White Meat

A man, Sharon, comes over. He’s wearing a kippa, which I find quite sexy. He doesn’t want me to wait for him outside. I later learn this is because he’s nervous of what people would think, an older man meeting a younger man. He doesn’t look it, but he is only sixteen years younger than me. He lied about it on Atraf, said he was 32, and is ten years older. He could easily pass for 32, though. He is a personal trainer, and I like his arms. He’s handsome, too, big eyes, a strong nose, dark hair. 

He sits on my sofa as far from me as possible, unrelaxed, his back straight, and demands things; water, air conditioning, chocolate, wine. After knowing me for five whole minutes he tells me what I am like, and isn’t entirely positive. He says that until six months ago he had a girlfriend. He has never really had sex with a man, although he used to let men play with him. He flinches when I touch his arm, then presses several sachets of saccharine into my hand, insisting I take them.

An hour of this is enough, and I say I have to meet friends. He leaves, without complaint. I don’t want to see him again, but the next day he sends a message to thank me for meeting him. Manners are so important. I saw that he’d been looking at me on Atraf, it leaves a trail, but that’s the last of him.

Today’s word: shoom devar – nothing – שום דבר

See also, Sex! A drought