch with Number Nineteen. After some days, I wrote him a little email. It’s a wonderful achievement of modern technology to be able to make first contact by electronic mail. It may be a trifle cumbersome to spend an entire afternoon puzzling over three measly lines of text, followed by the every-second-on-the-second checking of incoming mail. But it’s still better than the previously required embarrassed mumblings on the phone. I wrote to remind him of our casually planned business lunch, and asked when would be a good time. Then I spent hours trying to arrange and rearrange those few words in ways that would make them sound harmless, witty and charming but not brash or even presumptuous. The delete-button had a busy time. In the end I just pressed “send” and off it went. Shit! What now? What if he didn’t reply? What if he only talked with me to be polite and had never had the faintest intention of meeting up with me? Panic was running riot in my head. It was too late anyway. Number Nineteen kept me waiting. For two days. But then he replied. His email left me with a big question mark stamped on my forehead, his style was so strange. Like Shakespeare on ecstasy, sending a telegram. Short hacked-off sentences trying to sound poetic. Hm – ominous. The man seemed to be somewhat deranged. But never mind – maybe his job required a degree of lunacy. The result of this dadaesque exchange of emails: a date. A real one. Not a business lunch, no, a real one with dinner and cinema and everything. That was good too – why waste time?

  As ever, I was way too early, damn it I should really kick that habit. Be late, make them wait, that’s the way to go. Evidently he had decided on the diva routine. When he finally showed up, he was still fully stressed out, talking manically on the phone and not looking the slightest bit like someone with the time or the inclination to go on a romantic date with me. Oh super – either he’s on some weird trip to impress me, or he’s really that stressed out. Either way spelt crap for me because whatever the reason, I felt totally superfluous and very silly. Without even a proper “hello, how are you” he waved me into the restaurant and even ordered with his mobile clamped to his ear. Sweat dripped down his forehead. Wonderful – won’t this be a fun evening! And exactly how are you supposed to react? Go all prissy, roll your eyes and show your irritation? Or be all docile and submissive and giggle a sweet “oh it doesn’t matter”? And there you have it – that’s exactly why this kind of situation is so damn annoying. Not because the guy feels he has to conduct his business on your time, but because in your role of waiting date-partner, you’re going to come out looking crap, whatever you do. And frankly, someone who puts a lady in a position where her only choice is between pestilence and cholera definitely needs additional coaching in gentlemanly behavior!

  Eventually, Mr. Super-Important had finished his business dealings, shut his mobile off and apologized for his atrocious conduct. At least he’d noticed! But even so the whole thing seemed off, he wasn’t really there, was edgy, hectic, tense. And if a guy can’t even be fully present at a first date, it would be safe to assume that his interest is probably not all-encompassing. Dinner with him was unspectacular, to put it mildly. I was quite excited to start with but there were no sparks of any kind. It was sobering. Making a choice based on your pre-listed preferences doesn’t really cut it. You may have caught the coolest guy in the known universe, but if there’s no spark – forget it! Number Nineteen no longer was the cool guy from the beer garden, he suddenly just seemed pale, gray, old. Apropos old – he was forty, I was in my mid-twenties. Some fifteen years stood between us. Young chickie that I was, I thought it funny to date a forty-year-old, even a bit weird. Forty was so very far away. And forty was definitely on a different planet to thirty.

  Part two of the up to now rather dreary evening was the cinema. Number Nineteen let me choose the movie. Not an easy task. What do you pick for a first date? Some idiot action thing, in an attempt to select something he might like? Or a romantic comedy, which you’ll enjoy but which will bore the guy to tears? Some independent-cinema wobbly-framed art movie, to give you that highly intellectual air? This is no trivial matter. I decided on a roadmovie-independent-comedy that was hailed as critic’s favorite. The movie was bizarre, which kind of befitted the evening. But, no sparks. None. And not even a suggestion of a butterfly in my stomach. This really was a lesson in the difference between theory (“I’m going after the coolest guy around”) and practice: you can’t hurry love. Number Nineteen took me home like a good boy, I got out of his car like a good girl, and he said a courteous thank you for the nice evening. Neither of us felt like kissing. I walked up to my house and went in like a good girl. What a complete waste of time! I learned one thing though: even the most super-cool of all cool guys, complete with super-cool job and super-cool sunglasses, can turn out to be the super-king of boring old farts. Well, what that means is, don’t stress when you meet another one of those impressive looking guys – nothing to get excited about!

  I was pretty sure that I’d seen the last of Number Nineteen after our disastrous date. But to my great surprise, he sent me a really sweet after-date text message. I hadn’t expected it at all. Well, maybe the date hadn’t been that bad after all. And there was another surprise the next day. Since it was summer and bombing hot, my gray-haired Mr. Boring invited me to an after-job outing to the nearest swimming lake. My first thought: clever boy, checking the goods before he buys, he’ll just want to see you in a bikini. But since I had nothing better to do – why not. Number Nineteen picked me up in a gold-colored classic-convertible-something-or-other, an awesome car, extremely cool. Even though I don’t really care about cars at all. There he was, Number Nineteen, smart polo shirt, aviator sunglasses, hey-babe smile on his lips. Finally! Mr. Cool was back again. Maybe he’d just had an off-day during our date. Well of course he’ll get a second chance, no question – and in one fell swoop I was sitting in his iconic vehicle. I felt very glamorous indeed, and the thought of maybe going on more outings like this with Number Nineteen wasn’t exactly unappetizing. Manipulated by motorized illusions, I decided to do my utmost to fall in love.

