Brad Parks - Eyes of the Innocent

And maybe it was the way Sweet Thang said it-like it was one of life’s fundamental truths-but the more I thought about it, I decided she was right. Who cancels on someone when they’re four minutes late? What kind of friend is that?

It’s not really a friend. It’s a control freak of a woman who is playing games and messing with a guy’s head. And who needs that? Not me. Not anymore. No, I needed something simpler in my life.

I reclined a bit in my seat, no longer stressed about traffic or worried about Tina’s wrath. Walter’s heater was working with quiet efficiency, and I savored the warmth of the car and the smell of the leather seats. I glanced over at Sweet Thang, who was again singing along to the radio, unbothered by the nasty weather, the long day, or any of the small inconveniences of life. She was just happy. And wasn’t it pleasant to be with someone who was happy?

“So it looks like I’m free for dinner,” I said. “What about you? You hungry?”

* * *

We decided that on such an inclement night, dining in was better than going out. And since my place was closer than her place-and we were headed in that direction anyway-we chose my place. Shortly after reaching that conclusion, the parkway started moving again, as if the Traffic Gods themselves wanted us to make good time.

My house is what Realtors would call “cozy,” but only because “so small you can vacuum the entire thing without having to change plugs” doesn’t fit as well on a multiple-listing service entry. But I liked it just fine. After all, it was just me and Deadline. And Deadline didn’t like to travel too far for the litter box.

As a modern bachelor, I shop on an as-needed basis and keep nothing beyond the bare essentials in my refrigerator: beer, processed cheese, salsa, and, possibly, milk (for morning cereal). Anything else will grow a beard and be applying for credit cards by the time I get around to throwing it out.

My freezer is a different story. The freezer, I have discovered, is the key for the on-the-go single guy such as myself, because you can keep things in there for months and not have to worry about it looking like a breeding ground for penicillin. Meats. Sauces. Side dishes. Entrees. They’re all in there, all premade. And they’re all frozen while still fresh. That’s the mistake most people make with their freezers. If you toss in leftovers because you know they’re about to turn, a couple months in the deep freeze is not going to make them perk up. You have to put some love in your freezer if you expect it to love you back.

After we dashed inside, dodging raindrops all the way, I did a quick freezer raid and-rejecting options that would require some assembly-came away with sausage lasagna and half a baguette. I tossed them both in the oven, lit some candles (another modern bachelor must-have), and opened a bottle of red wine.

Sweet Thang was checking out my living room, which also doubled as my family room, sitting room, great room, and TV room. She cooed at Deadline, who was pressing himself against her leg, in something near rapture. I’ve heard of people judging new acquaintances based on how their pets respond to them-because, after all, if Fluffy likes you, you must be okay.

That wouldn’t work with Deadline. He accepts affection indiscriminate of the source. A masked, knife-wielding assailant could break into my home and hack me into a dozen pieces as I slept. But if he stopped to rub Deadline behind his left ear on the way out, Deadline would be purring so loudly you’d think someone started a lawnmower in the next room.

“Your cat is soooo cute,” Sweet Thang said. “What’s his name?”

“Deadline,” I called out as I puttered around, getting things just right.

I can’t say I was actually trying to seduce Sweet Thang or was even cognizant of how my actions might be construed. At a certain point in time, when you’ve been dating long enough, some gestures just become automatic. Like the candles. Or the iPod playlist with just the right music (my rule: no Barry White. It looks like you’re trying too hard). Or remembering to bump up the thermostat a few degrees. It becomes like a dance you know so well you can just lose yourself in the song and let your body react to the rhythm. Especially once the wine starts working.

So I wasn’t considering the ramifications when, after dinner, I invited Sweet Thang onto the couch with another glass of wine. And I wasn’t thinking when I sat within arm’s length of her and we talked about old relationships and the wisdom we gained from how they’d gone wrong. And I wasn’t paying attention as I started absentmindedly tracing the outline of her cheek with my hand as she spoke of a particularly heartrending breakup.

But the next thing I knew, we were kissing. And sometime after that, her dress became a floor decoration. More garments soon followed it there. The breathing got urgent. The blood got pumping.

And then, just when things were about to get interesting, I heard five words that drained all the blood out of me: “I’ve never done this before.”

She what?!?

I pulled away abruptly.

“What do you mean?” I said. “You don’t mean you’re a…”

I couldn’t even spit out the word-“virgin”-because it was so thoroughly inconceivable. Sweet Thang? A virgin? What about all the dirty talk about floorboards and whatnot? The ability to flirt information out of people like a hot double agent? The light brushes with the hand that made my arm hair stand straight?

For that matter, how was it possible a body like hers had gone through high school and college without some guy being clever enough to put it to the use nature intended?

But there she was, nodding at me earnestly.

“It’s not like I ever planned it this way,” she explained. “It just sort of never happened. I didn’t want to be the girl who hooked up at prom. And I didn’t want to be the girl who gave it up for some frat boy after a mixer. And I didn’t want to have some bar hookup with a guy who was going to give me a fake phone number. And, I don’t know. It’s not a big deal.”

But I knew better. No matter what she said, it was a Very Big Deal. I’m not saying Sweet Thang needed to be a blushing virgin on her wedding night. But I was just old-fashioned enough to think her first time ought to be a little more special than re-heated lasagna on a rainy Tuesday night in February.

I had no business being her first. I was attracted to her physically, but I didn’t really like her in that way, and I had finally reached a maturity level in my life where I knew the difference.

Besides, at a certain point, a guy gets too old for deflowering virgins. I just didn’t have the energy to deal with the drama of the newly plucked, the guilty phone calls to Mother, the recriminations when the relationship went sour.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you were…”

Don’t say “more experienced.” Don’t say “well traveled.” Don’t say anything.

“It just wouldn’t be right,” I finished.

I half expected her to convince me it was-she probably wouldn’t have to try that hard-but I think she realized it wasn’t right, either. So we began the awkward task of disentangling our mostly naked bodies, collecting the various pieces of clothing strewn about the room, and assigning them to the proper owner.

“I’m going to go,” she said after she was dressed, going up on her tiptoes to kiss me on the cheek. “Thanks for being a gentleman.”

She let herself out. Deadline walked over to me and brushed himself against my leg.

“Come on, cat,” I said. “It looks like there’s going to be plenty of room in the bed tonight.”

* * *

At risk of sounding like a spokesman for the Republican Party’s sex education platform, I will say this on the subject of intercourse and the morning after: for all the times I’ve regretted having sex with someone, I’ve never once regretted not having it. As I woke up the next morning, I realized the previous evening had been another example to prove the rule. Had I sullied virtuous young Sweet Thang, I’m sure I would have felt like Carter the Conqueror in the moment. But I would have inevitably felt like a scallywag by the next dawn.