Did I Really Let A Man Spend The Night?

Hurdling off the cliff of my comfort zone.

Since my separation and divorce, I’ve boned a lot of men. Like, a lot.

But in every case, we never slept next to each other. I was occasionally invited to sleep over at their places but in the absence of my fifty-step nighttime face care routine, I declined.

I only remember sleeping next to my ex-husband Joseph and that was rare in the past decade. His snoring became unbearable and to avoid my constant nagging due to my extreme sleep deprivation, he slept in the kids’ rooms.

But I finally slept next to another man. Well, he slept. I spent most of the night, wide awake, mentally repeating “oh em gee there is a dude in my bed”.

That’s how much I’m into Jeremy. And I have no idea what he thinks about me.

Jeremy and I chatted for weeks before meeting because he was traveling. Homeboy has the Boy Next Door look. I expected him to cancel on me before our first date because he’s out of my league, looks-wise.

We hit it off and I’m twitterpated. He’s funny. He’s smart. He has a good job. He doesn’t drive a piece of shit vehicle. His dick isn’t wonky. His body is perfection.

With every date, I drive home listing all the reasons why I’ll never date that person for longer than a month. It’s a default reaction now. I can spot red flags like a needle in a haystack.

After my first, second, third, and fourth dates with Jeremy…there are barely any. My only irk is that he’s slow to respond because he’s back to the real world unlike our initial nonstop conversations when he was stuck on a boat fishing for days on end. I’m keeping my eye on the other red flag that he’s new to our town and I’m wondering if he’s itching to date multiple Southern California women.

The first time Jeremy came to my house, he immediately found a solution for my kids’ wobbly loft beds. While assessing my broken air conditioner (not sure if his Engineering degree covers basic appliances but it’s pretty attractive that he tried), he saw the massive barbecue box in my backyard.

This barbecue is the bane of my existence. I bought it for crazy cheap during Amazon Prime Day. I can assemble almost anything myself but the thought of building something that can explode if incorrectly installed while standing in the blazing hot summer sun isn’t appealing.

We planned another night of him vegging out at my house. “How about we drink and build that BBQ?” he texts.

I thought Jeremy was joking. He was not. And now I’m even more infatuated with him.

It’s Saturday evening. I’ve spent all day cleaning my house and hiding anything that might make me look unsexy, like anti-depressant medication and hair loss shampoo.

Jeremy shows up, handsome as always. Oh, am I gushing too much about his amazingness? Suck it. I’ve had a trillion shitty dates and I deserve one Medium article where I swoon over a competent male adult. He’s not fucking around when it comes to alcohol. He brought wine, vodka, and beer. “Every home needs vodka,” he tells me, handing me a brand new bottle for me to keep as a hostess gift.

We eat buffalo chicken fingers leftover in my freezer while getting a buzz. The conversation is so easy. With my dramatic flair in conversation, I tip over the bottle of red wine onto his brand-new white t-shirt.

Just about as good a reason as any to get the man undressed and have sex. While Jeremy is plowing away at my body, my brain panics that the room is too hot because the air conditioner doesn’t reach my bedroom. My curtains look wonky because I’m not finished putting them up. I Febreezed the comforter, does it smell pretty for him? Did I remember to flush the toilet? Is there gunk in my bathroom sink?

My respect skyrockets for all the men who had me over and their homes looked unremarkably put together.

When chilling in post-coital bliss, the conversations lead to my US Citizenship. This causes me to immediately jump and find my citizenship paper because it’s not something most people see. Jeremy pokes through my passport. I’m letting this man see more into my life than most. It’s like I don’t know this feeling so I’m opening the floodgates instead of being a sane, normal person who paces how much they divulge.

He wants to start barbecue building while we drink some more. Along with alcohol, he brought along edibles (which to me is the dumbest name for “candy THC”). I’ve never been high in my life, minus any drugs given to me when given birth. I tell him I’ve never even done pot in my entire life so he estimates based on my weight how much I should use.

Did I want to try them? No. But I figured it was just about as good a time as any since I didn’t buy them, another adult was around, and it’s legal. Playing the Cool Girl is something I’m good at, despite how I feel inside. Spoiler alert: it only made me dizzy and extremely thirsty. Kind of a dumb thing to give a chick if you want her mouth on your dick later.

I’m shocked he genuinely wants to build the damn barbecue. He asks for my shop vac. We go into the garage and he sees a large box in the way. “Do you want me to move that?” he asks. “Um, yes? But I feel bad asking.” I reply. No man won’t move a heavy object if you act like he’s your hero for moving a Bed Bath & Beyond box.

Why did he want my shop vac? Because as he takes the parts apart outside for us to bring inside (we’re building it on an old tablecloth in my living room), he wants to vacuum the little styrofoam bits off the metal parts.

This is blowing my mind. There stands a good-looking guy, taking each heavy parts box and metal piece, vacuuming them off, and then handing them to me so he can assemble this monstrosity for me. “This stuff is such a pain to clean later,” he explains. Shhhh, baby. You had me at “where’s your shop vac?”