  Number Nineteen surprised me with a little picnic by the swimming lake. Oh, very romantic and worth at least another hundred Brownie points. I remained fully clothed since I didn’t feel like sitting around in my bikini, but Number Nineteen suddenly took all this clothes off right in front of me, except for his shorts, and actually leapt into the lake. Which m
ade me feel uncomfortable, I hadn’t planned on being faced with that much of my potential new love interest’s naked skin quite this early in the proceedings. I pretended I didn’t care but of course I inspected him from top to bottom. He was slim and athletic but there was no hiding the fact that he wasn’t twenty years old anymore. Something bugged me, and I couldn’t really say what it was. Maybe his extremely pale skin? Or the sparse, gray chest hair? Or maybe his butt, which was flat instead of crisp and rounded? All in all, his appearance was something I’d have to get used to – I’d never been faced with anything like this before.

  In spite of the big romantic set-up – golden convertible, swimming lake, cool graying guy with aviator glasses, picnic, summer evening – there just wasn’t any romance in the air. But I really wanted it! I wanted to fall in love with this fine gent immediately! How the hell hard can it be? So I helped it along. Self-reliance is the name of the game: I didn’t have time to wait around on the off-chance that a romantic feeling might come along. So I made my own. All I needed was the gentle help of a few hallucinogenic herbs. After all, I was still in my post-traumatic I-want-to-get-over-Number-Sixteen phase, and ably supported by my friendly spliffs. They turn everything into a foggy softness and make reality much less real. So, let’s give it a try, maybe I’ll have a flash of romance with my graying companion after all. Such was my strategy. I pulled out my little dope-box – I never left home without it – and Number Nineteen nodded approvingly. Oh good, he’d join in. There’s no mileage in smoking alone when you’re in company. The spliff didn’t take long to roll or to smoke, and who’d have thought – it worked immediately! I suddenly felt all cuddly and cozy and in happy anticipation of things to come. In an instant, I was hot and turned on. Number Nineteen and I were lying next to each other and we started to stroke each other as though it was the most normal thing in the world, and before long we were at it full-blast in each other’s arms. His kisses were so-so. Nothing catastrophic, but not wonderful either. They were kind of sloppy and vague, that much I could tell even in my spaced out state. That aside, his hands were suddenly everywhere and his breathing got more and more labored. Not heavy sex-type labored but hard-work-type labored. Oh dear! My old man seemed to be overexerting himself. Ever watched turtles having sex? They make the grossest noise ever. Totally crass. Check it out on youtube. Anyway, that’s roughly what Number Nineteen sounded like. Luckily the effect of my herbal helpers was wearing off, otherwise I’d have had a laughing fit. That would have been embarrassing! How’re you gonna explain that? Darling you sound like a screwing turtle? All of a sudden I had my seven senses back under control, more or less, and asked my turtle to relocate matters to my home. I didn’t feel like al fresco sex anymore. I wanted my bed.

  No sooner said than done. We got to my place and took up where we’d left off. Not without the aid of a second joint. Which was necessary because I knew that otherwise I’d have a real problem. Number Nineteen just didn’t turn me on. But since I absolutely wanted him to turn me on, I made it happen. Completely nuts. I know. Number Nineteen embarked on part two of his turtle concert. And I acted aroused and turned on, which I was. This was solely due to the disinhibiting effect of the joint, which reliably makes me horny. Soon Number Nineteen and I were in the buff and the copulation part of the proceedings followed quite quickly. He slipped into a condom and then into me. As penises go, he was furnished with quite a substantial specimen. The thing was truly massive but it didn’t shock me – by now, monster-penises no longer frightened me. I had experience!

  He was well under way now and groaning away with his eyes closed. It scared me, the way he overexerted himself above me. His gray hair fell gelled and oily across his face, his face was distorted, his skin was pale, his butt was flabby and to top it all, the turtle noises. I froze. That wasn’t a nice sight! That was an old man in and above me. A really old man. Butt naked and devoid of all disguises such as aviator sunglasses and youthful outfit, he really was nothing but an old man. Good grief, Number Nineteen wasn’t exactly a senior citizen! He was “only” forty! Forty really isn’t any kind of old age, but if you manage to look old at that age, what on earth are you going to be like when you really are old? I was ashamed to feel so horrified. None of us is going to escape the passing of the years unscathed, and I too will not be spared sagging shriveled breasts or thighs with skin like crispbread. And since I absolutely plan to be sexually active even in old age, I find it deeply distressing to think that my future senior bed-companion might have a similar reaction to me. Maybe I should after all consider plastic surgery? Youth culture be damned: what happens when even dimmed lights can’t make up for the missing fountain of youth? There was only one thing for it now: close your eyes and get on with it. Number Nineteen discharged into me, groaning and convulsing, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t interested in having my own orgasm anymore. And it’s exactly this moment that comes to mind every time the tabloids parade some celebrity couple with a huge age gap. Have fun in bed with the old man, I always whisper to the ladies. It won’t be so bad if you keep your eyes shut

