Chamade

I was tired of waiting for my chamade; in French it is the beating of the heart when it surrenders to love; mon coeur bat à la chamade. The same word in English is the drum beaten when militant enemies have formed a truce; when they have decided that the effort isn’t worth it anymore.

Accordingly, I gave up, substituted ma chamade for my chamade, right in front of you. We were both smiling at the time, though for different reasons—you horny, me ironical. I never thought I would reach that final point, but I did, and effectively resigned my hopes to a little storage compartment in a shoebox full of past achievements. It was tiny, this hope, a hope for something just a little bit unique, something just a little bit exciting. But it refused to manifest, no matter where I looked or how I redefined my standards, lower, lower, and lower. I thought of all of this while you ate me with your eyes, then asked me out to dinner. In retrospect I guess I said yes. I think I even shaved.

At dinner you talked about sex. Just like all my other dates. You strongly believed that talking about it would make me want it. The equation you offered was simple; you would talk about sex, I would think of sex, you would want to have sex, and I was then supposed to drop my pants. You demanded to know where my most exciting sexual encounter was. You asked me how I like it and where I like it. All of this before the bread; tisk tisk. On an empty stomach I was supposed to start lying to you. So I did.

Between the appetizer and the main you talked about an immature ex of yours who only wanted to cuddle but never wanted to have sex, so you ended it. This, I understood, was supposed to make me think if I wanted to keep such a lovely generic boring run-of-the-mill, two-a-penny, lackluster Tommy Hilfigered Calvin Kleined man, that I must put out right away. Otherwise, I could kiss you goodbye. But who were you again? I’m sorry; I’ve heard the “I dumped my boyfriend / girlfriend because he / she didn’t want to have sex” speech from so many people. Please understand; it really wasn’t you; no, you were nothing unique. What was your name again?

You work out at Leopard? Really? Wow. You have such a hot body. How many reps? Wow. I tried to make a joke about a gross, as in, a dozen dozen, as in 144 reps, as in funny, as in joke, as in you didn’t get it. I asked you (at least, I think it was you; it could have been anyone) about how much attention you attract on the bench or in the locker rooms or swimming pool. I asked if you got free things from the juice makers at the juice bar. I did that for your benefit so you could talk about your body and how much you are desired. I’m charitable like that; if not wanted by me, at least wanted by someone. I didn’t ask about Leopard for my health; I have no intention of working-out, flirting-out, fucking-out, or sweating-out there.

While filled with indignation, I looked at you. And I started to pity you. You looked so eager, you tried so hard, you wanted me all through dinner and even held my hand across the table. I felt guilty about being so hard on you; I vaguely entertained the notion that you were actually interested in me as a person, then giggled to myself. All you did was talk about yourself the whole evening. Well, that’s not true; you also talked quite a bit about your exs. Amused at how purely boystown you were, I smiled; you thought I was coy and cute. I let you.

The bill came, which you immediately pulled away; I feigned interest in paying, you insisted, so I went to the bathroom to check my voice mail and my teeth. I looked at myself, tired, resigned, bored; didn’t preen, didn’t modify my hair or eyebrows, then went back to meet you and had you drive me to your place, my place, didn’t really matter place.

You were lousy. All two minutes of you, at least—another addition to my book of all talkers and no showers. Fortunately, when we collapsed, you collapsed with your head away from me. You were exhausted, glistening, sticky—I have no idea why. I lay there, thought about what could have been, thought about what might have been, thought about how to get rid of you. I realized that this was what “the life” is all about. I sighed. You moved; “Was it really that big,” you asked, and I said “Yes.” Splitting hairs on accuracy wasn’t important. You limboed into sleep and awake; I returned to my memories of really excellent sex from long ago, the kind that left me limp and wobbly and tingly, the 12 hour marathons, the kind of sex that made sheer exhaustion feel like a shot of espresso. But that was done with those who I needed, demanded, pursued; those were the sexual equivalents of Russian sables, palomino minks, and artic marble foxes; luxurious, addictive, costly, and evide ntly extremely rare. I purred in my reverie; you purred back, forcing me into the reality of your rabbit fur squirrel skin. To economize, I asked you if you wanted to go again, since you were there. You said you couldn’t. Pity.

Walking back to your car, you turned to me and said, “I love you.” I didn’t stop to wonder why.