He Pulled My Hair

And lit me up

Our eyes connected from across the street. You know that moment, right? When you happen to meet the eyes of a stranger and something like recognition — a hello from another life, perhaps, or an alternate universe — hovers in the space between you? I know you. I knew you. I’ve never forgotten.

Our eyes connected and it sent a current through my body, like licking a battery. It felt like hot shame; it felt like free-falling; it felt like waking up. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, my skin tingled as though I had leapt into an ice-cold lake. My heart raced — flight, fight, or flirt?

Arousal.

Our eyes connected and my breath hitched and my heart burst into a sudden and unavoidable smile, a long-dormant flower, suddenly blooming. He tilted his head, curious like a bird, and smiled back.

He wasn’t my type — if I have a type. His head was Bic’d, which left him vaguely resembling Bruce Willis. Ok, so maybe that’s not not my type. He was wearing a jacket, but he looked solid, muscular. I’d find out later he liked to deadlift 500 pounds for fun, now and then. You know what a man who likes to lift 500 pounds can do, in the bedroom? Or in the bathroom, or the hall, or the kitchen, for that matter?

We shared a lingering smile but I was already dreaming of the hazelnut latte I’d promised myself for my office hours, so I let the thrill of his gaze settle into my chest and swept by. My heart still throbbing, I got my coffee from the cafe just inside the library. My breath still shallow, his eyes, his smile were the only thing I could think of, even though I only had a few more minutes.

Some wild and hungry part of myself thought then, What the hell. Go say hello, girl, what have you got to lose?

It was just over two months since I’d left my ex-husband. It was several years since I’d had anything resembling thrilling sex or even a delicious flirtation. Someone braver than I whispered it was the right moment to meet someone new, if only for a few glorious and heart-pounding minutes.

I hurried back — trying to look like I wasn’t hurrying — to the low stone wall where he’d perched. He was still there, swinging his feet. Trembling like a kid at a recital, I approached.

I caught his eyes again. Bloody hell, I’m attracted to him. “Thank you for the smile,” was all I could muster.

He answered me with another smile. Larger, inviting. Playful.

“Strangers here don’t tend to make eye contact. I really appreciated it, too.”

“I’ve noticed that! Where are you from?”

“Corner Brook, in Newfoundland. You?”

“Middle of nowhere, Manitoba.” Ok, ok I can do small talk.

It goes well: we natter about small towns and university, and then I see a friend of his from the corner of my eye, clearly waiting in the wings, giving us time to talk. If he were taken, his friend wouldn’t be hanging back.

“So you want to get a drink, sometime?” I take the plunge, trying to seem old hat at this. It is, after all, just a drink.

He seems tickled by my invitation, and we happily exchange numbers. I walk the rest of the way to my office, trying to sip my coffee casually like it’s any other day. I lick the whipped cream off the top, more sugary and delicious than anything I’ve tasted in the ten years I was with my ex. If this is where it stops, I feel like I’ve taken a giant leap forward: out of loneliness, out of fear, and into the future.

But it doesn’t stop there. We text, back and forth. Friendly, intermittent banter. Both our lives are dictated by the school calendar — he’s studying Law, while I’m doing my Ph.D. and teaching classes for my supervisor, who’s unexpectedly in need of eye surgery.

N. is 7 years younger, which I brag about to my friends. I need something to fuel me through the terrible butterflies careening around in my stomach. One friend happens to be in a class with him, and she warns me he’s a bit of a Casanova. Part of me is glad to hear that since at least one of us will know the way down this unfamiliar road.

It’s a few painful and glorious days until we meet up again. We live on the coast, so we decide on sushi. It’s 7 pm and I’ve showered after my hot yoga class and my skin still feels like it’s on fire. I blame the yoga.

How do you dress for a sushi date? Is it a date? Be cool, Danielle, be cool.

I wear a white v-neck with a hand-made wool skirt. Elegant but relaxed. I spice it up with some tall leather boots with chunky heels. Was he tall? Will I be too tall with the heels? Fuck it, I’m not going to pretend to be someone else.

He gets there first, so he’s sipping his water with lemon when I arrive. Before I go in, I’m a tangle of nerves. Catching sight of him, I’m instantly aroused again. Do we talk? We must have, but all I remember is my body burning, my breath moving in my chest like a thunderstorm, my gaze pulled towards his mouth with an irresistible gravity.

Magnetic Electric Our bodies alive sparking and swirling two galaxies bent on colliding

We’re still talking, the sushi long gone, my belly buzzing with a cup of saki. He’s a musician and wants to play me some songs that have come up in the conversation. We walk back to my place holding hands. It makes me think of the first time a boy ever held my hand and our palms were slicked with sweat. Thankfully, a cool breeze off the ocean saves me from my own burgeoning nervousness.

We get to my place and I think about beers, but I don’t want to drink. I want to be wide awake, for whatever is about to happen.

We sit on the couch, and he finds some music on my computer. We’ve got plenty in common and the conversation is easy, but a part of my mind is busy running scenarios.

Before I know it, we’re kissing.

After a decade of the same grim and selfish lips, the unfamiliar shape, the newness of how he tastes is a revelation. Even all the same old things feel brand new.

Tongues, entangled Gulping breaths Famished hands

My ex was 6 feet tall and 120 pounds soaking wet; N. is roughly the same height but heavily muscled. His arms and shoulders and back are like nothing I’ve ever felt. I blush when I think of the cheesy lines about bulging biceps in romance novels — but now I understand. My nervousness is rapidly evaporating in the rush of desire, leaving behind nothing but steam.

And then he cups the back of my head, threads his fingers through my curly brown locks, and pulls.

I thought I knew what excitement was, before. But this is something else. This is magic; this is the propane, igniting in an instant. Whoooosh!

I sizzled. I popped.

It’s only a split second but I wish it would never stop.

There’s great sex, not that night, but later. But the memorable part, the part that still fizzles in my breasts and fires all the right neurons, was that perfect and unexpected moment. It was surprisingly tender, in retrospect — like a bark rather than a bite. It never approached violence; it always felt like play. Sweet honey blended with a spicy kick.

He pulled my hair; he lit me up. I had no idea how deeply in the dark I’d been living. Lit up like a bonfire, I remembered I was a sexual being — curious and creative and very far from timid. And there was plenty more of life left to discover.

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