Date 3- In Heat

My friend and I went to London for work recently, and extended the trip to include a fabulous getaway to the Cotswolds. We frolicked through meadows, chatted with sheep, and drank with locals (including a very frisky fellow who climbed up my tall body to get a kiss and may or may not have been missing teeth). I noticed as we wandered through the country towns, and later the streets of London, that an old familiar tingle was back. For the first time in months- nay, years- I noticed how many attractive men are in the world. I noticed their big hands, their finely tailored suits, their muscled buttocks. Although my head was not quite back in the game, my body was starting to send up alarm bells that she was in fact alive and ready to get up to no good. While swiping idly, I come across a very muscled and handsome firefighter in his 40s. He is big, tattooed, half Jewish and says he reads Bukowski. I see his broad tattooed shoulders and imagine being thrown over one of them and carried off to a British King sized bed. The rest of the world is swiping entirely based on physicality and sex appeal- IMA GIVE THIS A TRY. So I swipe right and promptly receive a very polite text. We exchange friendly messages over the next week- he wants to have a phone interview before we actually meet to be sure we have similar interests (BIG HANDS. MUSCLED ARMS. NO CONVERSATION REQUIRED.) Somehow I manage to avoid the interview and skip directly to the date round. We agree to meet for drinks at a wine bar in Park Slope, and I decide that although I'm feeling battered from the shitty date the night before, I'm going to throw on an off the shoulder top and tight jeans and give it my best. I feel slightly liberated by not caring if this has a future because I can think one thing only- PUT YOUR BIG MAN HANDS ON MY BODY AND MAKE ME FEEL LIKE A WOMAN. I circle the block before arriving at the wine bar per usual, and he walks up to me as I arrive. I find out he saw me cruising in nervousness, but my anxiety evaporates when I see how obviously jittery he is. He is smiling broadly and looks dazzled; its a balm to my wounded ego, and tonight I will try and believe the reflection I see in his eyes. He has a rough Brooklyn accent and is as handsomely rugged as he looks in his photos; he tells me he can't believe I actually look like mine (THANKS GODS). We work through margaritas and I start to remember that dating can actually be fun. We are not a match by any stretch of the imagination and we both know it- we live in two different worlds, and speak so differently. He is the conservative black sheep of a decidely intellectual family, and it doesn't take long to see it bothers him. He is divorced with three kids, and loves watching old musicals with his 8 year old daughter. I hoped for a wee bit of opportunistic sleaze but he doesn't have it. He's just a nice man, and needs someone with their feet on the ground. He tells me he is lonely and wants someone to do things with. After what seems like 9 drinks, he looks at me and says "What do you want with a guy like me?", and I realize both of us have probably miscast and undersold this fellow. He walks me home and holds my hand to his chest since the wind has picked up and my teeth are chattering. He kisses me sweetly in front of my door. We never speak again, and although this initially surprises me, I guess it was inevitable. The only thing people like us have in common is sex, and I don't think that is what he is hoping to find right now. And maybe its not really what would make me happy either.