While he’s building the barbecue, Jeremy talks out loud while perusing the directions. “So it looks like we need to attach that part…” he trails off. “I hope you mean the Queen’s ‘we’ because you’re doing all the work and I’m just sitting here.” I remind him. In my mind, it’s sweet that he considers this a “we” endeavor when my lazy ass is simply ogling him building things.

When he realizes he messed up a part, he makes fun of himself for his stupidity. “You have an abnormally good sense of self-deprecating humor. Most guys aren’t like that,” I tell him. “I think I need to offset my ego,” he replies.

“Where do you have an ego?” I ask. Jeremy pauses to think. “Hmm…I walk into a room thinking that I’m better looking than I probably am.”

I roll on the floor in hysterics. That answer still makes me laugh. Of course, I gush that he’s attractive and good-looking.

A small red flag creeps in my mind. We’re having loads of fun drinking, talking, laughing, and building. But there’s no flirting. Jeremy isn’t touchy-feely like most guys. I’m not used to someone who isn’t constantly leaning over to touch or kiss me. It’s almost like we’re friends who fuck. I push it down into my mental box of red flags to handle later.

The barbecue is almost done by midnight. Jeremy’s getting tired and I’m internally panicking over my dry mouth. There is no water chugging that will resolve this, nor do I want to chug water when I’m feeling dizzy. I sense that he’s going to spend the night so we head upstairs and my anxiety-ridden brain panics about how I’ll look in the morning.

After Round 2 of sex, Jeremy is passing out. I grab him a new toothbrush. I later realize I had an extra toothbrush in my toothbrush holder from a dentist appointment months ago. Did he notice? Did he wonder if I was giving away toothbrushes to all non-existent men spending the night?

“I might snore,” Jeremy explains. “But if that happens, wake me up and tell me to sleep on the couch.”

Yeah. Like I’m going to let a hot guy sleeping in my bed for the first time go on the couch.

Turns out, his snoring was barely anything. My daughter snores louder than him. When I told him this later, he laughed. Many guys I dated would have taken offense at my comparison between his sleeping habits and a young child.

Did I go to bed immediately after? Nope. I can’t handle my panic. What if I passed gas in the middle of the night when I’m sleeping? My skin is full of melasma, will he be horrified at my foundation-free face in the morning? How bad is my breath for the requisite morning boning?

According to my Fitbit, I fall asleep at 3:30 am.

Upon waking, we have morning sex. It’s mostly from behind, which is good because I don’t need Jeremy to lose his erection from my breath and my face. When I hopped up to brush my teeth, I’m relieved to see some of last night’s makeup wasn’t properly washed off so at least my eyes look better than usual for a morning without sleep.

Do you know what you should have on end when a man is spending the night? Breakfast food. It never crossed my mind in all my panic to get food for the next morning. Total rookie move. While Jeremy is finishing the barbecue building, I make pancakes because I lack anything else.

When I don’t have my kids, I barely buy groceries. Poor guy had to drink my Lite Vanilla Almond Milk in lieu of normal cow milk. Jeremy eats his pancakes covered in peanut butter. I’ve never seen anyone eat them that way and it’s yet another endearing quality that makes my hungover heart flutter.

I grab his clothes from the dryer (it was a whole other Medium article trying to get red wine out of a crisp, new t-shirt) and we begin the process of rolling the barbecue to my backyard.

“We can just shove it over here,” I point to an empty spot. My backyard looks like the set of Jurassic Park because I’m too poor to afford landscaping. Jeremy is having none of that. “That spot is right in the sun by the window, the lid will keep banging against the screen,” he tells me.

In my brain, I’m wondering why he cares. He did the work. He rolled it out. He certainly doesn’t need to find it’s placement among the dried leaves and dead spider carcasses.

The barbecue is placed after Jeremy lifted and moved my entire patio set. Acts of Service are my love language and this guy is mentally banging me with his helping actions.

It’s time for him to leave, which is good because I’ll need loads of time to prepare for my date later that day with Jonah. Ugh. I don’t want to go on this date. But he planned a surprise birthday dinner for me and I can’t bail on him. He’s talked about it all week.

“So…in all the dating that I’ve done since I separated…not that it’s been a lot (spoiler alert: it’s a lot)…I’ve never slept next to another guy. I dated a guy for eight months and didn’t even let him spend the night. You’re the first.” I gulp as I confess.

“Awwww,” Jeremy replies and kisses me. I thank him for the umpteenth time for his help and he takes off in his Toyota truck chariot.

Once the bliss wears off, my anxiety kicks in again. What if my bedroom didn’t smell pretty and he thinks I’m gross…and never wants to see me again? What if I didn’t participate enough during sex…and he never wants to see me again? What if he’s got other women on the side, finds a better one…and he never wants to see me again? What if my red flag from earlier was correct that he just wants a fuck buddy…and he never wants to see me again? Unlike Jonah, he’s not a massive texter and I don’t want to be all up in his nuts with clingy messages. It’s hard to tell where his head is at with us.

I push my concerns aside. I’ve got my birthday date with Jonah. After tonight, I’m going to tell him that I’m not interested. All I want is Jeremy.

Everything about Jeremy has me acting differently than usual. I never put all my eggs in one basket when dating but I don’t care. Even if I never see him again, having a chance to feel this excited and into someone was worth it.