The Boyfriend Chronicles: Tim

The Boyfriend Chronicles: Tim
September 2002?

There is some argument – well, in my head at least – about what actually qualifies as a one-night stand. Maybe I’m a purist, maybe there’s some OCD involved, but I feel obligated to separate solitary encounters into subcategories. Just because you never get beyond the opening act doesn’t necessarily qualify the rendezvous as a one-nighter, does it? The way I see it, Patrick One didn’t technically count, because we continued to see each other non-sexually for some time afterward. I saw Darren twice, although the mutual lack of interest in anything beyond each other’s tender parts definitely fits the ‘fuck and run’ profile. If there were such a thing as a ‘two-night stand’, he would certainly qualify. Bruce…well, I’m reasonably sure we’d have gotten through the whole performance and a couple of encores, had geography been on my side. Besides, we stayed in touch for years afterward, thereby blurring the line between sex and friendship forever.

There can be no argument that Tim, on the other hand, was a classic, dictionary-defined, morally unjustifiable one-night stand. (Although I don’t know why I should feel compelled to morally justify any sex. I guess I have twenty years of conservative Bible-belt brainwashing to blame for this pervasive “Sex and the Sunday School teacher” guilt complex.)

The night we met, I was lying around my tiny bedroom, annoyed at my poor television reception and bored with the internet when my friend Nicole called. Before discovering her immense talent as a photographer, she had once flunked out of Explosive Ordinance Disposal training somewhere in Texas. She never quite got over the balls-to-the-wall lifestyle, though, and tended to attract men with one finger on the detonator wherever she went. That night, she summoned me to a bar in Ybor City where she was feeling generous with her surplus of cops, firefighters, and bomb squad guys. The place was crawling with men who were too wild to keep but too good to keep away from. I knew the moment I walked in the door I wasn’t going home alone.

Unfortunately, upon closer inspection, several of those present proved to be too young, too irritating, or too married for my taste. Tim seemed pretty normal, though, and didn’t seem to mind at all when I plopped into his lap, giggling drunkenly and asking too many personal questions. He was happy to tell me that he was divorced, visiting from Las Vegas, staying nearby, and although he rode a motorcycle, he would be happy to let me wear the only helmet if I was interested in going home with him. I accepted the ride, but turned down the helmet, claiming I wanted to feel the wind in my hair. Not only is riding a motorcycle without a helmet a stupid thing to do (proof positive I wasn’t old enough to drink without a wingman), but it’s also hell on long hair. By the time we finished the exhilarating 10-minute ride, my hair was standing eight inches from my head in an angry brown snarl. I looked like the ‘before’ picture in a Pantene commercial as I frantically tried to pull my fingers through that haystack before Tim noticed. Not that he would have cared. I don’t think we looked at each other from the neck up more than once all night, and only then to make sure we weren’t going to bed with Quasimodo.

There was almost no furniture in the place, so even if all we wanted to do was talk, we were going to have to do it in bed. Not that we wanted to talk, but still. We tumbled onto the tacky hotel-grade comforter, ripping at each others’ clothes. To his credit, he did attempt some half-hearted foreplay, but a quick aside about my ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’ preferences put a stop to that. I was vaguely aware of his inferior lip-locking skills, but was too distracted by my crazy hair, my stubborn halter top, and his…ohmygod, is that it?…teensy Johnson to care much about the kissing. Fortunately he was either sufficiently talented or I was sufficiently horny (or both) that we both got what we wanted without much trouble. Score one for the ‘it’s not the size but how you use it’ school of horndoggery.

Tim took me home shortly afterward – in his truck this time, avoiding further follicular trauma. When he dropped me off, neither of us made any pretense of wanting to stay in touch. It wasn’t that there were any hard feelings or that either of us had any regrets, but I think we were just in perfect silent agreement that our expectations, such as they were, had been met and a second act wasn’t necessary.

One complete performance, one night only, was all either of us was looking for.

back to
The List