Adult Relationship - San Francisco Story # 7

Many have recently asked if my stories are fictions or real. The answer is they are fictional stories. Simple. Straight forward answer. While people or events may play a part in it, it’s not meant to be biographical.  It was supposed to be read like a personal diary, intimate stories, but it was never meant to be a depiction of reality, past, present or future. I do think that I need to reemphasize it from time to time. I like to write. I have a few friends (decade plus long friendship paid off) to thank for - for helping me to evoke that side of me. I draw on my past and current experience, mix with lots of imagination, and turn these pieces out. Please don’t ask again. They are not “real”.

As to what I'd eventually do with it, I have not thought about it far. I am waiting for it to accumulate, and then perhaps years down the road, I'd know what this means.

First Date

I couldn’t quite recall how we met. John was not from San Francisco bay area, or California. He had just moved from Maryland.

He said that he was originally from the Midwest, I couldn’t remember where, it could be Michigan, Indiana, or Illinois. They were the same to me. He had a German sounding last name; he said that his family migrated to the Midwest from Germany. He did his PhD in South Carolina. He was a bio scientist. But when I met him, he had moved from a research scientist to a product manager. He said that money was better there.  He worked for a large biotech company in the Upper Peninsula. He was often in Switzerland, Germany and Austria.

We went out for dinner. He paid. I didn’t insist on paying. I guessed that he was at least 10 years senior than me. I later found out that he was 36. I was 23 at the time.  On our first date, he took me back to my place.

Be a Gentleman - The German Way

At the time I lived in Campbell, in a non-descript apartment building, with my German roommate Monika. She was from Stuggart, she was a blonde, very Germanic looking lady in her early fifties. She was plump, friendly, and very formal like you’d expect a German would be. She spoke with a very strong German accent.  She had two grown children; she worked in J.C. Penny’s in Sunnyvale. She was divorced. She came to this country with her then husband. They divorced years ago. He cheated on her.

I loved her.  She was the mother I never had.  She made me sauerkraut and spaetzle all the time.  She did Christmas seriously, like you’d see in Europe. She took me shopping at Trader Joe’s, where she found German goodies.  She drank a glass of gewürztraminer every night. I liked it and always bought her bottles of them.

She approved my relationship with John, in part he was German, and in part he treated her like she ought to be treated, a lady. She said that he was a true gentleman. He brought her a bottle of wine when he came to pick me up that evening. I needed her approval. My last boyfriend, a blond Californian, was narcissistic, and inconsiderate.  He made me drive to see him; he never wanted to stay at my place. And the worst trait, he never opened the passenger side of door for me.

Monika told me that a true gentleman always opened the passenger door for his date. He would take off and put on her coat.  He would call on her, instead of having her to drive to his place.   John did all that right. 

Years later, I found that guys I dated from the East Coast and Midwest consistently followed Monika’s description of a “true gentleman”, and none of the Californian guys I dated did any of it. Which of course made me wonder if I had married to the right guy from time to time. My husband was born and raised in Southern California, but educated in the east coast and subsequently lived in New York. I thought about taking my husband to meet Monika,, to see if he could pass her test, I never managed to do that, because I knew he’d fail miserably.

To impress John, I asked Monika to teach me a few German phrases, of which, I practiced the most was ich liebe dich. In case I’d use it one day.

Light as Feather

John knew what he wanted. He was an aggressive man. I found it charming and pleasing that he took charge.  After the dinner, he dropped me back at my apartment. He wanted to see my room. I showed him my small bedroom. He dimmed the lights, and shut the door. I was in my short black dress, I felt like a very young girl next to him. So inexperienced, so young, I was fumbling for words, but he put his fingers on my lips. Then he leaned down and kissed me. I was all of sudden made aware of how small framed I was against his manly body. He was just over 6 feet tall; he had the soccer player’s built. He was gentle, forceful and purposed. I kissed him back. I felt like a schoolgirl, not because I was not experienced in sex, but because his calmness, his determination, and his aggression made me realized how insecure and self-pity I was, I was unsettled by his commanding attitude. It was the first time I realized that in the dating dynamics, I preferred to be led, to be dominated and to be chased. 

He carried me to bed, he undressed me and then he went down on me. I was shocked by the sensation of closeness, with a man who I'd just met.  But I felt safe, perhaps because he opened my side of the door that earlier evening? Perhaps he brought a bottle of wine for my roommate? Or perhaps it was the way he whispered “baby” by my ear? We made love that night. It did not feel like fucking, because it was gentle, it was caring, and I felt the indescribable closeness with this man named John, who was either from Michigan, Indiana, or Illinois.

I curled up in his broad frame afterwards, and I fell asleep soundly. I wrapped my arm around him; I felt protected, safe and content. In the middle of the night, he lifted me up, as if I was feather light, he cradled me. Then he said, “Baby, I have to leave, my children would be awake soon.” He never told me anything about his children. I was too sleepy to register the significance of it. I kissed him goodbye.

