When my pal Camille heard I was having trouble sleeping she suggested, rather than sheep and dead presidents, I count the men I’ve dated.
“It’s very relaxing,” she said, “better than Ambien even,” so I decided to give it a whirl.
I found myself popping a file on each one so when I came to Jack, I’ll call him, I remembered how hot he was and not in bed either. Actually, he was a wham bam thank you ma’am kinda fella with his own built-in thermostat.
This guy was never cold.
It could be the middle of February with tempts below zero (sound familiar?) and he’d have on an unlined, leather jacket not even zipped over a T-shirt and cotton chinos with skin sizzling like a Bunsen burner.
He’d sleep naked with the windows wide open while I, trying my best to cuddle, shivered in my camel-hair coat. I finally had to break up with him…he was bad for my health.
The next morning when I told Camille about him she shook her big red head, “Why would you stay with someone like that Susannah, even for a week?”
“I’m not that shallow Camille. He was okay company, and I was trying to hang in there even though my teeth were chattering.”
“I’m referring to him being bad in bed. If he was hot all around I could understand. But you said he was quick, like a Toyota commercial.”
“Did I say that?”
“You did, and aptly put, if that was the case.”
“I’ve always tried to rise above sex. It’s not everything you know.”
“Of course it is. Who are you kidding?”
Another argument I’ll never win.
I like to think of Jack as a polar bear I went out with. Loving them as I do, it made it easier to go on to number 19, Manny the chef who brought me bouquets of dill and rosemary instead of flowers.
I never did make it to number 20, Veylor the bass player…he was Swedish, with a beat.