We've Been Talking All Night, and I'm still hungry

Around 23:30 she said something in cyber about meeting me, without planning or committing or even thinking of something specific like those things I run in my head. "Come to see me," she said. That simple.

I'm going to meet her. It's around midnight, and I'm so hungry. Her dog is barking at me right by the door.

I entered a big apartment. Lots of paintings on the walls and big colorful pillows on the floor. I lay my ass on one, spreading my legs (I had to, due to the low sitting condition). Her dog placed himself between my legs, exposing his unfriendly teeth, and for the first time in my life, I was afraid for my 'best friend down there.' I wasn't sure where to place my hands.

If I protect 'him,' will I look afraid?

If I let go and pretend to be calm, will it expose my fear?

And what if I simply stop being a smartass?

I decided to behave as if I were fearless. I even stretched my hand to caress him (the dog, the dog...what were you thinking?). He gave me a small bite in return.

"Very strange the way he responds to you," she said. "Are you having sexual energy now?"

"Honestly, I don't remember when I DIDN'T have that energy," I answered, looking at him, still standing there between my legs.

"But it is not about him, the energy," I continued, staring at him.

"When shall we kiss?" I asked quietly.

She smiled, and he moved to sit in her lap. Such a relief.

Then we started talking and talking all night long, mainly about my favorite subject: me. I know; some people are paid to deal with cases like me.

She tells me about her ex. Apparently, he was "emotionally unavailable," which is rich coming from someone who invited a stranger over at midnight to discuss feelings while her dog played bodyguard. I nod like I'm listening, but really I'm calculating the trajectory from conversation to clothes on the floor. It's a math I've never been good at.

"When shall we kiss?" I asked again. "I am so hungry..."

She laughs. Actually laughs. Like I'm doing stand-up comedy instead of slowly dying inside.

"You're funny," she says.

Funny. The word lands like a brick. I don't want to be funny. I want to be wanted. There's a difference, but explaining it would make me seem desperate, which I am, but I'd prefer to keep that under wraps.

Our conversation flows. She talks about her job, something corporate that requires her to wear blazers and pretend to care about quarterly reports. I talk about my failed attempts at adulting. She seems interested, or maybe just polite. It's hard to tell the difference when you're this hungry.

Time is passing, and I feel like getting closer to her. I get up and come by her pillow; only HE is stacked between us... I found myself talking to her and caressing her dog, and he liked it soooooo much.

The irony isn't lost on me. I came here hoping to touch her, and instead I'm giving her dog the best petting session of his life. He's practically purring. If dogs could purr. Can they? I should know this.

"He really likes you now," she says, smiling.

Great. I've seduced the dog. That'll look fantastic on my resume.

Time passed quickly. Around 2 AM, we were talking about theater and other cultural stuff, and I wanted to talk some dirty stuff.

She mentions a play she saw last month. Something experimental with minimal dialogue and maximum pretension. I pretend I've heard of it. I haven't. The last play I saw was in high school, and I only went because Sarah Mitchell was in it, and I thought maybe, just maybe...

But that's a different story of hunger.

The thing about hunger is that it makes you stupid. Makes you agree to things like "Yes, I'd love to hear about the symbolism of empty chairs" when what you really want to say is "Can we please stop performing civilization and just be animals for five minutes?"

But I don't say that. Because I'm polite. Because I'm well-trained. Because somewhere along the way, I learned that desire is something you're supposed to wrap in conversation and cultural references and wait for the other person to unwrap it slowly, carefully, like it's a gift and not a basic human need.

Her dog has fallen asleep between us now. His little chest rising and falling. Even he's bored.

We're talking, talking, talking, and my mind is wandering about F****ing. Every word leads to another; 50 more words and I feel like I'm losing it.

She's describing the lighting design now. Actual lighting design. And I'm nodding, making the right sounds at the right moments, while internally I'm screaming. This is torture dressed up as intimacy. This is what people do when they don't want to be alone but also don't want to be together.

I watch her hands move as she talks. Delicate fingers. I wonder what they'd feel like. I've been wondering for three hours now.

Three hours of my life I'll never get back. Three hours that could've been spent doing literally anything else: sleeping, working, staring at a wall, reorganizing my sock drawer. But no. I chose this. I chose to come here with hope in my pocket like loose change, thinking maybe tonight would be different.

It wasn't.

So I dared to ask:

"Are you going to kiss me or what?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke. For a second, I think maybe…

She said she wasn't feeling any passion tonight, blah blah, that she just broke up with her man, blah blah, that she had a great time with me and it's, blah blah, time to go to sleep, it's morning already, blah blah…

So I hugged her gently by the door, blah blah, then left her house to sidle into the darkness of my unsexy blah life, and I was still hungry as a dog.