Maybe

I agreed to meet with him. I had to at that point after the back and forth messaging through the app. There had to be a point to it all. Right?

I kept asking myself the same question repeatedly as I rode in that Uber. Then I wondered if the reason was that maybe we weren’t meant to meet at all, I wondered that as I realized the Uber driver was headed to the wrong location of the chain we were meeting at. All courtesy of my absentmindedness when I entered the destination. Was this my subconscious trying to save me?

“I’m grabbing a drink at the place next door, text me when you arrive,” I read his text as the Uber app showed that I was still eleven minutes away. Maybe he’d get drunk. Maybe he’d forget. Maybe it was for the best. It was just a hookup. Maybe I just needed to accept it was all just a planned hookup.

“In the red hoodie. Grey sweats,” I read his text as I pulled up to the cafe. I didn’t need him to describe his entire look, though it was considerate. I knew what he looked like sheerly from our few back and forth messaging through the app. Tall, dirty blonde, and wore glasses; not trendy glasses, but the old-school type worn by people that actually needed reading assistance.“Behind you,” I texted him. He turned a few seconds later after reading my text. He was just like his profile pictures led me to believe as I took in the rest of his character; lanky, 6’2 at least, beautiful blue eyes, rosy cheeks and rosy lips. He looked just as he advertised himself online. He looked bigger than life.

This place looks too good,” he said as he stood at the end of the line. But he wasn’t looking at the long line or the dessert case or even the menu at all; he said those words as he scouted me from head to toe. I couldn’t even blame him as I was simultaneously doing the same.

“It’s very, very, tasty,” I said, my eyes still on his face, which required me to look up. He had at least half a foot on me in height.“What?” he asked as he caught me in the act. I was about to deny it, but instead reciprocated the response, “Doing the same as you, checking you out from head to toe.” He smiled. I smiled. We smiled. And we waited in line to order.

He bought me lunch, which wasn’t saying much as I only got an Oat milk Cappuccino. I was too full with the butterflies, which I hadn’t felt in awhile. But it wasn’t an overwhelming feeling of nervousness, if anything, I was pleasantly being aroused by their presence. He gave me an unexpected comfort.“You sure go from 0-100 quickly,” I said as he looked at his salad, and I looked at him since my Cappuccino wasn’t out yet. “What do you mean,” he asked, as he continued to look at his Greek Salad, starting to play with the feta cheese with his fork.

“Yesterday you were all about meeting in your hotel first, than hanging out, and we’re here,” I said, mentioning our messages from the night before. A smile came across his face as he continued to peruse the leafy greens and chunks of cheese making up his lunch.“That was yesterday,” he said, fixated on the cheese obscuring the leafy greens on his plate. “What a Gemini response,” I thought to myself. But I wasn’t left to ponder this thought for too long as he proceeded to follow it up with, “You know what type of lettuce this is?” “What a random question,” I thought to myself. But something told me he reveled in randomness when it came to interesting facts.

“Iceberg,” I said. It was pale, green, bland-looking (not that lettuce was the embodiment of flavor) and was an underwhelming base for the other colorful ingredients adorning the Greek Salad. It had to be iceberg. “Nope, want to take another guess?” he said, toying with my intelligence. I didn’t feel like fighting a worthless fight, so I simply responded, “No.”

“It’s butter lettuce,” he finally let the cat out of the bag, not that this was a feline that was particularly mysterious or worth remembering. “What a weird choice for Greek Salad, but then there’s this cheese. I don’t think it’s Feta...” It looked like Feta cheese. I couldn’t imagine it being any other type of cheese. The cafe didn’t try hard at all to defy the rules of standard salads when it came to using butter lettuce; why would they do otherwise with the cheese.“Looks like Feta to me,” I said, taking a sip of the water next to me; the only drink for me to drown my nervousness in. He finally stabbed a piece of cheese and brought it up to his mouth, parting his chapped-looking lips and testing the waters with his first bite. “It’s feta,” he confirmed and then continued to take another bite. He seemed displeased. He had high standards. Maybe I would meet these standards. Maybe.

“Maybe,” I said as we saw another bus boy approach us with a tray full of espresso drinks; maybe my Oat Milk Cappuccino would finally arrive. He stopped in front of us, then taunted me with the tray like the two other bus boys before him had before asking “Oat milk Cappuccino?” I answered “yes” as he placed it in front of me and proceeded to remove the three-quarters empty salad plate from the man before me who had consumed it with utter contempt. Maybe his contempt was only for the salad.

We talked about all sorts of random things, more random that each forkful he took of either an olive, chunk of Feta cheese, or butter lettuce from the salad. He asked about what I do for work, which I let him guess to keep the element of surprise going. Then he asked me what I do for a living, I told him to take a guess, he guessed “Improv.” He was wrong. But maybe he was implying something. Something about my looks. Funny men weren’t known to also be graced with conventionally attractive faces. Maybe he thought just that. Maybe.