The next day John emailed me. He said that he had a lovely date. He wanted to see me again, but he had to leave town to go to Switzerland. He said that he’d call me and tell me everything when we see each other next.

I was 23. I didn’t know everything I ought to know in an adult relationship. I was not that inquisitive, or judgmental for that matter. I was living day by day; I supposed that he wanted to talk to me about his children.

Dating a Father

I didn’t see him for weeks. I heard from him when he was in Switzerland, he left me a voicemail. I didn’t return his call. He then called me from Germany. He said that there was another unplanned trip. He said that he was sorry for not able to see me sooner. I missed him, but I knew that he was an adult, and he had important things to do. I was nonchalant; I went about my own business, I told myself to be detached. I knew if I dwelled on it, I would be in trouble. He fit my physical profile of those men whom I could fall head over heels with, so I didn’t want to set myself up for failure.

When he returned, we went out for dinner again. This time he told me that he was in the process of getting a divorce. He had three teenage children. His soon to be ex wife had moved to California with him, but he now primarily lived in a suitcase, on the road a lot, and he had a corporate condo.  I told him that it was OK. I liked him. I liked the way he carried me as if I was feather, I liked how he made love to me. I liked how he treated me - like a lady.

Afterwards, we went back to his hotel, in Foster City, we made love until dawn.  He said that he had his children in his early twenties. I didn’t want to know how and why he was getting divorced. I knew that he liked me. I was the first Asian woman he had ever dated. He gave me career advice, he told me that he had a place in Belize, he would go there on his own, sometimes with his friends, a pair of married college professors, who lived in Austin. They would meet up and vacation there. He never invited me.  I did not ask why either.

He was a father figure to me. I thought of him fondly when he was on the road. He was a father, I thought to myself. How cool it was to be with someone who was a father, someone who knew how to raise children. Somehow who was adult like. I never demanded anything. I was falling in love, but I knew that we’d never have a future. I didn’t get a sense that he was that interested in marriage. Certainly couldn’t be with me.

Our encounters had become regular, but sporadically at the same time. He would make a date, and then had to cancel last minute – sometimes it was because of his children, and other times they were unplanned last minute business trips. He was forever traveling. I often got his note just as I was taking off from work to see him – “Sorry baby, I have to leave for Germany again. Sorry for ruining our date.”

Strangely enough, I never got mad at him. I loved him. Unconditionally. It would later dawn on me that I was often attracted to men who traveled a lot, who was never around, just like my father. I was not just looking for a father figure; I was also trying to repeat my sad, lonely childhood with each man that came into my life.

John fit the mode.

Key West

We also managed to meet outside of California.  For a while, I flew to Key West to SCUBA dive on weekends. John was a diver himself. He was in Miami for a business trip. So he flew down to see me. We stayed in a diver's motel, we made love, and we ate fresh oysters and then we dived together. In the evening he took me to this tropical outdoor restaurant. We ordered umbrella drinks, ate fresh Mahi Mahi, and he told me how beautiful I looked under the stars. I liked to wear white dresses then.

Back in San Francisco, everyone wore black. So when I was in Key West, I packed only white dresses. That evening, we gazed at each other under the shining stars, so far away from the main continent, so far away from reality. I told John I liked him visiting me, and I liked these get-aways. I never planned to meet up with him. I simply planned my excursions and invited men along.  John was one of those people who received the invitation and he just so happened to be available and in the area. I was always spontaneous, I had a place in the peninsula, but  felt that I did not really have a home, I lived in a suitcase just like John, I was a bohemian longing for a home but didn't know where to find it.

Later on in life, I concluded that while I was forever attracted to men who traveled a lot for work, those who traveled a lot for work were also attracted to me. Perhaps we had similar longing of escaping from wherever we were meant to be; perhaps we need each other to feel alive.

That evening John told me a lot about his failed marriage, his love for SCUBA diving. He told me that that was why he bought a place in Belize, because it had amazing untainted, unspoiled dive sites. "Like you, unspoiled". He would say.  I was half hoping that he'd invite me to Belize, but that topic never came up.  I knew that I was in love, with this man, this man who seemed to see the best side of me. 

The Last Time

Then summer became fall. It was an Indian summer evening. I had gotten an email from John early that morning. “Baby, I’m back in town for a night. Can we meet?” I worked in Folsom at the time. Three and half hours later, I drove into Peninsula, where he had a hotel for the evening. I had bought this beautiful two-piece red lingerie, which I had never worn. I saw him at the hotel. We ordered room service but we couldn’t eat. He made furious love to me, as if he had not had sex for ages. I was his girl. Part time girl, anyway. I lay next to him afterwards, and I was all of sudden wailing. Instinctively, I knew that this would be the last time.

He wiped away my tears, and as he did the first time we slept together, he cradled me. He said, “I know that I couldn’t give what you want. You are still young. You will get married one day, have family of your own. I’m not your guy. I’m so sorry.”

