January 12, 2007 (early morning) – Somewhere along the line, William and I decide we’re going to sleep together. Where is my wife and family in these thoughts? I don’t know.
We walk out of the bar and start down the street, I assume we’re going to his place. No, he tells me, let’s get a hotel. What? It will be sexier that way. The truth I learn later, he was scared I might be a stalker or weirdo.
A business hotel is near DuPont Circle and we stumble into the lobby. The night clerk eyes us with caution. Am I really doing this? I mumble some excuse about working late in the city. It makes me happy to think this is all legit. The clerks tells me its $179 a night. I toss my credit card over. Eyes to the floor.
William, on the other hand, tries to negotiate a better rate. "Do you have a government discount?" Can this really be happening? Two drunk guys, 1 white, 1 black, hotel near DuPont Circle, 1 a.m. in the morning, no luggage – isn’t this obvious? I love him later for that sort of in your face attitude.
How many keys do you need? One will be fine. I race for the elevator.
The details for the remainder of the night are unimportant. Suffice to say, despite our mutual intoxication, there was a warmth, an understanding and a level of passion that I’d never felt before.
The next morning, it’s early 7 a.m., I have to get home, I have a trip later that day. William sits on the edge of the bed, penny loafers, blue blazer – Brooks Brothers written all over himself. We exchange telephone numbers, we go to my car, I drive him home. We kiss good bye.
Driving away, it was a strange feeling. For the first time, I’d made an emotional connection with someone of like mind. He was 40. He wasn’t a spring chicken (though clearly attractive and in good physical shape). I wanted to see him again (and I will).
And that’s how I celebrated my first day of therapy.