“Maybe I’ll take you home to mom and dad,” he said, seemingly jokingly. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe I wanted him to not be joking as I rubbed my foot against his under the table. “Um...want to get going?” he asked me as I took another sip of that long-awaited oat milk Capuccino. I had forgotten how long I had waited for it as I took my time sipping it. The high was taking effect, but I couldn’t tell if it was due to the caffeine or him. This man with a selective palette for Greek Salads and funny-looking men.“Sure,” I finally answered taking one last, big sip of the oat milk Cappuccino.

We made a pit stop to buy wine for him, though I told him that maybe I’d have some. Maybe. That maybe was bordering on a no, but I had to keep the possibility open, even if only for the sake of comforting him.

“Timothy Kallas,” he said as he checked us into the hotel, “Now you can stalk me on social media all you want,” Timothy said as he made his way back to me, proceeding to lead us to the elevators. Maybe I would. Maybe I would follow him on all social media platforms, along with sending him some texts every once in awhile, maybe I might call him on some random holiday. Or just randomly call him. Maybe. Maybe it’d be more than just an hook-up.

Maybe I was thinking ahead of myself as we entered the room, Timothy quickly made himself at home by taking off his shoes and shirt, and his grey sweat pants soon followed. He opened the bottle of wine and then reached for one of the complimentary coffee cups by the TV. He didn’t even bother to ask if I wanted some, it’s like our intrinsic connection allowed him to foresee my “no.” No longer a maybe. I wanted there to be no “maybe” in what was going to happen next.

It was ten minutes of foreplay. I kissed his cheek and then made my way to his lips; Timothy started by caressing my back as his hands made his way down to my boxers, which his fingers soon started to pull off. I didn’t do the same, but only because my own fingers were still too entertained exploring his wavy, dirty-blonde hair, each of its wavy locks meeting my finger tips; soft, smooth, lively like him.

Timothy proceeded to play with my butt, exploring it like I was doing to his hair; then I made my way down to his neck. It was soft, smooth, lively and thick, unlike the rest of his lanky body. It was warm, like him up to that point minus the occasional teasing. We did this for a few more minutes before I got on top of him and proceeded to kiss his lips, caressing his chest. “I like to keep those on,” Timothy said as I tried taking off his glasses. I wanted to see his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that hid behind his glasses. Those eyes that scouted me from head to toe the moment we met. They were full of intrigue, and judgement, and both. I knew something about me drew him in. I wanted Timothy to drag me further. The furthest he would allow me in.

Timothy took the lead, turning me on my back and proceeded down, down my hairless torso until he reached my belly button. He then went down. Down and took me in deep. It felt good. He felt good as his lips and tongue made me feel a pleasure not even the most caffeinated, sugary espresso drinks could produce. He did this for maybe three minutes before he stood on his knees. He wasn’t going to let me be too greedy. He didn’t realize I enjoyed being generous. I took him in. He tasted good. I enjoyed playing with it. It was thick, not too big, wet, the perfect size. Beautifully perfect. Like him. I played with the tip, then I took it all in; I knew I was succeeding in pleasuring him through every moan exiting his lips. He ended this abruptly. Then proceeded to get into the position that allowed us to simultaneously take each other in, sharing the pleasure. Maybe it was time for him to take me in entirely.

“You want to pull out lube?” I asked, suggested. A little bit of both. I looked at him as my tip was still halfway in his mouth. But he pulled out, reached for the blue bag he was carrying with him; his little blue bag of tricks which he probably used on every trick he hosted to a nice hotel. “I have to go to the bathroom...”I said, abruptly as Timothy pulled out a blue packet. He didn’t say anything; simply smirked and got off me so I could free myself briefly. I was freeing myself out of need and not choice.

I peed, and it was a delayed pee. It was bottled up along with my every insecurity. After I finally started a stream and let it run for about thirty seconds, maybe less, I walked over to the sink to wash my hands, and stopped. Looked at my nakedness. The same nakedness he had just met less than two hours into meeting me. Pale, thin but slightly flabby. My hair was disheveled and my fake glasses were off; he had no option but to look at me entirely naked. Would he be gone once I returned to that room. I wouldn’t have been able to blame him.

“All good?” Timothy asked as I walked back into the room. “All good,” I repeated his words and got back into the position he had chosen for me. He placed a pillow to compensate for the seven inches in height difference. He once again reached for the blue pack and opened it with his teeth, the same teeth whose slight crookedness I had admired all throughout our first and only lunch.

“Please go slowly,” I said. This was always my request—plead—to anyone exploring me in my entirety for the first time. He simply smirked and proved to be good at following instructions. And then it was my turn to do so. And so I did. Maybe I was better. From every position, to speed, to maintaining his momentum until he reached climax, I followed his every lead. “Stay inside me for awhile longer,” I requested, definitely pleaded this time around. Timothy did. I wasn’t ready to break so soon. I wasn’t ready to break at all.

So Timothy took the initiative and made his exit before I could finish, laying next to me and looking at me. I looked into his eyes, I had no idea why. Maybe I was hoping to find the words that weren’t coming out of his mouth. Words he wouldn’t allow to expose him. “Finish,” he said in their place. And so I did. I finished on him similarly to how he finished inside me.

