In some recent posts I have alluded to several dates I’ve had with a beautiful man. For a while I wasn’t ready to share the salacious details, but now that things have cooled off (maybe ended?) with him, I feel it is time.
Today I’ll share the story of our first date.
Back in September, in some kind of Tinder miracle, I matched with a Spanish guy who was, quite honestly, the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. All my friends agreed: He was drop-dead handsome in a classy, traditional way.
On the chat, he was curious, asking me lots of questions. He left me sweet voice memos in imperfect English. He talked about taking me to Spain one day, where he spends his summers. I fantasized about having sex with him in the sea on the Costa del Sol.
We wanted to meet, but our schedules didn’t align. Then a morning window opened — 9:30 a.m. on a Tuesday — and we took it. We planned to meet in a city park not far from where he lived.
I got there early and sat down on a bench facing a group of exercisers. I hadn’t dressed warmly enough, but who cares — adrenaline was its own coat. I texted him my location. He told me he was a couple of minutes away.
My heart started pounding. I kept scanning the path, texting my friends like I was narrating a spy thriller: “He’s almost here. I’m dying.”
Thirty seconds later: “Still dying.”
Then I saw him — a man in all black, baseball cap, sunglasses, walking fast, almost running. He even looked like a spy!
“A man is hauling ass toward me,” I texted. “Yup… bye.”
I tried to collect myself in the twenty seconds I knew it would take for him to reach me. But all I could think about was how sexy he looked in that brief glance. With a hat and sunglasses, he looked different from his app photos, but he exuded a deep intensity and mystery.
Suddenly he was right next to me and I looked up.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said.
My heart may briefly have stopped.
I stood up, unsure if we should hug or shake hands, but I didn’t have to decide. He leaned in and kissed me softly on the mouth — oh my GOD — and then pulled me in for a tight hug.
We broke apart and sat down and I tried to recover. He said something about how beautiful I looked. I blushed, said thank you, and asked him to take his sunglasses off so I could see his eyes. He did, and he took his hat off too. His hair was a beautiful salt-and-pepper mess. We made small talk for about three minutes. I honestly can’t remember what we said because I was still trying to take all of him in. His face, his body, his accent. He was delicious. How was this happening?
Then he leaned in and kissed me again — for real this time. And honestly, I’ve never, ever been kissed like that before.
At first there was so much tongue, full of hunger and longing. It was slow, yet assertive and intense. In another situation, with another person, it would have been too much. But with him, it was just right. We kissed, and we kissed, and we kissed, and the timbre of the kiss shifted every so often — hungry, then playful, then tender.
When we finally broke apart, I tried to regain a sense of my surroundings. I glanced to my right and saw the exercisers staring at us. He clocked them too. I giggled. I’ve never been one for PDA, so I felt a twinge of embarrassment.
“Um,” he said, “maybe we should go get a coffee?”
I didn’t want to drink a coffee; I wanted to drink him. But I also didn’t want to be the morning entertainment, so I agreed.
I grabbed my bag and we started walking. After a few minutes, he paused near a secluded bench.
He pulled me in again. We stood there, standing next to a bench, ferociously exploring each other with our hands and our mouths as much as we could with our coats and clothes still on.
I pulled away for a second. “Didn’t you want to get coffee?” I asked.
“Not anymore,” he said.
We sat down on this new bench and kept kissing. Suddenly his hand was under my shirt, under my bra, cupping my right breast. He kissed my neck and bit me gently. My right hand went to his low back, then down the back of his pants. I felt his underwear, and imagined his skin underneath it. He tried to do the same and I cursed myself for wearing tight jeans. His hand could barely fit.
Then reality intruded. He said he needed to check his phone; he was technically supposed to be working. I reached for mine.
It wasn’t there.
Not in my bag. Not in my jacket pocket.
“Oh no,” I said. “I think I left my phone on the other bench.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Let’s go find it,” he said, already on his feet.
We walked as quickly as we could back to our original spot. It wasn’t there. Fuck!
I realized I had my laptop with me — maybe I could use Find My iPhone. We ducked into a café for Wi-Fi. He ordered me a cappuccino while I opened my laptop.
He could have been annoyed. Instead, he was calm, kind, determined. Honestly, it was hotter than all the kissing. Even though I was desperate to find my phone, I kept sneaking glances at this beautiful man as he bought me a coffee.
I saw where my phone was on the map, and we took off to follow it. Turns out a nanny had picked it up but hadn’t returned it to a lost and found yet. When I found her, I thanked her profusely and felt such relief — not only did I have my phone again, but I could also turn my attention back to my sexy date.
That’s when he told me he needed to go soon.
Ugh. Our two-hour window was closing fast, and we’d spent half of it chasing my stupidity. But in the process, I realized, I’d learned far more about him than I would have if we’d simply kept kissing. My lost phone had been an impromptu character test, and this man had definitely passed. We started walking again, and I took his hand in mine.
He paused next to yet another bench and grabbed me and kissed me, then sat me down. His mouth was on my neck and my ears and my mouth. I took off my jacket and laid it over my lap and unbuttoned my pants, Then his hand was there, touching me, inside me, feeling how turned on I was. It took everything in me to stay quiet.
I’d never done anything like this before — was I really letting a man I barely knew put his fingers inside me in a public park on a Tuesday morning? But I didn’t care. It was exquisite.
Then he seemed to snap back to reality and looked at his watch.
“I need to go, I have a meeting,” he said. I surreptitiously buttoned my jeans. We stood up and walked, again holding hands. I could tell he was stressed — he had picked up his pace — but I could also tell he was trying to hide it and didn’t want to rush me.
When we reached the point where our paths split, he kissed me again, tender this time, and said goodbye.
I stood there watching him walk away — then jog, then run — and I couldn’t stop smiling.
I texted my friends. “HOLY SHIT. That was amazing.”
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