For a young man
who never made
women swoon,
never caused
the blush of blood
in a woman’s breast,
her stories were,
at first, titillating.
In her many
business travels
she would arrange
to meet men
in foreign cities,
and with only
the slightest wisps
of personal data,
she would
offer herself
in anonymous hotel rooms
as a submissive,
to be tied up,
beaten,
swatted and flagellated,
her ample plump frame,
objectified
for a crumb of attention.
Distance demanded
that nothing would ever come
from our email friendship,
so I just listened
without judgement,
trying to understand.
She had an estranged father,
a mother dying from cancer,
and it wasn’t my place
to do anything but
be a friend.
So I just listened
as the phone calls mounted,
laughing and mirroring
each other,
each call affirming
each other.
Months later,
one spring afternoon,
she cc’d me on
a mass mailing
that she sent
to the dozens of partners
she’d met along
her loneliness,
and she told them
she decided
she wasn’t
doing that anymore.
She decided
she didn’t want
that
anymore.
In a separate note,
she credited me
with giving her the strength
to move into
the next phase of her life,
where she eventually
fell in love,
got married
and had a son.
So,
to all you women
who weren’t
attracted to me
and I either had to learn
to be “just friends”
with you
or lose your friendship,
thank you.