I wanted to say “No I don’t ever want to get married or have children. I just want to be with you”, but I didn’t say anything. I knew John would not take no for an answer. He would not change his mind. 

To John, I was not a party girl. I never was. Unlike the other men whom I’ve encountered, who nicknamed me the party girl, who claimed that I would never settle down, who only went out with me to have some sexual fantasy fulfilled, John saw this responsible, serious career girl, who’s sweet, considerate, and accommodating, who would one day be married and have children of her own. I’d never met a man like him. For that I was grateful. I cried not only because he couldn’t give me what I wanted, but because he saw the best of me, the side I didn’t even know existed. I cried because I felt that I was indebted to him, for giving me the faith I didn't have for myself.

The next morning I left, I forgot to pack my underwear. The red bottom piece of the lingerie was presumably left in his hotel room. I kept the bra for a long time, and I never wore it again. Whenever I saw the bra, I thought about John, and how he embraced me and cared about me, and treated me with respect, and envisioned a future for me that I couldn't picture at the time. A "normal" future. A hopeful future.

After John, I didn’t meet anyone who saw that side of me for many years. I kept in touch with him, we emailed and we did lunches. But he never touched me the way I craved. He saw me as this young woman, respectable, someone whom he cared about as a friend.

I sank into a deep depression one year after yet another failed romantic relationship. I was out snowboarding one day, and I saw John. He was with his three children. His truck parked just in front of my Audi. I almost thought of saying hi to him, but I wondered what he’d think of me, or rather, what his children would think of me. So I just walked away.

By then John had moved into a house in Foster City, he was fully divorced, and traveled practically all the time. I emailed him the next day. “I saw you in Sugar Bowl, you and your three kids.” He returned my email right away, “Why didn’t you say hi? I’d love to introduce you to my children.” I told him that I didn’t feel comfortable being seen by his children, all were taller than me and not much younger. He said that we should do a lunch date.

The Lunch

That lunch date did not come until a year later. He emailed me over the course of that year, he made plans, and then canceled them last minute, all due to his unpredictable travel schedules, just like when we first dated.

Then a year passed and he finally made the lunch date happen.

We went to ABC Seafood, a dim sum place.  I sat there, dutifully, waiting for his arrival. He came to our table and gave me a bear hug.  I thought that I would crave and long for his touch but I didn’t. I felt relieved at that moment.

He asked me how I was doing. I told him that I met someone. “It could be serious. I might marry him.” He said,  “That’s great!” He seemed genuinely happy for me.

He told me that he had met a Swedish woman; she had been divorced and had three children of the same age as his own.  She was his age, and they had gone to Belize together, with all six children.

I realized that I was never the Belize type at that moment. I was sad, but it was to be expected. He was not looking to be serious with me. Yet I felt disappointed, and a little sad; I thought that I had something special with him. An invisible bond, maybe I was the only person who was bonded to him. I trusted him implicitly and I loved him,

“It was the best experience I had.” He said unexpectedly. I thought he was referring to the Belize trip with his girlfriend. I responded by saying, “That’s wonderful!”

“No, Vic, I meant what you and I had.” He said solemnly. 

I stopped chewing my pot sticker.

“You were the first person I knew when I first moved here.” He continued.

“I loved you. But I couldn’t give you want you wanted. “ He was getting misty eyed.

I felt awkward. I looked around and no one was listening.

“You need a family of your own. I knew that I couldn’t provide that for you. Thank you for being so wonderful and so considerate. I was a jerk. I came in and out of your life, often canceling on our dates. I was not in a good place then. But I loved you.”

I looked at him, this time, with bravery, still tentative, I raised my eyes to meet his. I detected for the first time that he had those impossibly green eyes, sandy blonde hair. He was square jawed and had very Germanic feature.  I felt a little physical tug, that intense feeling that I would later feel whenever I saw someone like him.  

We don't control whom we are attracted to. I believe that it was an imprint of a sort. We get imprinted by a certain type. We may not end up with our type, but we all have that type, the type that causes a stir, the physical pain, whenever we meet our imprint, or when we are apart from that person, or when we know that it is never meant to be, yet we feel that magnetic pull. It is not something we could control.  

To him, I was never the party girl whom no one would marry. He thought that he was not good enough for me. He was so much more superior when I thought of him. How strange. Millions of different feelings came up at the same time.

We never saw each other again.

Never Light as Feather again

I now have two children of my own. I still love Germanic Midwesterners. I felt a strange pull whenever I meet them; it was not something that I could rationalize. It was involuntary. It would stay with me, for the rest of my life. I knew that much.

John must have been in fifties now, perhaps retired to Belize, married to his Swedish girlfriend. All of their children would have been out of the house by now. I pictured them living an idyllic life, SCUBA dived to their hearts' content.  They would hold hands, each day, walk on the sunny beach, happy as a clam, happy as any American early-retirees would be by living in Belize. 

I had never been carried away by anyone like John again, the way he carried me, as if I was light as a feather.

I wonder if I could ever feel that way again…