Jewell’s Love Story Vol. 3

Fast forward with me, if you will, a decade and a half. In a previous post, I told you I have only been in love twice. Two. Two times. And my second time was fourteen years after the first. I’ve spoken of my second love previously: PawPaw. We met in Chicago and so romantically…on a dating app. The beginning memories of chatting before we met is nonexistent. It’s almost as if we met directly at the location of our first date. Our entire relationship, until the last few weeks, seemed as though we knew each other forever. We chatted and set up a date. He was forty-five minutes from me, so we decided to go to a location between the two of us.

Prior to meeting PawPaw, I met another fluffy, fluffy haired gentleman who turned into a good friend. We, Fluffy Squared and I, met for the first time, had coffee, and took a drive. He showed me a Piano Bar in his town that I wanted to go to before I left Chicago.

I had the luck to go when I met PawPaw because, fortunately for me, that beautiful little town was a halfway point for us. At this time, I was still married, and what I thought was, happily. I would soon fine out not so much. My husband knew I was meeting PawPaw. Because I was alone and in a new city, I was on several apps to meet people and going out that evening was no different. In fact, as I was on my way to the Piano Bar, I was talking to my husband. I didn’t remember PawPaw’s name and I wasn’t feeling like going out. But I did.

“Where are you?” I asked him.

“The garage.”

I couldn’t find a parking garage, so I drove the little town’s streets until I found an empty street spot. And to my surprise there was a glowing sign that said ‘Garage’. It was a bar. I walked in. And realized he wasn’t there. I walked out and saw a long haired, tall, bearded man. And he was looking right at me. Butterflies. 🦋🦋 There were so many butterflies. 🦋🦋 We were in a small town filled to the brim with people, an outdoor concert was going on and it was loud. He could kidnap me. He could murder me. No one would know. I’m in a city with no one I know. Yet, I still approached him. Then we met and it was very casual. No sparks. No falling madly in love at first sight. Or so I thought. We chatted for a moment outside.

“So…court?” Yes, in our texts he had told me he’d had to go to court that day. I know, I’m a glutton for punishment. To my complete luck he had just finalized his divorce. July 27. It would be a dark day going forward. We moved into the Piano Bar. Drinks were had. Conversation flowed. The conversation never stopped. No lulls. We drank.

The longer we sat the louder it got. Piano Bar, drunk old people, it doesn’t mix. We were leaning across the table, speaking loudly, and still unable to hear each other well. He moved over to the bench seat next to me. His leg touched mine. Electricity jumped through my body, my leg jumped, and the table wobbled nearly knocking my rum and pineapple. He was so close. I could feel his body heat. That stirring in my pit of my stomach started. ‘It’s only the alcohol,’ I thought and took another drink, my heart beating too fast. 🦋🦋

It’s just my heart condition, I lied to myself. It’s a lie because my 2015 gastric bypass surgery helped heal my heart and I no longer had tachycardia. It was a lie too because I was enjoying his company and him and the warmth of the the alcohol (desire) on my cheeks.

Finally, we decided to leave. It was clear by our hesitance neither of us wanted to end the evening. So he invited me to his house to drink, to soak in his hot tub. It would be one of the best and worst decisions of my life. I drove him to his truck and headed to his house, but not before he stopped and asked if I would be okay on the highway with my convertible top down. His concern was endearing and “the alcohol” made my stomach flutter again. 🦋🦋

We drove for a while. Down the highway. Down some back roads. It was only then that it hit me that there was a chance I could be walking right into the slaughter. I didn’t care. We pulled into a quiet, suburban neighborhood and in front of a two story house. The outside of the house was nothing of concern, but the inside was gutted. I seriously thought I would be too. He explained he was remodeling. Still I didn’t leave.

He prepared the hot tub and drinks and I stood paralyzed with insecurities and fear. He put on a pair of swim trunks and I shyly discarded my black pants and pink top. Clad in a black undershirt and black panties that gave the appearance of a swim suit. I joined him in the hot tub. We soaked and talked for house.

The sun had set long ago and it was well past when I would have been back to my place. I don’t remember the excuse I gave my husband, if I told him I went home or I went to PawPaw’s, I can’t remember now. But we were drinking and my drunk self couldn’t care less about the repercussions of sober me.

As we talked I could feel, every so often, his foot bump mine. At first, I played it off as an accident. After several times, I knew it was deliberate. The alcohol infused brain that was running my body didn’t care. At one point he moved next to me from his original position across from me. And our body heat, in such close proximity, was hotter than the jacuzzi. Then he was kissing me. And I was kissing him back. There was a thrill in my body that hadn’t been there in…ever…I don’t believe I ever felt the way I was when his hands were on me and his lips were on me.

Our clothes were off and we were doing things together that I’d done with no one, but my husband (and one other) for the last ten years. He surprises me by spreading my legs, taking a breath, and torturing me with his tongue from under the water. I surprised him by swallowing every inch of his quite sizeable self. I pulled away and glanced up at his chest rising and falling rapidly and his eyes boring into mine. “Let’s go to the bedroom.” I complied. And we were with each other again and again until the sun was just below the horizon.

He slept beside me and I stared struck at the wall, at the ceiling, anywhere, but at him. What had I just done? The alcohol had worn off and the events of the evening were sinking in. What did I do? I need to get out of here. I slowly got out of his bed and removed my now dry clothes from his dryer. We had at some point decided it was a good idea to dry them. I clothed myself and started up the stairs to his front door. Before I could ascend, I heard “You’re leaving?” coming from his bedroom. I nodded and we parted ways. His words though stirred that feeling in my stomach I could no longer blame on alcohol. 🦋🦋


Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

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