We laid down after showering, respectively. Timothy showed me some Youtube video of his where he sang “Let It Go” in fifty different languages. I was impressed. “Tell me a secret,” Timothy asked me. It was random, maybe the most random part of our whole encounter. For some unexplainable reason, I answered right away. I answered truthfully. “I’ve never had a boyfriend.” He turned to look at me, and reacted with a simple eyebrow raise. And another smirk. And finally “Maybe you haven’t met the right one yet...” Maybe I had.

I offered to walk Timothy back to where he was meeting the friend he was traveling with. He tried insisting we use his GPS System; I called it nonsense in my attempts to impress him as someone who knew the city like the palm of his hand. “You never told me a secret of yours,” I backtracked to our hotel confessions as we trekked froward west. It was a cold night on the boulevard and his hesitance made it feel borderline icy.

“I don’t know, what do you want to know?” Timothy responded, answering my question with a question. How I loathed that cheap escape. “Anything, anything you wouldn’t tell someone the first time meeting him,” I pressed on. I was bound to get at least one secret out of him. I wasn’t going to let him be the one to do all the taking, because him buying me lunch was the least he could do when I traveled halfway across town to meet on his schedule. But who was I kidding. Maybe I just wanted one sentence out of his mouth to hold dear.

“I was afraid to meet you,” Timothy answered. I did not expect that answer. But suddenly, the boulevard got a little warmer and it had nothing to do with the exuberant, freshly bathed twinks and jock socialites making their grand appearance for the night. “Why?” I asked. This type of response would have usually scared me, terrified me—broken me. Maybe this time I knew the answer would accomplish the exact opposite.

“I was afraid because, I don’t know, you seem nice and cute and use complete sentences on the app. And I was afraid I was being Catfished, or that your pictures were from way before the pandemic, or that you wouldn’t show, or maybe I was just afraid...” I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come across as frantic or distressed, so instead I let us walk a few seconds, more fresh twinks and jocks and now some average, regular, human faces passing us by as well. One by one as we walked side by side. “Are you still afraid?” It was bold, stupid, maybe a self-destructive response. Maybe I wanted to self-destruct before he destroyed me with his words.

“No,” Timothy said, looking me in the eyes behind the glasses he hid behind; there was no smirk, just him; every bit of him that he tried hiding from me up until that point. I didn’t understand why he tried hiding anything. Maybe Timothy didn’t realize just how beautiful he was. “And I was afraid you’d think I’m small...” he confessed. I was confused. Small? From his 6’2 height to his sexual vigor to his vivacious outlook on life, there was nothing small about Timothy.

“Small?” I reiterated the words that had just exited his lips. I needed clarification. Timothy was uttering nonsense about his character and I wasn’t going to stand for it! “You know, down there,” he said, suddenly a new wave of blue taking over his eyes. A sadness that reminded me of a hurt child. A broken child. “Not at all, you’re perfect,” I protested, immediately regretting my response. Perfect. “Ugh!” I thought. I’d certainly never hear from him again after that blatant display of cheesiness bordering on pitiful.

“You’re a sweet guy,” Timothy said, his eyes filling up with blue wander again. I was even more bothered by his response. “Sweet guy,” being a sweet guy and being told I was a “Sweet guy” had gotten me nowhere beyond a Ramada Inn up to that point. I knew that our short-lived fairytale would end with me in bed, alone. Repeat. A repeat of every night.

“I’m not trying to be sweet, I’m being honest,” I said, unintentionally coming across as bothered bordering on mean. And yet, when I turned up to look at Timothy, those beautiful blue eyes accepted me for the millionth time that night.“I’ll catch you later,” I said as I stopped in front of the restaurant his friend was supposed to meet him at.

“It was fun,” Timothy said quickly. Too quickly. I didn’t want it to end but I knew it had to, as the saying goes…all good things come to an end. I didn’t know what to do to stop the inevitable, so I pulled out my phone and said, in complete, internalized desperation, “Let me give you my number.” Timothy pulled out his phone, quicker than I would have expected; every time before I had been in this scenario, the guy would hesitate or say something excusatory such as, “I’ll send it to you over the app,” or the oh-so-popular “Sure” only to never message me in response. Maybe he would, too. “323-562-4562,” I said and stood still, every breath coming out slowly and getting caught in my throat slightly. I looked up at him as he looked down at me one final time, those beautiful blue eyes silently saying, “See you later.” Maybe.

So I started walking away, I had to before he saw the tears. I wasn’t a crier, I hadn’t cried in years but something came over me. My body produced optical, watery droplets for the first time since my early twenties. Maybe I had too many liquids that day; too much espresso, too much caffeine, too much of his bodily fluids. Every one of these fluids betraying me as I started feeling them exit my body one after the other, down my cheeks. Down to my lips and under my shirt and down to my belly button and trickle past my pants and down to every body part below my waist. They felt warm. He felt warm. Maybe this feeling would last a little longer. Maybe I could feel him as part of me just a little longer that night. Maybe.