I didn't really want to chat, I didn't really want to watch him work out, and I certainly didn't want to watch him touch himself but four a.m. is not renowned as the greatest time to make decisions. I blame it on my sleeplessness. I haven't been able to get an ounce of sleep before five a.m. in days, and when I can't sleep, I get achingly lonely. I lie awake, sprawled over as much of my king-size bed as I can cover; the thought that I'm all alone in a bed made for two is gratingly pitiful. I may not be the type to strip over the internet, but this throb is painful enough to go looking for conversation.
He said hello and told me I was pretty. I thanked him. He asked me if I minded if he got naked. I hesitated. He told me that I didn't even have to show my face, just knowing I was there was enough. He told me that he hadn't been with a woman in years. He told me that his friend was arrested for child pornography. His profile told me he was 18, muscular, and a personal trainer. His blonde hair, blue eyes, good looks and All-American bone structure told me that he probably used a stock photo. He assured me that I was under no pressure or obligation to do anything or even be seen. He confessed that all I needed to do was say something. It had been so long, he was instantly hard at the sound of a woman's voice. I relented. He didn't have to know that I wasn't going to watch him do whatever he needed to do. I knew enough to know that he needed release, and I wasn't going to deny him. I pity the desperate.
He was not 18, he was not muscular, he was not blonde, he was not blue eyed, he was not good-looking. He had a small appendectomy scar above the waistband of his black boxer briefs that wasn't in the picture. I said hello and minimized my screen. I started talking- I told him my first name, my favorite color, my favorite movie, my favorite music, the things I hoped for my life. I tried my best not to listen to what he was doing, but the grunts became more obvious until they stopped completely. The silence punctuated the awkwardness of the situation until he began to cry slow, wet tears and told me about his wife. She died 5 years ago: breast cancer, quickened by lack of health insurance. They had lost their only son in childhood. He had no support system, no friends or family. He wept about the bitterness of his losses, his assertion that love was a once and only event for him, his fears about losing his job, his debt piling up to his eyelashes, his loneliness slowly consuming him with the same voracity that cancer consumed his wife. He wept for the things he imagined he'd have accomplished by now. He wept for the childhood dreams he spent too little time cultivating. He wept for the clarity he now had and the opportunity he squandered. He told me of his anger at the country that allowed his wife to die, the country who promised him so much and followed through on so little. He wept, and I listened. I told him that he wasn't alone- not in despair, not in solitude, not in anger, not in fear. I told him about my father. I told him about the music at his funeral and how I couldn't talk about him anymore, not really.
I asked him if he felt better and if he was still naked. I told him I'd like to look him in the eye, then I apologized for not telling him that I couldn't watch, that I didn't want him to exploit himself. I told him that he could just ask to talk from now on, if he liked, rather than try to lull me into conversation with boyish good looks and borrowed charm. He thanked me, and I don't think I'll ever forget what he said next.
"It's been a while since I was treated with such decency."
