912.5

It’s 3:48 in the morning, and I’m at ShopRite. I'm weaving in and out of the aisles in desperate search of Wheat Thins, which for whatever ungodly reason, this store has decided to hide away in the deepest pockets of their innermost shelves like some secret family shame. But I am determined to find them, late hour be damned, because The Boo was craving them, and I told him I would pick them up tonight after my shift so he didn’t have to schlep out all this way tomorrow. That’s how, initially, I wound up here anyway, in these aisles, walking around in a still-fruitless search. But really, the force that pushed my bike pedals the extra 10 minutes out of the way, my feet to walk these tiled floors, my tired eyes to scan these shelves, had evolved into something more self-serving, after the night I had had at work.

I had left my shift in desperate need of time to think, or, in Elena terms, to over-analyze, throw the covers off all the boxes, open all the closets and portal of my mind, and proceed to get more tangled up in my thoughts than I do in pretty much anything else. And these days, this process can be enough to warrant popping a fucking Advil and collapsing into the nearest piece of furniture a fainting chair, complete with hand draped across my forehead and brain reeling. And not just me - whenever the tip of this mental iceberg gets seen by others, they (alarmingly often, as of late) will ask, “Okay... Are you seeing a therapist?” Not as casual convo, or to perhaps find out what psychoanalyst in the area might be good, but with a slight smidgen of concern in their eyes and that lilt in their voice that could, really, almost make me laugh, because good god, maybe I should be. But I’m not. Because, money, and because, I’m Jewish – no, not the money bit, I mean, being Jewish makes me like, half-doctor, right? Is that a Jewish stereotype? Oh wait, no, I’m female. Never mind. Moving on.

So, why am I here again? Right. Wheat Thins. But why am I in such dire need of the extra 10 minutes out of the way on my bike, of the 10 minutes in store, to think? Because… Cowboy. No, I’m not suddenly Brick (“Suddenly Brick” – there’s the coming-of-age Anchorman spinoff I’m glad but also slightly sad never happened. From boy to man – all the angst, none of the full sentences!) I’m referring to a man, who I will refer to as “Cowboy”. Or, if you want to get real specific, “Gentle Cowboy”. Which, he was, and which, he said is the kind of man I need. Actually, he had said a whole lot, it being the third time in 24 hours he had pulled up a stool at my bar.

But it wasn’t until tonight that I found myself here, in ShopRite, looking for something I couldn't find.

Cowboy was in town for a quick two-day turnover, having flown in from the west coast for work. I had struck up convo with him the night before, because I had basically finished cleaning up for closing up, he was the only one in the bar, he didn’t seem like a murderer or a creep or a cheap tipper, and well...it’s my job. Was glad I did - he turned out to be super fucking chill, incredibly smart, thoughtful, and a creative type like myself - but one who actually has been successful in doing so. I left that night feel like I had met a sensei, a Yoda, had been sent a guide from the universe. Indeed, while waiting for the train home, I filled pages of my notebook with his advice, questions he said I should be asking myself, and overall – I left work that night feeling inspired, somewhat grounded, assured even, cool in the dank heat of the subway platform.

Next day, I come in to relieve the daytime bartender and lo and behold, Cowboy was back. Honestly, it felt like seeing an old friend, already. I had about 15 minutes before I started, so I pulled up a chair and we chatted for a bit before he left for dinner with his brother, and I, to hop behind the bar. He says he might be back in later, but I don’t know – while regulars usually say that and do come back, this guy literally flies out tomorrow. I don’t hold out hope - as much as I would enjoy talking to him again.

Then, sure enough, midnight rolls around and blows him in. I’m busier tonight, but talk to him here and there. He orders food, he has a beer, he sits outside and talks to one of my other regulars (Russian blonde bartender who works across the street, who he says several times to me he is convinced she wants “the sex”.) Eventually though, as it always does, the bar winds down. And once again, it’s just me and him. Blonde Russian bartender from across the street, gone. Two loud but nice dudebros, gone. Super friendly couple, gone. The bar is quiet. And then, inevitably I guess, it got weird.

