the mating game
My hands are clutching tightly to the back of the motorbike as I try to hold my body up as straight as possible.
He reaches behind and puts my arms around him. I lean in more comfortably.
I’ve spent the night trying to decide whether my male fashionista friend with the stylish motorbike is gay or not. At this point, I’m leaning towards not.
When he drops me off in my chic arrondissement, a parallel from my small nanny room, he leans in to kiss me, and I know he’s not.
When I enter my apartment building I look over at the large hallway mirror and shrug my shoulders at my reflection.
Am I interested? Not sure. How is he not gay? He’s charming, and I like the intensity of his face, his style and his taste, but can I really date a guy who’s thinner and more fashionable than I am?
And who am I to lay my lips on someone, when just the day before they were kissing another?
Relationships are not my forte. I’m fussy and unpredictable. I want everything I can’t have. I hate it when it’s not good enough, and become afraid when it’s too good.
But these days men are entering my life in a wave. My heart sits still, but my curiosity leads me into hearing them out, enjoying the attention and affection.
Thirty-six years ago today my parents were married.
Their relationship isn’t flawless, but it is open, accepting, loving, thoughtful and forgiving.
I’ve seen my mother walk out of the room fuming at my father, I’ve seen them throw words at each other, and I’m aware that they spend a lot of time apart.
But they love each other. They accept one another and leave room for breathing. I’ve seen my father stare at my mother in as if she was Stevie Wonder, only sexier, and with a nice rack to boot. I’ve heard my mother speak so tenderly of my father that I can’t help but love him more.
They say women tend to go for men that are like their father. And although I’m not on the lookout for a sound mixer with my face, I do search for his qualities, for men that are genuine, easy going, lovers of food and music; men that can love me without smothering me.
And so tonight I sit on my balcony, gracefully covered in pigeon shit, and drink a glass of wine in their name.
Cheers, to two beautiful people, and to the fact that someday I might find someone that I can love too.