A hard lemonade for me and a beer for him later at a pub near the stadium, I was caught up in the familiar, natural rhythm of our conversation, which usually took place over the phone. The added dimension of physically being there, smelling his cologne, connecting with his eyes and watching his expressions aroused familiarity, which created a feeling of almost instantaneous intimacy for me. I was sure he felt it too.

"How's the story going so far?" Rory asked as he inched beside me at a stand-up table at the outdoor bar.

That's when I felt the first flush of lust.

"So, who do you want to play you in the movie?" I joked.

"I'll have to get back to you on that, but I do want to choose my name; Rory Hansen," he said.

"Sounds like a hockey player," I said, shooting him my 'you're cute and funny so why don't you kiss me' look, which may have been a little off, because he held my hand instead. Is it just me or do professional sports delay the progression of intimacy in our culture? Sure, there's the occasional public marriage proposal flashing on the Jumbo-Tron, but that's for show. I can't recall being at a baseball game or basketball game where couples talked, related, held hands or exhibited other PDA's (public displays of affection). Still, it was a tad disappointing to sit through nine innings without going to first base.

Back at Rory's condo we fell back into the rhythm of relating, first on the back patio, and then on the couch.

"Do you want to watch Sleepless in Seattle?" he asked. Before I could answer he gave it a second thought.

"You know, I haven't even kissed you yet," he said. Mind-reader, I thought. The kisses started sweet, then turned into a playful bobbing for tongues contest.

"We probably don't need a movie," he said as he took my hand and led me upstairs.

.

The memory of a now absent tongue. Tongue party of one, stained, revealing remnants of last night's wine, which no longer satisfies. I could just spit. Instead I reach for the Elvis bag, Where's that damned water? I have a sip, then an epiphany of my own. Elvis, he had that, what? Madonna/Whore complex. Which as I understand it is having some sacred infatuation with one's mother (the Madonna symbol) and having some unmet needs for the love of her, as an infant. Fear of intimacy may develop as a defense against allowing those early hurts to become conscious. Sexual contact between lovers can trigger the Madonna/Whore complex sufferer's need to get away from an intimate emotional and physical relationship that they associate with pain. The lover is subsequently sexually rejected: viewed as a whore. Maybe that's Rory's story. How else can you explain going from John Holmes to Billy Graham in less than 24 hours?

.

By Sunday morning I'd decided I had a new boyfriend—long-distance, but a boyfriend nonetheless. He'd rolled over to hug the side of the bed instead of me when he woke. As I rubbed his back gently, he remained frozen. This was not the kind of stiff I hoped to wake up to.

"I have a terrible headache," Rory moaned. "Too many beers."

I did a mental calculation of 5 beers in eight hours, spaced apart with only one at the game. It didn't add up to hangover, especially not for a guy who'd bragged about tailgate parties beginning at dawn for his beloved Vikings. He was from up "Nort". The boys up here can drink, I thought. So, I was more certain something was up, when I went to the bathroom and came back to find him up and fully dressed.

"How about, we go to breakfast and then I drop you off at Mall of America to shop for a few hours. I need to go into the office," he said, avoiding eye contact.

"On a Sunday? You're going to work on a Sunday?" I asked, surprised.

At breakfast, he barely ate. I thought, Maybe he really isn't feeling well. Looking for some sign of recovery, or the guy I was with the night before, I said, "Last night was great." He looked at me briefly, then stared at his omelet.

"DC I feel kind of guilty about that. I'm not sure we should have done that," he said. "Remember I told you about the last girl I dated? I've been thinking she was right, you know, to wait."

"Yeah. The 28-year-old virgin. I didn't realize virginity was contagious," I slammed a little too sarcastically. He was trying to tell me something, I thought. Listen.

"Hey, never mind. We'll talk later. I need to get to the office," he said.

I initiated a small kiss before I jumped out of the car at the mall. He kissed me back, which I took as a good sign. Three hours later when he came back to get me I hoped it would be the yesterday Rory, the last night Rory, not the morning Rory—the Hot Minnesota Twin not The Cold One.

The plan was to play nine holes of golf. I mean, I'd dragged my clubs up from Cinci. But, Rory decided we'd go to the driving range instead. I kept my good sport face on. His body language said Cold Rory, and his lack of flirtation put an exclamation point on it. He still claimed to be hungover. Not naïve enough to believe this and experienced enough to have gotten the cold shoulder after short meaningless relationships, I couldn't chalk this up on the same board. Three years, for God sakes. Wasn't that SOMETHING?

