I never got to ask her one question that had lingered in my cobwebbed mind for years. It’s just as well. It does not matter. It was a meaningless bit of kismet, but evidence of no grand scheme or plot. It regards the woman I dated last year, who I had previously dated over 30 years previous, in my earliest days in New York. She was my first in many ways. I’m hoping she was not my last but there would be some poetic justice in that.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
It’s been about 7 or 8 years now since I saw a therapist. It was after the big ugly breakup of the toxic relationship that ended with a threat of physical assault. I don’t really need therapists, and they definitely do not need me. But when I showed up she said “You’re going to need a lot of extra sessions.” Okay. So I dutifully appeared two and sometimes three times a week, sometimes hung over to a point of incoherence, but mostly we made good conversation.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
But enough of that. Cut to what ended up being our very last session, when I made a comment about having worked at a record store years earlier. Her countenance changed, and in a knowing voice she said “I knew there was something familiar about you the moment you walked through the door.” She remembered me from being a record store clerk at Lincoln Center. At the time this would have over 25 years past. Honestly this admission did not surprise or concern me. People who work in stores become fixtures in the shared memory of a neighborhood or community.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
What came to concern me about this admission was that she had been active in a certain field of the arts back in those days, and the woman I dated last year was also active in that field. Of the others she worked with she was the only white performer, though she did mention there was another white woman who was not in her ensemble but who she connected with regularly just because they ended up in the same place at the same time.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
That “other white woman” had to have been the therapist I saw ~25 years later. Back in the day those two would have gossiped about me, I think, based on comments the woman I dated had made back then. I made these discoveries only after our last session and I made no attempt nor would I have even considered attempting to contact her for clarification or confirmation. It didn’t matter. This was just an unusual but not bizarre crossing of paths.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
Thinking again about the woman from last year. I keep seeing her name around town because someone has posted a number of hand-written signs offering her services, and her name is the same as the horny girlfriend from 2024. It is a somewhat unusual name, not totally obscure but not an everyday encountered name. What’s interesting is I started seeing these signs the very day we broke up. Prior to that I had seen these signs sporadically for probably 20 years. It’s the same damn sign, same lazy scrawl handwriting, same everything.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
We could have been such a great story. We met in 1991 at the record store. Every dude there was hot for her, and she slept with one of the other supervisors. It was the store manager that most wanted her, or perhaps it was his rank among the rest of us bottom-feeders that made his desire seem more important, more authoritative. But seriously, all the clerks and cashiers of male heterosexualtude wanted her, and some made no secret of their desires. Somehow she went with me. Our nights together were seldom easy, and many a night should probably have ended early. But she liked my intellect and I liked her attitude. Her beauty, which is one of a kind, seldom registered with me during our interactions. She displayed an almost continuously simmering anger that made her beauty something of a void to me. But even now, 30+ years later, anywhere we would go she’d get the catcalls, the whistles, the rude comments from errant assholes. It was like being with a supermodel, though her look is nothing like that disfigured, seemingly puppet-like profile that I associate with so-called supermodels.<\/p>\r\n
There was one night, though, last year, in her kitchen. I wore nothing but a shirt, and for once she wore absolutely nothing at all. It began to fill my throat with hunger, seeing all of her like this, and she smirked a little watching as my cock hardened and rose up. She knew the power she had over men, and I was allowing that power to take over my every capacity for desire, even to a point of blind lust.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
I suspect that when she called things off for speciously trivial reasons she assumed this power would come into play and I would supplicantly come back to her, wanting more of that body. It didn’t work like that. Despite the sex I needed a way out of this dalliance, and when she gave it to me I took it and did not look back. Her simmering anger was coming for me next, and why wouldn’t it? It sucks how it ended. We had just had our best sex ever that very morning, and it was getting better and better every single time. That’s really not common. Sex with most women I’ve known is basically the same day in and night out. We were evolving and discovering. But it was not to be.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
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