A close encounter of the delicious kind
This is the 8th essay in the #26essays2017 challenge that I’ve set for myself this year. I’m doing this because I’m the first to admit I’ve become a lazy writer: allowing guest posts and series and cross-posting to make up the bulk of content on The Diane Lee Project across 2016. The brave, fearless writing that readers admired and respected me for has all but disappeared. This year—2017—will be different. I’m reclaiming my voice—my write like a motherfucker voice!
This weekend, here in Hanoi, I voided an awful sexy times encounter with a Frenchman (aka That French Fucker) that happened at the beginning of 2016.
That French Fucker was someone masquerading as a decent, kind and caring man… until I slept with him… and then, his true colours were revealed. Of course, I only had myself to blame and I vowed that I never wanted to feel that way again. Used. Stupid. Less than. Stupider. Not Good Enough. The stupidest. Cheap. The most stupidest ever. I asked myself that eternally damaging question: what was wrong with me? Why am I so unlovable?
Over the short period of time I had gotten to know him—from the beginning—I thought something was there, something would develop between us. I was mistaken. I had not given That French Fucker enough time to prove himself, because in the lead-up, he seemed interested, attentive, reliable. I confused what seemed to be with what actually was. And I paid the ultimate price: another valuable lesson that my libido was, is and remains a terrible judge of character. That, and I needed boundaries.
I read somewhere (I can’t remember the source) that a woman’s job is to work out whether a man wants her for sex or herself. Time, of course, reveals true intentions. I—particularly with my anxious attachment style—should not be so quick to jump into bed with someone, no matter how tempting.
It never ends well.
This man—who I met in serendipitous circumstances—was a kind, generous, passionate lover. He made me feel beautiful, desirable, cared for.
I thought that that awful, demeaning encounter would be my last* lot of sexy times ever. That I would never have sex again. I was ok with that. I had made my peace with it. I figured that the chances of meeting a man who wanted to have sex with me were fast diminishing. No one really wants to get up close and personal with an ageing woman. Especially here in Hanoi, where the expats/foreigners want gorgeous, petite Vietnamese women (why wouldn’t they?) and the Vietnamese men in my age group mostly are married. And while I don’t a want a relationship, I don’t want casual sex either because I don’t like the way it makes me feel.
Or so I thought.
This weekend, I had a delicious, close encounter of the intimate kind with a handsome, much younger man…
…which will only be a once off.
And, in an unusual turn of events, it doesn’t bother me at all.
In fact, this encounter has left me smiling and feeling wonderful about myself.
This man—who I met in serendipitous circumstances—made it clear almost from the get go that he wanted to sleep with me: banter and touching and double entendres is a powerful aphrodisiac. And despite my previous vow of no casual sex, I decided to sleep with him if the opportunity presented itself.
It did, and I’m glad I did.
He was a kind, generous, passionate lover. He made me feel beautiful, desirable and cared for. Respected. Even when he left my apartment the next day.
And he gave me a precious gift.
The gift of faith.
Faith that there are men out there who see my energy and confidence and intelligence as beautiful.
Faith that my age is not really an issue… with the right man.
Faith that I am a desirable woman.
Faith that that one day, in the right circumstances, love may be possible after all.
*Bear in mind that I have been having This Is The Last Time I’ll Ever Have Sex Again sex since my early 40s.