Those men a girl can just have "fun" with too...

One might call it a "rebound," but I think a more appropriate name is simply some fun. In all the time McClimber and I were seeing each other, he never doubted my affection for him. Nor did I doubt his trustworthiness. He established in the beginning he didn't want to see anyone else, and so neither of us did. I saw him practically all the time anyway, but even when I didn't, I still was content just being with him.

Only ONCE did McClimber get jealous--three days before we were over.

Another climber at our gym, Boulder, provoked lust-inspiring thoughts since the moment we met. Unfortunately we had a difficult time exchanging more than a couple words with one another. He was quiet in a dark-and-twisty sort of way, with a constant, blank, evaluating expression. I guess it's somewhat fair to call him shy.

Aesthetically he wasn't too impressive, but there certainly wasn't anything wrong with him. He's shorter, borderline handsome, perfect T-shape body, and strong. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a murky demeanor; you're never too sure what the hell is going on behind his perpetual poker face. Boulder found his way to my darker fantasies with his subtle, mysterious intensity... And the more he discovered, the more it began to annoy McClimber.

Although Boulder and I often had nothing to say to each other, and possessed a mutual sentiment that the other was plain-old weird, there was an odd thing that kept happening between us in private company: we cuddled.

Um, weird? Ha. Yeah.

The two times we were at a mutual friend's house, with Miss Ind. in tow, he and I seemed unable to keep our hands and bodies to ourselves. No one said anything about it, certainly not Boulder or I, but there it was.

After a bit of whiskey with McClimber, I confessed that the last time Boulder and I were hanging out he spoke openly and sexually with me. (Keep in mind this last encounter with Boulder had happened when McClimber and I were in our first week together.) Boulder even demonstrated a particular activity he found erotic--using me to assist the demonstration. How I conveyed this to McClimber is still a little murky to me, but McClimber's response was loud and clear: "Well, Boulder is single now. You should go out with him."

Bitter much?

At the time, I of course had no interest in anyone but McClimber, so his worries were unnecessary. But, once I was single again, things changed.

Before I knew it, Boulder and I had each others' phone numbers. We texted randomly and promised to hang out. We were even a little less awkward at the gym together. Then, two nights ago, Boulder decided he was bored and wanted to hang out... alone.

Dun dun duuuunn.

He came over at midnight and all that sexual tension that had been building in the last half-year couldn't contain itself for long. I put the movie on that he brought over and I went to sit down next to him. He put his arm out. I wasn't sure what he meant at first but then he grabbed my hand, pulled me down next to him, and wrapped his arm around me. Our bodies immediately intertwined with legs wrapped around and between. I had one hand resting on his rock-hard chest, the other on the inside of his lean thigh. Mmmmm yummy. Probably not even fifteen minutes into the movie he lifted my chin toward him and kissed me.

You must understand it is not like me to go and kiss every guy I meet, particularly every guy I meet in one particular venue (both McClimber and Boulder work at the same gym I attend), but something odd is happening in my life.

It's the curiosity of 20-somethings. We have the freedom, we have the time, we lack the ties, and we have the drive. It's the perfect set-up for disaster.

The problem lies in societal and social standards--although I have a squeaky-clean past, my recent activity may provoke an unflattering label. And, why? Does my kissing Boulder devalue me? Does it make me less loving? Less desirable? Less worthy? Less... me? Or does it not really change a damn thing?

I still live with the aim of bringing joy, and not destruction. I still abide by rules of common courtesy, respect, and integrity. I still mean well, and still love. So is it possible for a girl to have a fun experience with a boy and let it remain just fun?

Passion is hard to come by, and those moments when we lose ourselves entirely in the moment are valuable too. Kissing Boulder let me do that. When I was winding down from holiday stress, winding down from a failed relationship, winding down from a new job hunt, and winding down from my own unmet expectations, there was this guy kissing me with his eyes closed. Kissing me slowly, passionately, intensely. Oscillating between dangerous roughness and heartbreaking tenderness. Physically there, and saying hardly anything at all.

It was better than chocolate.

Although I understand the concept of "slut," I have a question: If my "secret" encounter with Boulder hurts no one, is it bad?

Or, just fun?

Waiting...

There's this fantasy I have: I'm attending a family dinner--dressed well, clean, potentially in heels and earrings--and the doorbell rings.

I've just been chatting with someone about my recent relationship, a lovely look of melancholy on my face, describing briefly how it ended merely a day or two ago. At the ring, I set down my wineglass and offer to see who could possibly be at the door. Heels click across the wood floor, laughter echoes behind me from the kitchen, and a small door lamp illuminates the familiar figure beyond the beveled leaded glass of the sidelight window. My breath catches in my throat and my chest tightens as I turn the handle and pull back the door.

