Commitaphobe's comeuppance

SHE CONVINCED HIM IT WAS OK TO SLEEP AROUND. THEN HE BETRAYED HER -- HE DID.

Claudia was in the shower when she first noticed it. A hard, little round object, right underneath the skin, not on the pink hairless part but to the left, nearer her thigh. She wouldn't have even felt it if she'd been at her apartment, taking a shower after her five-mile run. But Craig didn't have a washcloth, probably didn't even own one, so there she was, soaping up her body with her hands, rooting around in her nether regions in a post-exercise daze.

She squeezed the bump a bit. Nothing, except maybe that it got a little harder. She sighed with relief -- it was an ingrown hair. Claudia was 10 times more afraid of herpes than the Big A, which was so beyond her realm of experience that she only thought about it when she wrote her check to the AIDS Danceathon. No one she knew had AIDS, but at least half her friends had the dreaded sores.

But maybe it was time to talk about monogamy with Craig. They had this understanding that each was free to do what he or she wanted -- the only rule was to proceed with a modicum of discretion. This was Claudia's idea, Claudia the Commitaphobe, as her friends called her, and it suited her just fine. She dated other guys, and while she didn't sleep with them, the option was there.

Initially, Craig had balked at this arrangement. "Do I not do something for you?" he'd asked sadly. Claudia squirmed. Was he really going to turn out to be a Snag, a Sensitive New Age Guy, when he'd seemed so cool about everything else? But he listened to her with a perplexed wrinkle in his forehead, then shrugged his shoulders in vague acceptance. Now, after six months, he hardly brought it up anymore. No wonder. He was so besotted with her that it was difficult to imagine him even fantasizing about someone else. She sighed, wishing she felt more devoted to him.

"Hey," Craig said as she entered the kitchen in a towel. He was reading the paper and looked her up and down appreciatively. They'd met six months ago while running on the Marina Green, and Claudia immediately liked his long legs, his sense of humor, even his tatty running clothes that said he didn't give a shit about being decked out in the latest Nike microfiber apparel. He was a house painter, but he seemed to relish her stories of the courtroom -- pressing her for details about the evil deals she cut as a corporate attorney. And she loved being in his creaky apartment in the Mission, so different from the Pottery Barn aesthetic that all her friends had. Craig had chipped plates, mismatched silver from garage sales, candles everywhere.

"I felt this thing in the shower," she said to him, "near my vulva." Drops of water from her hair pattered on the scarred linoleum floor. He looked up at her, concerned, but saw her amused expression, and relaxed.

She sat down at the table and plucked a few grapes out of the fruit bowl. "Ingrown hair," she said, enjoying the sight of Craig's ears reddening slightly. "But it got me thinking."

N E X T+P A G E +| Anything to tell me?