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“Whatcha working on?” I looked up and saw a young Clark Kent sitting beside me with a breakfast wrap in his mouth. “You were talking to yourself,” he said.
"I guess I'm in my zone." I smiled. “I'm prepping for a workshop where I teach people how to be creative.”
“I'd like to know how to be more creative,” Superman said, shifting his body 45 degrees to face me.
As a 39-year-old recently divorced woman, I had been numb until that very moment. My loins were thumping like the bass of a dope beat. He smelled so good. I forgot about the presentation.
“We should get to know each other.” He handed me his card and rushed out the door. Almost immediately, a text popped up: "Great to meet you. Let's get together soon. Nick."
I should have recognized the chorus of a f*ckboy, but I'd been hitched for three years and out of the dating scene. Evidently, I missed the emergence of the term into the mainstream vernacular.
The first time I heard the term was from my father, who, as a "cool" dad, stayed current on most things, especially where his three daughters were concerned. And now, two of us were single.
I'd called my father for advice about a text exchange with another guy — who we'll call Jeff — I'd met on Bumble. I was confused because for our third date, I had proposed a sushi dinner after work and he responded, "What about a drink at your place?"
Jeff was nice, casual, cute, tall, and the CEO of a successful tech company — all things I gravitated toward. He was also the first guy I'd met with promise, or so I'd thought. He seemed respectable, but the “drink at your place?” text threw me off.
Didn't he know I was hungry? Didn't he want to take it slow and get to know me? Did he know I wasn't ready to jump into bed with him?
“You stay away from him, Aubree. He's a f*ckboy,” my father roared.
My dad always watched out for me, but was especially protective after I got divorced. I had a provincial view of dating that was shaped by a faithful and churchgoing upbringing in Houston, Texas. I was raised a Southern belle who was supposed to save herself for marriage.
To signify that my body was a temple, my father gave me a ring with a silver moon and gold star when I was 12 during a special steak dinner at the Taste of Texas. Throughout college, I was a prude that bordered on being a tease. I didn't want to give my body to just anyone.
I eventually lost the ring and my virginity, but that “save myself for the one” mentality stayed with me.
After three years of a marriage where the majority of our energy was exerted trying to make it work, sex was scarce. Touch was my top love language, but not his. The more I reached out for his physical affection, the more he withdrew, doling out sex sporadically.
It was humiliating, and coming out of my marriage, I felt like humping lamp posts. My father's ideals for my "body as a temple" were no match for the sexual frustration I was feeling. My parents got married at 21, so he couldn't even begin to empathize with what I was going through.
Growing up in a religious home where we went a Presbyterian church every Sunday, I learned that "sex before marriage" was bad and unwedded couples who lived together were termed "living in sin." I didn't want to be bad or sinful, so I kept my legs shut tight.
But I wasn't a little girl anymore and I needed to get laid, like, yesterday. Though I didn't understand that I could have a physical connection with no emotional ties.
F*ckboys like Nick showed me otherwise.
When Nick texted, "What's up gorgeous?" one Thursday night, I knew by replying, "Come over," I would be getting into some uncharted territory. I just didn't have guys over — ever. This would be my debut sex-only hangout, which I had no idea how to set up, even though I'd been carefully coached by my best guy friend, Reid. He was the champion of me "getting some."
"It's not that complicated. Just text the words 'come over,' and he'll get it," Reid had stated confidently.
"Really? Shouldn't we do something first, like get coffee?" I had replied. I was nervous and so new to all this, and my pent up sexual energy didn't help matters.
"Sure, but only if you want to be caffeinated before you have sex." Reid was emphatic.
I did a Google search on Nick, and I found half-naked photos of him in various designer brands of underwear. This must have compromised my decision-making. Turned out, his modeling career took off at 18 and now, at 26, he had made the likely NYC career progression to become a real estate agent and was “ready to be taken seriously.”
OK, serious underwear boy, I thought to myself, but texted back: "See you soon."
I didn't know what would happen when he came over, or more like, I didn't imagine it could all happen so fast. Within seven minutes of buzzing Nick into my apartment, my clothes were on the floor by the two chairs we briefly sat in while exchanging small talk before he touched my leg. Then, he grabbed it and laid me out like pizza crust on my kitchen counter.
I disassociated from the experience because he was otherworldly. Having him fully clothed in my apartment was intense, but seeing in the buff was drug-like. He looked even better than his internet underwear pictures! Effortlessly chiseled body. Tall, bronzed, and olive-skinned, even though it was February.
He said I had a "perfect little pussy." The Southern belle in me jumped at the "p" word, but after 15 years in New York, I handled it.
This ex-model pursuing real estate could have been 18 and I wouldn't have cared. He was scruffy and hands down the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.
I woke up the next morning feeling relaxed, soft, exquisite. The sex was as good as it could have been not knowing Nick at all, and seeing how beautiful our bodies looked lying next to each other was such a turn on.
In past relationships, including my marriage, I chose nice, solid, predictable men, side-lining my desire for a strong, fit, and hot body because I thought I couldn't have it all. Being with Nick made me realize that I could not only physically connect with a man without emotional ties, but wanted to be with someone who was my physical equal. I wanted it all now — a nice guy with a kind heart and a rock hard body.
“There's no such thing as free sex," Patricia, my more-spiritual-than-most fitness instructor said when I told her about my magical night with Nick. I expected her to be happy because I'd unblocked my second chakra, but she warned that exchanging fluids with someone meant his energy would stay with me for seven years.
Patricia's opinion carried weight because she had everything that I wanted: a wonderful, conscious relationship and three beautiful little girls.
Blah, blah, blah, I thought. I was willing to take my chances. I'm pretty sure she was getting laid on the regular and couldn't possibly understand how lonely life without touch could be. I didn't even realize how deprived my body had been. I was drunk with touch and wanted more.
Except Nick was a f*ckboy and I never saw him again.
In typical f*ckboy fashion, Nick texted every few months to check in with the unsatisfying and uninspired, "Sup," "Thinking about you," or “Long time stranger” that proved to be f*ckboy codewords for “I'm bored."
Only after several times of him going dark after I replied way too soon with, "Let's get together" did I start to figure out what was going on.
I was disappointed that I couldn't have Nick again, but I gave him a pass because he was necessary to my healing process. At the time, he was exactly what I needed and everything I wanted.
Barely a year had passed since my divorce and I was still in shock from it. I wasn't ready to be emotionally involved with anyone. I just wanted to be seen as a woman again. For one night, I was nothing but.
Nick was the first man that made me feel alive since my divorce, and unlike my ex-husband, he wanted me. He couldn't get enough of my body — every millimeter of it. He reminded me how sexy I was. I wasn't dead yet just because my marriage didn't work out.
Although I'm seeking something more committed and connected these days, if I needed a meaningless romp, I have no doubt I could execute. I can identify a f*ckboy at a glance.
Mostly, I understand that a physical connection can exist without an emotional attachment, which has changed my relationship with sex. I haven't abandoned the tenants of my Southern roots, but I let go of the preciousness I used to attach to it. Sex is a big deal if I want to make it a big deal, and I can decide as I go.
One thing is for sure: Living a sexless existence is unnatural and unhealthy and I'm not doing it. Thanks to Nick, I realized this and for that, I'm grateful.
I guess you could say he holds a special place in my heart — or more like, my vagina.