What about the sex? To me it wasn't sex, it was making love. You know the difference. Sexually compatible? Affirmative! Okay, maybe I was a little overly enthusiastic, but hell it had been MONTHS since the last time. Maybe I'd come off as too experienced and the sex was TOO good. So good that he felt bad, dirty, guilty. Most men I've dated would say, yeah, that's when you know you're doing it right! But, for Rory it may have triggered the Madonna/Whore thing.

I had hopes the movie would lighten the mood. Dark movie theater, some good belly laughs, a little hand-holding, thigh rubbing and ... I was sooo wrong. Rory seemed to enjoy the movie all right, but he might as well have been alone, and I suspected he wished he were. It was as if the right side of his seat (next to me) was the mouth of the river Styx and he'd perish in its abyss if he got near it (or me).

The car served as a confessional on the ride to Rory's as he told me about not very being religious before in his life, but now thinking that sex should be more sacred; saved for a real relationship like the one Adam Sandler was having with Wynona Ryder in Mr. Deeds. Sex only in a real relationship? I reminded him that he'd told me over the years that he would never get married again.

"You broke up with the virgin because you said she wouldn't have sex unless she was married, yet you didn't want to marry her or 'be a monk the rest of your life.' Which is it? And by the way I thought, until today, that we did have a real relationship." I was raising my voice. My voice inevitably rises as my hope begins to fall.

Back at Rory's I helped myself to a bottle of wine, opened it, and escaped to the back patio, where I chain-smoked in silence. He's been begging me to come visit him, and we talked about the sex thing several times. He knew very well where this weekend might go, and did, and it was great. So what in the hell is he doing? I thought. Rory cautiously sat across from me at the patio table. I smoked and stared and told him just what I'd been thinking.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what to say except for I'm being honest about how I feel," he said.

"No, I think you were being honest with how you felt last night, and gave into it and now you're scared, for some reason," I challenged him with my tight-lipped look. Then a bumper sticker came to mind. "If You Can't Stand The Heat Don't Buy A Lap Dance."

While I was inventing bumper stickers he read that same old cue card. "This has nothing to do with you ( inserting an improvised, you're great!). This is about me and something I'm going through," he said.

"Bullshit, that nice guy routine doesn't fly. You're just being an asshole today, I mean, completely caught up in yourself and how you're feeling. Have you for a moment thought about how I might be feeling? I'm feeling terrible. Yesterday I was on cloud nine and you helped put me there. Today I wish I'd never come here. I feel rejected and emotionally lower than I've been in a long time. And it's your fault!

I paused for a second to catch my breath and to see the look on his face. I think he was afraid I might throw something. Instead I stood up, stomped out my cigarette and pointed a finger in his face.

"Rejection is rejection, even if you want to put God in the middle of this. This isn't about what happened last night. You think what we did last night was a sin? I'll tell you the real sin, spending an entire day in this distance. To go through a day and an entire movie without so much as holding my hand, especially after what we did last night. THAT is a much bigger sin!"

.

"It's 68 degrees and cloudy in Cincinnati. Flight attendants please prepare for landing." The pilot's voice reminds me of the matter-of-fact pilot Peter Graves from the movie, Airplane. I imagine him coming on next with a line from the movie: "Have you ever seen a grown man naked?" Back to self-amusement. Another good sign. I'll get over this in a week, I think. A bad sign. That kind of resilience must mean I'm jaded; my heart of stone is made of jade. Could be a good Aerosmith lyric.

Life's a bitch and then you become one. I must be. My last words to Rory, there at curbside, were stinging wasps. "Thanks for the story," I'd said, doing my best Rizzo-to-Kanicki impression, like that's all I'd come for and had never felt anything more. It was an attempt to belittle. Thereby I effectively became little. I tried to hide my brief, last glance at Rory, but the sadness in his eyes caught me. His stoic dissonance was a sign I'd ignored. "Take The High Road," it read.

.

The pilot brakes. The sound is loud and high-pitched, like God clearing his throat. And here's me, urging him on. Go ahead, I'm listening. Speak up.

Copyright © DC Stanfa 2003