You'll perhaps be interested to know that I got an eleventh-hour reprieve from spending Valentine's Day loveless and alone.  Or at least alone.

I was looking forward to just totally singling out, actually.  Just me and Susan Sontag's Regarding the Pain of Others.  Honestly, I'd rather have brain sex with Susan Sontag than sex sex with most guys I end up hooking up with.

But before Susan and I could get into it, I got an urgent text from a young otter, O—, I'd hooked up with two years ago almost to the day (consulting my notes — and yes, I take copious notes — I see that our first liaison took place on the 17th of February, 2008).

Let's crank up the way-back machine, shall we?  Here's the extent of our chat before the deal was sealed:

On Sun 17 Feb 2008 09:48 AM, O— wrote: hey...how's it going? do I qualify as roughly your age? 

somemikeithot: well, give or take a, um, decade. I do like your anonymous creepy headless pictures, though.

O—: thanks. should i take that to mean you don't like the ones with head attached?! A decade is not that bad. Plus, I'm an old soul. Sometimes I think I was probably born wearing a tie and carrying a briefcase.

somemikeithot: That must have been incredibly painful for your mother.  An old soul, hm? How old are we talking? Sit in the park feeding the pigeons old? Mistaking the accelerator pedal for the brake old? Gimme a range here .

O—: Do you get into assisted living roleplay? I've got an oxygen tank and a walker we could use. HOTT. Ok, let me backtrack. I'm not _that_ old. But I'm also not a kid. That said, I am not a very good driver, so I might actually confuse the pedals. Can we please talk about something a little more flattering to me?! ;)

somemikeithot: you've got a cute bum

O—: that's better. I think you should become better acquainted with my bum, as a matter of fact. I'm O—, by the way.

somemikeithot: And a cute name. That's really adorable. Can you guess mine?

O—: How could I possibly guess your name?!

somemikeithot: It's Mike.

O—: UH...I am—how can I put this—a total retard. Ok, Mike. Got it. So what are your plans for the day...?

somemikeithot: That's cool. I have this weird total retard fetish. This could be really good. I am about to go to brunch, and then I intend to open my heart chakra and let the day unfold as it will. You?

O—: great. i'm nothing if not retarded. I was planning to meet up with you today and have stimulating conversation and mind-blowing sex. Also, I'm going to brunch and making bread.

somemikeithot: That's hot. I mean, the making bread part. You can call me later in the afternoon if you want. Preferably when your buns are nice, fresh and hot from the oven. 617-XXX-XXXX.

And that, my bitches, is how it's done.

Of course he called. — We're still in the way-back machine here, people.  It's 2008, remember. — He was cute, and nice in a quirky Cambridge way. We had the stimulating conversation.  The mind-blowing sex?  Um, not so much.  It turned into a sort of just hanging out naked and talking kind of thing. Which is cool, too. 

It's really nobody's fault when the sex falls short of mind-blowing, or even falls short of, er, sex. It sort of depends on the nature of your rapport.  Sometimes you clique, other times, it's... complicated.  And that's really one thing sex should never be.  It shouldn't be "interesting" at all.  Because, well, frankly it's really not.  It's a lot of very wonderful things.  But complicated?  Interesting?  Please, no.

I think the issue was: he thought I was going to dress him in women's knickers, tie him up, and call him a naughty, naughty boy, or something.  Although I never mention S&M in my profile, and don't own a scrap of leather, a cock ring, or a dildo, a lot of guys who ping me seem to get the impression I'm going to tie them up, hang them from the rafters, and eat their face for breakfast with fava beans.  And when I don't there's always some kind of drama. 

When I didn't abuse O—, he basically curled up into the fetal position.  Which, I think that's what you're supposed to do when there's a bear in the room. Which I am obviously not...


Just sayin.

Still, I've had worse hook-ups.  You have to understand, this was my Davis Square period.  A lot of quirky, cute but kinda sexless guys in goofy glasses.  O— fit right in.  And I wasn't averse to meeting again.  The kid was like a human quaalude.  If nothing else I'd get a good power nap out of him. 

Hey, it's not nothin'.

Well, apparently the next day his dad had a heart attack.  I mean, that's what he told me.  Like I haven't heard that one before.  Oh, and I bet your mom was in a car crash?  She's paralyzed, right?  Your dog is on life support?  Your hamster was just diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. 

Trust me, I've heard 'em all.

Two years passed.

And then suddenly, on Valentine's Day.  How romantic!  It's almost like our anniversary!

I was like, "how's your dad?"

He's better.

The sex?  Mmm, not so much. 

No, actually, it wasn't bad.  It had that vague, lazy sort of meandering flow to it.  But then ended rather abruptly, as it does. I did slap him around a little this time to keep him from going comatose on me.  Breathe, dammit, breathe!  There were a couple of close calls, but we both made it through alive, for the most part. 

The thing of it is, he contacts me out of the blue, after two years, with this urgent desire...

I guess I have to face the possibility that maybe this is what some people mean by sex. I mean, it does meet certain criteria.  Naked? Check. Hard-ons? Check. It was messy — in a good way — in the end.  I mean, it was... sex, I can't deny it.

You know: it's complicated.  Let's just leave it at that.