I met James on a sunny Saturday at the gym. We found ourselves approaching the one stationery bicycle available. He flirted, but I got the bike.
Guess who happened to be leaving the gym at the same time. Coincidence? Yeah, right. He held the door for me and said the word blisskrieg. Not blitzkrieg. Blisskrieg. “What’s blisskrieg”? I asked. That became our password for tumultuous sex. We went back to my apartment and did it on my Versailles wool rug in front of the fireplace.
James often strolled up to me at the gym and asked, “Blizzkrieg?” I usually said, “Sure, stud. Right after I do a few pelvic pumps.” He said I was a Nordic goddess with the mouth of a Teamster, and he loved that combination.
I think we kept waiting for this profound love to develop, but it never did. And that was cool. We enjoyed being in each other’s company, and how many people can you say that about? So what if bells didn’t ring a ding?
Never once did he give me the slightest suggestion that he was criminally insane. If he’d tried to choke me, I would have fought him with every ounce of strength in my toned body. I would have kicked and shrieked and shoved and smacked him over the head with a frying pan. I’m glad the bastard is behind bars. Strangulation is not an acceptable way to end a date, even if you don’t get along.