by Amy B.
My ad on Nerve said I was looking for "sexual experience with mutual respect and human connection." I got 25 responses the first day—Peninsula tech geek, Oakland motohead, Mission gym rat. I chose a writer living in the Presidio, who impressed me with his language ("Your photos display a palpable sexuality"), his take-chargeness (choosing the time, place and location of the date) and his confidence ("I'll be the tallest man in the room").
After a glass of wine at Yield, we headed to Slow Club for a burger. He was an easy conversationalist, handsome, obviously intelligent, but I felt little chemistry until he reached across the table and brushed my fingers as I put my glass down. Outside, as he opened the passenger door, he turned to face me, gently tugged on the waist of my coat with one hand and said, "Can I have a kiss?"
"Maybe," I said.
"Why ‘maybe?'"
"It's more interesting than ‘yes.'"
He pulled me within an inch of him, his eyes intent on my lips, his mouth curving into a smile. He hovered there unmoving until I reached forward and kissed him. Fire. Several minutes later he pulled away, holding me by the shoulders. "You're such a good kisser," he said.
"I'm just following you," I said.
He drove me home, pulling up next to my building on 18th. We spent an hour in the car, and during that hour I did things I'd never done before—not with any boyfriend, not with my ex-husband, not in my imagination. The world outside the foggy windows fell away, and my entire universe condensed to the size of an Audi. I heard no sounds, saw no passersby, had no idea where I was. Every concern that existed beyond the boundary of my skin fell away.
When it was over, I slid my coat back on and looked at him. "Thank you," I said, and as soon as I uttered it, we both laughed. His breath was uneven. A flash of sadness passed over his face.
I knew that if I asked him upstairs, he would change my life, so I kissed his cheek, got out of the car and stumbled to my front door, relieved.
