She took me to an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica. I should have known that our first proper date would also be our last.
In the parking lot outside, Monica lit a joint, and after smoking she called her husband and finished the phone call with sweetie.
THAT felt like a paper-cut.
Our nervous hands fidgeting above the starched tablecloths, our stocking-feet seeking contact below.
Pot makes me horny. I couldn't help but imagine me, Monica and the panna cotta starring in an R-rated movie.
But Monica had other plans; I have never done something like this before, crossing the line, that is.
And then; I am not even gay.
And later; You are so young.
After we finished pushing our food around the plates I begged her for a farewell fuck. She wouldn't. She said she would give me a referral to another clinic. And that she would work on her marriage and on being a better mother.
I came home and cried and cried.
Why do I let myself get so carried away? So tangled up in happy-ever-after-daydreams?
Daddy tried to comfort me. My wailing interrupted his yoga session. Dressed in tank-top and shorts he came and put his arms around me. But his hug felt like wrestling with a monkey, he's so goddamn hairy.
I texted Monica. No replies.