The Date
It feels like we’ve been emailing back and forth for years now. It’s only been two weeks - maybe twelve emails cumulative - but it might as well be years. Is there anything less romantic, less erotic, less aphrodesiatic than an email? Even if there was actual pornography in the email, an email is still an email and they are (by nature) flaccid.
There’s been some miscommunication on both sides. You said something that appeared rude or dismissive which ticked me off, you felt bad. I said something in a way that made me appear cold and distant (not very GFE escort of me. To be fair, I am kind of a bitch, but like in a fun way.)
We’re smoothing things over as best we can. Your emails become increasingly suave and debonair, mine increasingly flirtatious. We’re trying our best here. You don’t like admitting defeat and are far too stubborn to give up now. I don’t like admitting defeat, and I’m far too stubborn to give up now.
“It’ll be fine,” I think as I finish curling my hair.
“It’ll be fine,” you think as you finish tying your shoe.
To make matters worse, I am meeting you at your residence which appears to be one of those Atlanta-specific apartment/condo/townhouse/gentrification specials popping up all over the “not that bad anymore” neighborhoods.
The date was originally supposed to be two hours, but in an effort to show how much you definitely wanted to be with me and didn’t think I was being bitchy you decided let’s make it four hours (…yay!) Six whole, beautiful, wonderful, mysterious hours. That I agreed that it would totally be fine if we just stayed at your place the whole time! Sure, let’s just order delivery! I think it’s a great idea to just…not have any distractions at all!!! (Why did I agree to all this? What was going on with me?)
“Maybe if it sucks really bad, I’ll get lucky and he’ll murder me and I won’t have to talk to him anymore,” I joke to a friend.
“That’s not funny,”
“It’s a little funny,”
***
I park on the street. You informed me about the parking deck. Nice try. I’m not parking in your parking deck death trap. I’ll hoof it.
I make it to your place. I take a moment to catch my breath. I want to have the upper hand, and I’m not going to have the upper hand if I’m still wheezing from my little hike.
I pull out my phone to alert you to my arrival. But as I’m rummaging through my purse, the door swings open. There you are. There I am.
Something’s different. Neither of us are saying anything. Why are neither of us saying anything?
“Hi,” I say, I can feel a smile growing on my face unconsciously.
“Hi,” you say, and you’re smiling too.
Now we’re just standing there staring at one another. You look different - better than I expected? But I realize I didn’t have any expectations. Maybe you’re just more real now, and in the instant of seeing real-you I both understand and forget every miscommunication that we had.
I start laughing - my body’s involuntarily reaction to suppress my present urge to press myself against you and hump your leg in your doorway.
“Can-can I come in? Is that alright?”
“Yeah, I think that will be alright,” you laugh too, I hope for similar reasons.
You move to the side, and I slip past you. I catch your scent as I pass. It’s intoxicating. Something inside me stirs. I calculate how close I would need to be to experience it again. I’m assuming the closer I get, the better the experience, every experience.
“Your env-I left your um-the uh-” you gesture at the envelope on your coffee table.
“What? Oh! Thank you!” I momentarily forgot why I was even there or where I was at all.
“Where is your bathroom?”
“Second door down the hall,”
As you turn your back, I grab the envelope and steal myself away to the bathroom. Necessary parts of our arrangement. More than anything, I need a moment to myself. This is not what I expected. I feel flustered. There is something about the transparency of your motive for inviting me here that makes my skin hot.
I return, and you’re standing at your kitchen island opening a bottle. I lean on the counter behind you. I think it’s something red, but I have lost the ability to observe anything other than those particular muscles in your back and shoulder that flex as you open the bottle. You step towards me and hand me a glass. I remove myself from the counter to accept the glass. We know we’re supposed to do something now, but we can’t stop just staring at one another. Magnets both attracted and repelled in equal measure. A delicate balance that just might brea-
“Cheers,” you offer,
“Cheers,”
A gentle ring of glass, we both take a moment to break the near unbearable eye contact.
I set my wine glass down on the counter. You set your glass down on the counter. As I look up and our eyes meet, there is something primal in them, but before I can even dissect that particular look, both of your arms are wrapped around my waist so tightly there is no doubt about your intentions. I curl my arms around your neck and grab fistfuls of your hair, as much as I can to pull you closer to me.
Suddenly, four hours hardly seems like enough.
Hi! I’m Anna Carter, a GFE escort in Manhattan, NYC. I’m originally from Atlanta, GA.