There he is.

The now-ex stands with white knuckles around a bouquet of flowers and bags under his agape and waiting eyes. His free arm hangs at his side as though failing hope for another embrace drags it down. He hasn't fallen apart by any means, but something meaningful has happened to him.

I ask, "What are you doing here?"

"Here," he hands me the flowers, "These are for you."

"McClimber, what are you doing here?" I ask him again. He looks away, searching for words and courage.

I come outside and close the door behind me. The noises from my family inside cease, and night's twinkling silence takes its place. "Tess," he starts, "I've... I've been thinking... Listen, I don't want to go back to life without you in it."

I'm finally beginning to accept that he is in fact here, asking if I'll let him care for me again.

"I messed up," he continues, "I was scared. I don't want to be scared anymore." My eyes water as a wave of unimagined relief washes over me.

He came back.

This fantasy of mine, colorfully articulated for dramatic effect, is filled with details that change for every new failed relationship, but remains essentially the same nonetheless. The basic premise is always: girl gets left, girl begins to let go, boy comes back like the frickin' prodigal boyfriend.

I've become strong enough, finally, to give things a chance. I fight for a try--a real try--to create and nurture a connection between myself and another person. This is why I've been in so many damn relationships this year. The problem has been I am the only one willing to try. So, inevitably, I am left because the other has given up.

There was a time when I would have criticized this fantasy and called it a childish and disgustingly inappropriate desire, but these days I understand it with more compassion.

When I was a little girl my father left my mother for another woman. He left us. Sure he was there Wednesday nights and every other weekend, but he left. Do I blame my father or hold any of this against him? Hell no. Why would I? I love my life. BUT the fact still remains--one of the first things I learned as a little girl was how a man leaves.

Oh I know I'm getting all dramatic on you, but hear me out.

The thing is I developed this fantasy that one day one of those men who made a false promise would come back and hand over his white flag. I'm waiting for the guy who will stick around and grant me a sense of temporary permanence.

McClimber was my most recent relationship, and it was a flimsy one at best. We started at a sprint and burned out in a similar fashion without beginning to know each other. But there was potential. There were these little things he did that put him a couple notches above the rest--particularly Alejandro.

One night several weeks ago I felt the oncoming rush of senseless feminine emotional insanity. McClimber could tell I was angry, but didn't seem up for a conversation about it. More than anything he was frustrated, and even more frustrated that I couldn't talk to him about it. When he left me in the dark bedroom to go play video games with his roommates for a couple hours, my feelings of cheapness and vulnerability sky-rocketed. Suddenly the tears flowed like the Mississippi as I sobbed to my girlfriend about the indifference McClimber afforded me in the face of metaphoric and literal nakedness. Didn't he understand I was worth the effort he wasn't showing?

As I wiped my face with a roll of toilet paper, I thought this was surely the end. This was the same way Alejandro ended, and these were the same feelings. This was the point where my efforts weren't going to make any damn difference. This was when I had to face that McClimber didn't really give a shit.

Suddenly, in the middle of a loud irrational complaint, the door opened. From the light of the hallway he entered the room, closed the door behind him, and sat on the bed behind me. He wrapped his arms around me.

"I don't know what to do. I wish there was something I could do to make it better."

"You came back," I said in relieved disbelief.

And that was all I needed.

A few weeks later McClimber and I did in fact stop seeing each other, but that night was the first and last time I cried during our relationship. That simple, unexpected reassurance was in fact all I needed.

When we were officially said and done though, the doorbell didn't ring. No one came to the door with flowers and said "I need you." No one asked me to care for him again. No one said, "Hey Tess, I was scared--let's give it another try."

I said, "We're not seeing each other," and McClimber said "Let's take a step back." Then he ran for the door to never return.

That's the reality.

But is the fantasy so bad?

As long as I know it's a fantasy, and not the reality, I can understand something about myself I didn't before: I'm waiting to love someone.

McClimber wasn't the guy--and love was never part of the equation--but I guess it's possible someone will stick around. Someone will be ready. For some reason I am waiting for the man who will let me, simply, love him.

I can wait for that. It doesn't rule my life or consume my thoughts--it's merely a gentle breeze blowing through the back of my mind. So I'll keep on going and enjoying every day. There are always those men a girl can just have "fun" with too.

But when it comes to love, I'll be waiting...

Because life isn't about the ones that go, but about the ones that come back.