Part of it is the excitement, of course, but is there something deeper that I'm avoiding?
(Credit: Ure via Shutterstock/Salon)
With Jack, the excitement was having sex. Finally, sex. Sex at 29, after a prolonged virginity that wasn’t the result of religious beliefs or a commitment to not having sex until marriage or extreme undesirability. My extended virginity seemed to have just happened, or rather, sex just hadn’t happened. But now, finally, I was having sex, on my futon sofa, the kitchen countertop, the dining room table, the streaky Saltillo-tile living room floor, the blanket spread on the rough carpet of an empty apartment belonging to a former lover of his, the HOTEL
bed with its limp, worn coverlet and sheets.
bed with its limp, worn coverlet and sheets.
With Dan, the excitement was climbing the steps to his third-floor apartment. I rarely took the elevator because I wanted to prolong the jittery expectation and breathlessness that accompanied his opening the door. Then came the florid compliments, the praising of my dress, my body, which was so different from that of his soon-to-be-ex-wife, my appearing years younger than 37, 38, 39.
With Tom, the excitement is my opening the door to his slow smile. I notice his silver wedding band only on occasion, sometimes in the kitchen while he’s making broth from cilantro, garlic peels and shrimp shells, sometimes in the bedroom when he reaches over me to bind my wrists to the bed frame. (...) 
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