How Are You Doing Sexy Thing?

I recently went on a short trip to a casino resort with some of the womenfolk in my family. I love those little excursions; they’re highly concentrated estrogen-fests that completely recharge me from head to toe. I get a two-night break from my regularly scheduled daily life, and it’s just enough time to begin missing my husband and kids and all of the messes that I know await me when I return home.

My husband and I have been married for over a third of our lives. With that comes a mundane familiarity I’m sure many of you know very well. We finish each others’ sentences. We know what the other person is thinking without having to ask. I’ll sit down to pee while he brushes his teeth before bed, and then he’ll pee while I’m applying my night cream in our tiny bathroom because that’s our nightly routine. We’re practically an old married couple. Predictable. Comfortable.

I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.

So it surprised me when I was faced with the briefest of What Ifs. One fleeting, exhilarating moment of time offered me a glimpse of a Something Else that could have been, somewhere in another life.

As I was walking toward a kiosk to cash out some vouchers, a man was coming toward me.  Millions of people were walking past millions of other people at that exact same moment on Earth, but when he walked past me, we both looked up and our eyes met.

And his lit up.

And then, as his eyes flashed he treated me to one of those wide and genuine smiles that we usually reserve only for people we know.

I couldn’t help myself. I smiled back like he was an old friend I hadn’t seen in years.

When he asked, “How are YOU doing?” my reply was nothing short of totally fucking lame.

“I’m doing good! How are you?”

And that was all we said to each other. He continued to walk in his direction, I continued to walk in mine, and our paths never crossed again. I was too chickenshit to turn around. I’ll never know if he did.

I’m sure he hasn’t thought of me again since that moment, but it was the way he looked at me that struck a very raw nerve. If I had been single, how differently might our conversation have gone? For those few seconds of interaction, I could feel myself being inexplicably drawn to this man who stood in front of me with his casual tee shirt, faded jeans and adorably messy hair, just as he appeared to be equally drawn to me – standing there with my fitted rock band tee shirt, faded jeans and messy, albeit brightly colored, hair.

If I had been single, I would have turned around. I’d probably stammer or blurt out something completely idiotic, but since he’s the type of guy I usually fall for, he’d find my incompetence charming. When he asked me, “Do you come here often?” I’d reply, “I’ve never come here before, but there’s a first time for everything,” as I would desperately try to wink and make sexy bedroom eyes at him. He would eagerly accept that as a challenge. He’d take my hand and we would go upstairs to fuck our brains out, spending hours playing together in every sexual position known to humankind (and some new ones we invented!) until the management came a-pounding at the door, angrily demanding that we leave the city because we were disturbing everyone within a five mile radius.

What a story we’d have to tell our grandchildren one day.

I wanted to turn around because I remember what that feeling was like. That heady and unexpected rush of heated, instantaneous mutual attraction shared with a stranger on a busy street or across a crowded room. Nothing can ever prepare you for it because it arrives so swiftly that it knocks the air right out of your lungs, but my gods… does it ever feel amazing. It’s like a multiple orgasm for the soul.

At my age, that kind of thing doesn’t happen a lot anymore. Or ever, if I’m being honest here. I’m a long-since-retired babe living in Ma’am Land. The one who taxis the kids to sports and marching band practices. The one who shops at Walmart to get the best deals, spends more time than she cares to admit on activities like scraping Laffy Taffy off of the couch cushions and herding reluctant and oft-grumpy children into their homework or bedtime routines. Every. Single. Damn. Day.

She’s the one who never really gets looked at by other men anymore. Or at least, if she does, she doesn’t know it. She’d like to think that it happens sometimes but she never has any proof…

…until rare moments like this one.

Thank you, Guy With The Adorably Messy Brown Hair And Blue Eyes And Beautiful Boyish Smile. I’m sure that you’re younger than I am (and hopefully, the crow’s feet that danced around my eyes when I smiled back at you didn’t give away how much), but you have no idea how wonderful you made me feel.

And for what it’s worth now, I hope you’re doing well, too.

This author is a shy lady we will call:  The Queen Of Hearts