My four-legged daughter and I were playing tug-of-war in the backyard on a Friday night when I felt my ass vibrate. It was a text message from my buddy Jesus. “Wanted to get your freaky perverted perspective. Share a beer across time zones?”
Jesus and I met a few months back during his book tour for a novel in which sex takes center stage. That evening, on the patio of an East Atlanta coffee shop, he asked the audience questions on the topic. As dusk turned to night, the crowd’s shyness eased, and more hands were raised. I knew instantly Jesus and I would become friends.
I walked onto my backyard deck, lit a cigarette, and gave Jesus a ring. He was doing research for a new book and wanted to know my definition of the word “pervert.” (For the record: everyone, because there is no such thing.) The conversation rolled on when he asked me if I was seeing anyone.
“No,” I said. “Men I like don’t ask me out.”
“You intimidate them,” he said.
Guy friends always have a way of making the idea of intimidation sound sexy, as if I walked around in latex gear and a whip.
“Maybe it’s the leather jacket,” I said, laughing.
I told him about this one guy I hung out with briefly months before who bailed on our date last minute, via text no less.
“Ouch!” Jesus replied, sucking air through his teeth in a dramatic fashion.
“It’s cool,” I shrugged, my ego having time (and whisky) enough to heal. “We weren’t really compatible, anyway.” Because, as I told Jesus, I’d made him uncomfortable, as I do a lot of guys. Because I like to talk about sex.