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We first met at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting and I was drawn to her quite innocently. She looked so young, so wounded; her story made me think guiltily of my own teenage daughter and the rough treatment she had received at the hands of my addiction. I began seeking her out; a bad father, commiserating with the daughter of another bad father. I believed we might heal one another. Just being in her presence seemed to crank life up a notch.

Then one day, around six weeks after we met, things changed. After a Saturday morning meeting I found myself at a restaurant table with Chloe and five or six other people. A few of the women were discussing their work, different clubs in different cities, where the most money could be made, Chloe occasionally chiming in. My mind, like the ketchup in the bottle I held, moved reluctantly, but eventually it hit the potatoes. Chloe and two of the other women at the table were exotic dancers, but that wasn't all. Not only was Chloe a stripper, she had worked in several cities over the course of six or seven years. I looked at her across the table and realized, then actually saw, that she was not 17 but in her late 20s.

At the time I had been attempting to adjust to a life without romance. I was right out of rehab and years of abuse, and living like a weasel had reduced my already fragile self-esteem. I had pretty much given up on the possibility of having sex with human females in this lifetime. If I were to experience physical love again, I thought, it would be as a spectator.

And yet, the company of a beautiful, intelligent, witty young woman stirred some faint echo of hope in me. Hadn't I written myself off prematurely in the past? I found myself more drawn to Chloe than ever and the attraction was distinctly less parental. In all honesty, I can say that I never actually expected anything to happen. It was more of a fantasy; something to keep me going.

I continued to ask about her life, filing data, showing concern, laughing at her jokes. I was flirting, but secretly, the way a priest might test the water with the new altar boy before making his move. I began calling Chloe evenings, attempting to be positive and friendly while mute with desire. On one of those calls, seemingly out of nowhere, she said, "Would you like to come over and spend the night?" What could I do?

As it turned out I couldn't do anything. I was living in a halfway house and it was past curfew. They locked the doors at 10. I told her that I had the next day off (this was technically true, as I was still collecting welfare), and asked if I could come over in the morning. To my utter delight she said, "OK, around 10. I'll let you buy me breakfast. Good night."

Buy her breakfast? I wanted to build her a house. Thank you, God! I savored the moment for more than a moment before noticing that my roommate was looking my way. He couldn't help overhearing my end of the conversation as he pretended to read his Alcoholics Anonymous "Big Book." His face said it all. He looked down on me with the pity of the saved, the tight mouth suggesting that I had just arranged to meet the Hells Angels for a road trip to Las Vegas, from which I would never return. Too late. I was back in the game!

I bought Chloe breakfast. Then we crossed the street to her apartment. She excused herself for a minute, returning to sit on my lap at the kitchen table in non-exotic panties and a T-shirt. She allowed me to kiss her, hold her, touch her. Did she actually say, "Here I am, what are you going to do about it?" or was that just her smile talking? We moved down the hall to her bedroom and had some silent, uninformed sex.

I took my time. I went over her body like a concerned dermatologist, no freckle too small for my attention. I was gentle and tender and sweet. I wore a condom. In the missionary position, I raised her arms over her head and saw an intricate tattoo of a cross on the pale underside of her arm. It was placed in such a way as to be seen only in this submissive posture. It had been applied upside down for my viewing convenience. If I could return to that moment I would speak. I would say: "Tell me what you like," or perhaps "I'm too preoccupied with my performance to decipher any clues to your preferences. Can you help me?"

Oh, I needn't have worried, I performed adequately for a man whose genitals hadn't been wet anywhere but the shower in the last four years. We made love, as I then understood the concept, for what seemed a long while. In a way it was like visiting a library, taking down a beautifully bound book and caressing the intricately embossed leather cover without ever reading a word. I loved her. I didn't know her at all, but I loved her.

My gratitude alone was sufficient for a monogamous commitment, but it was not to be. Our intimate encounter was never repeated, never discussed. Chloe made it clear that the only openings she had for me to fill were that of friend, and one year later, roommate.

I was disappointed that Chloe and I were not going to be lovers, but I would survive. The fact that she had chosen to spend one afternoon in bed with me was enough. Because when I put my head between her legs I wanted to stay. I was face to face with soft, moist, pink perfection. At 15, close inspection of a Play-Doh pussy had robbed me of all hope. At 40, the absolute beauty of Chloe's vagina blasted me out of self-pity and into the world. And the opportunity to sniff, to lick, to kiss that fragrant blossom made me want to live.
salon.com | Oct. 23, 1999

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