  But despite the, well, not exactly overwhelming bedroom experience with Number Nineteen, I wasn’t prepared to write him off just yet. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day, you need to give things time. One had to have a chance to get accustomed to one another. Number Five, the love of my life, looked like a Pekinese during kissing, and it irritated the hell out of me to start with. But soon enough I didn’t care about it anymore and everything was fine. Which is what I was banking on with Number Nineteen. The plan had only one slight problem: I wasn’t actually in love. Which took me a while longer to admit. To start with, I tried like crazy to fall in love with Number Nineteen. I generously ignored the old-man-in-my-bed factor. I only had sex with him when I was stoned, and that took care of that. He never spent the entire night with me, always dashed off halfway through, since he still shared a house with his freshly separated ex. Despite being separated, he couldn’t get himself to stay away overnight. At first I wasn’t too bothered by this strange behavior, but the more time we spent together, the more it grated on me. Mr. Super-Successful didn’t have the balls to tell his ex that he was amusing himself with a luscious twenty-something, with whom he wished to spend his nights, let alone holding a gun to her head and chucking her out. I neither wanted to pressurize him nor did I want to be the patient understanding not-the-bitch forever more. If I didn’t start raising the alarm, nothing would ever change and every night, after slipping into me, he’d drive home and slip into the ex-marital bed with his ex-girlfriend, which was a pretty weird notion indeed. On top of that, our liaison was kept secret, because Number Nineteen didn’t want anyone to know. Was he embarrassed about me? Wasn’t I good enough for him? Was he scared of the obligatory must-be-having-his-midlife-crisis-or-why-on-earth-would-he-hang-out-with-some-young-bimbo-like-that gossip?

  After a few weeks with Number Nineteen I’d successfully convinced myself that I was in love with him. I’d convinced myself with all the emotional manipulations I kept subjecting myself to. I was ever nicer and purrier with him, sent him emails and text messages which stated unequivocally how wonderful I thought he was. He never once replied. And once again it became apparent that whoever invented this nasty game of love was a total nutcase. Because here’s the thing: the less Number Nineteen reacted to my obvious declarations of high esteem, the more I suddenly wanted him. I did everything I could to conquer his heart. Which, apparently, left him cold. One day I just couldn’t contain myself any longer and made it clear to him – by way of a tearful production that wouldn’t have been out of place on stage – that, if he had any intention of anything longer-term with us, he would have to set things straight with his ex. I said that I wasn’t prepared to put up with things as they were anymore and especially not with this stupid secrecy. I said he should be with me properly and face the consequences, or I’d be off. He didn’t say anything after my ultimatum. Nothing at all. Then he asked for time. Great
. That told me all I needed to know: it was over. Number Nineteen didn’t have the balls to clear the decks. For a while we were out of contact, apparently the I-need-time sand was still trickling through his hourglass. During that time, I cooled off considerably. I was cross and my pride was hurt, after all I’d been given rather a nasty brush-off. But I wasn’t really suffering. No comparison to the hellfire and sorrow I’d been through with Number Sixteen, which sometimes still hurt even now. All of this was indisputable proof that I simply wasn’t in love with Number Nineteen.

  I’d practically given up on the whole thing when Number Nineteen suddenly reappeared with a grandiosely orchestrated comeback. He invited me on a secret quick trip, destination unknown and not to be disclosed. Bikini and summer gear a must. Wow, exciting! I was back in the running and managed to wrestle my recent realization of how I wasn’t even in love with the guy back into some hidden corner of my brain. I only learnt at the airport what was going on. Formentera. Very snazzy. We spent four brilliant days on the cute little island in the Mediterranean, lived in an amazing luxury finca and I felt as though I was part of an Elle-Decoration let-me-show-you-my-classy-abode photo-shoot. And I yet I couldn’t whole-heartedly enjoy it, because there was simply no denying it: I’d gone off the boil. Or rather, I had to admit that I’d never been remotely on the boil. The hunt-for-Mr.-Right experiment had failed due to a lack of real feelings. You could jiggle and joggle and moan and groan all you liked, in the long run this simply wasn’t an option. The sex became almost impossible to put up with, I just couldn’t get the old-man-image out of my head. And while I was maniacally trying to work out how to get out of this self-induced mess, Number Nineteen suddenly announced that he had been propelled into action by my admonitions and had finally managed to boot his ex out. She was in the process of finding somewhere else to live, and was so bowled over by me, he’d have never thought he’d fall in love again so quickly.