Our conversation takes a sharp turn to relationships, and he looks at me in surprise when I say something that leads him to conclude: “So there is a special guy for you, then.” I say, “Well, yeah.” He looks sheepish then, laughs a little. “What,” I say. And he looks back up at me, full in the face, and says, “The reason I came back tonight was because I was really hoping to have sex with you.”

Oy. Um. Okay. Well. His phrasing perhaps wasn’t the most clunky I had ever heard, but given his way with words in every other capacity we had explored, it sure left something to be desired – namely, me. I look back at him, and I mean, I guess I knew this was coming? We did have a connection, this is the third time he’s at my bar in 24 hours, I’m a chill bartender with fake tits, but…I don’t know. SENSEI, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY? Ugh.

But all I say is, “Were you hoping to have sex with me?” And he says, “Yeah, I mean, you just give off this powerfully sexual energy. Like it is out there, in the universe.” And what tumbles out of my mouth is, “Do I????” (while inside, my inner Blanche Devereux is going, “Well, yeah; and your point?”) But still, I simply laugh, shaking my head and saying, “Wow. I guess…I’m just surprised, that’s all. I mean, because this is me…tamed, tempered down…so I didn’t think-“ He gives me a look, “Come on.” And for the first time, I feel slightly awkward around him. Cowboy. Gentle Cowboy, sorry. Listen. I CAN’T HELP THAT I’M A SEXUAL FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH. It’s my natural state, punching holes through dimensions even, apparently (?!) But he doesn’t think that’s all it is. He thinks it’s because if I really was *fully* in the relationship I’m in, I wouldn’t be giving that vibe off.

At.

All.

The next 40 minutes is an ebb and flow between normal life conversation – existential purpose, what is happiness, what’s life really about, you know, the light, casual stuff – interspersed with him repeatedly telling me he wants to do *all* the things with me. This is his seduction mode, and it’s beyond not working on me. Seduction for me happens through the brain; the irony is, its all that other stuff, the artsy talk, the life talk, which would normally be a turn on. The straight sex talk? Nope. And what was really wild, you know, given his strapping good looks, his success, his awesome fucking personality and how much we vibed, was…I was still not remotely interested. Because you know what? I’ve done that journey. I’ve had that sex. I’ve explored, really, fully, every fucking facet (pun intended). But it’s an interesting thing, man, to be a reformed slut. Because when your journey, your stories, your growth, your understanding of yourself and what you want, all revolved around that, and for so long, when you do settle down, then…what? What’s the journey now? What’s my catalyst now?

My relationship has certainly been a series of lessons. Shitty lessons, mostly. Story-worthy experiences, certainly not. The grit has consisted of a lot of identity crises, a lot of work on his part to get my walls to come down, and eventually of me letting that happen. A lot of depressed periods of coming to terms with my shit. Health problems. Ruts. Fights. Breaking up. Questioning everything, and then questioning nothing. I never write about it, because it's not stories, and because a lot of it is still hard to admit sometimes, to myself, let alone to the world. But, it’s still a journey. Mostly, of me, of me in a committed relationship, and trying to come to grips with what that really means. What kind of life do I really want, and if I am in this relationship for good, then… there’s another plane to my existence here, beyond sex, beyond men, and it’s scary to come to terms with the fact that I have no idea what it looks like. And it makes moments like these, with men like this, wonder if this is all the universe is going to give me. For even when he tells me he read every single thing I wrote from the link I gave him the night before, that I’m a good writer, it goes back to how it made him want to have sex with me. He saw a kinship there, sex clearly being an integral part of his life journey as it used to be for me, but…the days of that being the thing to drive my experiences…it’s not enough anymore. Intellectual connections and exploring people, not people’s private parts, are what have grabbed my attention. But outside of being able to connect with people from behind the bar, how do I get there? In a life where it’s work, work, gym, work, gym, sleep, gym, cook, errands, Boo Time, Family…where are the experiences, what are the experiences (why are the experiences) - the real experiences, that stab your soul, that break your heart, that build you up? What do those experiences really look like, outside of a realm that had been my only one, and for so long?

To be honest, I have no fucking idea. But I’m going to keep looking for these goddamn Wheat Thins, and hopefully, eventually, find them.