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excitement.
    Two minutes later, he crouched into the wooden chair across
from me. Groan , belched the chair, responding to his weight. I suppressed a laugh and pretended not to notice.
    “So,” he said casually, a warm smile on his face. “This is the first time you’ve met someone from the site, eh?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you nervous?”
    “A little.” I’d unknowingly grabbed the tea bag package and was tearing it into little pieces.
    “Don’t worry. I promise I don’t bite.” He leaned back in his chair, hands interlocked behind his head, when all of a sudden, the little wooden legs let out a God-awful, CREAK! This time, we both laughed.
    Our conversation flowed easily from there—work, friends, our kids, dating. But still, I kept reminding myself to speak confidently. He doesn’t know about your past, nor does he need to. Just think of this as a job interview.
    Our meeting lasted only forty-five minutes; he had to get back to his office. But it was enough. I liked his smile, I liked his energy, and I could tell he liked mine; I swear his pupils were dilated. I felt the physical connection too: such enormous shoulders, such wide playful lips, such massive knuckles . . .
    I knew I would see this man again.
     
    A FEW NIGHTS later, I nervously primped for our second date. My body tingled with anticipation, but my brain was wrought with worry. I didn’t know what the rules for dating and having sex were anymore. Should I avoid falling into bed with him at all costs, even at my age? What if I couldn’t emotionally handle having sex again? What if the sex was awful, even worse than it was with Robert, and I found myself going through the motions with a stranger I cared nothing about? And most disturbing yet annoying of all: What if he didn’t like my body? I’d struggled
my entire teenage and adult life not to buy into society’s negative messages around age and beauty. But the truth was that I held the shoppers Optimum card. Even with Graham, who openly admired my body, I was still self-conscious. Three pregnancies and childbirths had left battle scars as souvenirs: my breasts were lower, my stomach flabbier, a C-section scar highlighted my pubic bone. When does the body image war ever end? I wondered, irritated . These scars should be badges of honor, not markings of shame.
    For this date, we planned to meet at a popular upscale bar and restaurant. And I planned to trade in my tea cup for a wine glass. Due to my back-to-back pregnancies, I had a very low tolerance for alcohol; my friends called me the One-Glass Wonder. But tonight I wanted to loosen up.
    As we sat amongst the busy crowd of men and women, many still wearing suits from work, it struck me how this whole “adult world” had ticked along during my ten-year retreat to the suburban universe. It felt exhilarating to be a part of it again, and the mood helped me relax into conversation with Cal.
    But somewhere midway through my second glass of wine and his third beer, our sexual attraction started hindering the conversation. We’d hold each other’s gaze, our sentences going unfinished, as we silently wandered up and down each other’s body. Finally, he took the initiative and sat down beside me. He covered my thigh with his hand and I grabbed it, squeezed it, inviting him to feel and know me more. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t even talk; every nerve-ending in my body was on fire.
    “Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his voice husky. I nodded.
    We walked briskly to his condo three blocks away. I feigned interest in his décor, which was a mix of modern chic and masculine simplicity, while he turned on some jazzy background music and dimmed the lights. Suddenly he was looming over me. He pinned me against the wall, kissing me hard. My body blossomed
under the taste and power of his lips and the feel of his huge strong body against mine. He could snap me in half if he wanted to, but he knew his own strength. It was intensely arousing. He