The long goodbye

I don't care what anyone says. It's nice to have a regular bootie call. One you're comfortable with, one you don't abuse, and who doesn't abuse you.

Ace isn't anyone I would get serious with, and I know he feels the same. One: He's voting for Barak Obama. Ew. But we put all that aside. When we see each other in a coffee shop, we say hi. We chat. And every couple of months, when the going gets rough, one of us will send a text:

"Hey, you downtown? Wanna get a drink?"

It's usually only one drink (because whoever sent the text has usually had a few. Or 13.) before we decide who's going to give who "a ride home." It's nice like that. Sometimes, in the morning, after a lazy, next-morning screw, it's almost like having a boyfriend again.

Last time, I got up and put on my robe, realized how hung over I was, and collapsed back on the bed. He put his arm around me, and we lay on my bed, chatting about life. How shitty this year's been (come on, 2009!). How he hates his job and recently got an hour long lecture from his superiors for, basically, being an asshole. I mean, how was he supposed to know that the kid who bashed his head on the doorjamb was epileptic? Why coddle the fucker? Right?

I played with the hair swirl on his temple and laughed at his impersonation of his boss. He tried to sneak a peek in my robe, I faked modesty and clutched it closed. We even chatted about the times we had each fucked someone who was married. In fairness, he didn't know she was married.

(As an aside to married folk: Don't call the single person you humped and talk to them about how guilty you feel, and how you "have no one else you can talk to about it." Find a shrink. Better jet, find a priest. The single person you fucked probably doesn't care about your guilt, or your soul.)

Then we talked about how pointless marriage is. He told me that one of his buddies says that what a guy needs to do is find the hottest girl he can, "so if you usually fuck 7s, find a 9. Then marry her." Great tip, Ace.

So we laughed a lot, softly. There were nice, snoozy silences. It was pleasant. But the morning was wearing thin after a couple of hours. I wanted to take a shower. And there were some other rumblings. Like I said, a few beers had been imbibed. More than a few. A few dozen? I'm not sure. But one thing I am sure of, those suckers were microbrews. Organic, I think. So those grumblings? They were getting uncomfortable. Catch my drift (ahem.)?

I got up. He got up. I moved to the kitchen table. He sat down. I played with my hair, mentioned how greasy it was. We laughed. This was getting ridiculous. I was about to look at my watch, but I wasn't wearing one. Finally I just stood up and walked over to the front door. I smiled and hugged him, and opened the door.

Bye, see you later, etc.

Seriously, I wonder if he heard it when the door shut behind him, before he even stepped off the stoop. I imagine him thinking, "Was that a fart?"

Yes, it was. And it felt damn good.