The Electrician

In the late summer of 2006, I moved in temporarily with my grandfather. I had taken a shitty part time job in downtown Houston, and he had agreed to put me up for a few months until I got a better job going and could afford my own place. Unfortunately, he was too much of an asshole, and I couldn't stand living with him and being yelled at over things I didn't do and having my privacy invaded on an hourly basis, so I moved out after only about two months.

The brief time I spent in my hometown of Houston proved quite eventful, though. I procured a MySpace account for myself and quickly met the Electrician through it, and he told me how to find tech theatre work around town. I was exuberant.

Almost at once, even before he helped me find work, I developed a crush on the Electrician. I showed my friends his profile, but I alone seemed to find him cute. No matter. He was kind, funny, and helpful. He had more than a personality to boot: He was a strong, well built, and well put together guy. We talked on the phone once or twice, and I found his deep voice extremely sexy. This did nothing to alleviate my crush on him, of course.

We arranged to meet in person for Chinese food, and I instantly went into overdrive on what to do to convey my interest in him. My all-male group of friends dispensed utterly useless tidbits of advice such as "grab his ass." As a matter of fact, that was the only real suggestion. In retrospect, perhaps I should have. It would have been unmistakable and possibly able to play off as a joke. I was too chicken shit, though. I was also too chicken shit to wear a short skirt and bend over in front of him, which in retrospect probably also would have worked, especially since that way I could make it look like an accident. (And believe me, I've employed that trick since.)

Anyway, we met for Chinese food as planned. I wore a long but flirty skirt and a plain shirt. I was a sweaty-palmed, dry-throated, queasy, nervous wreck. I was extremely relieved to note that he too seemed a bit nervous upon meeting a new person, not that it helped the flow of the conversation any.

We talked a lot about theatre work. The Electrician was considerably more experienced than I, so I naturally had a few questions and comments.

"I'd like to work on The Phantom of the Opera someday," I said.

"Oh, no," he said. "I toured with Phantom for a while, so I've seen it about three hundred more times than I ever want to." I laughed. "But there are some shows I would definitely like to work on again."

"Such as?" I asked.

"Hedwig and the Angry Inch," he said.

"Oh, yeah—The other day I was going to watch that, and my grandfather, thinking of perhaps what little he knew about Harry Potter, asked 'Is that a children's movie?' and I said 'Uh—yeah.'" the Electrician laughed and said,

"No, not really. It's about a tranny and . . . "

"Yeah."

The Electrician insisted on paying for his half of the meal, even though we had previously arranged it to be my treat. He nearly paid for the whole thing, but I reminded him of our prior agreement, so he settled on splitting it. I later kicked myself as I realized letting him pay would have made the meeting more date-like. Oh well.

We then got into his car and drove to a nearby park to walk around. I relaxed an iota as we arrived, which I of course completely destroyed within five minutes.

The Electrician and I were walking across the park when we saw a small, fenced-in enclosure.

"Is that a petting zoo?" the Electrician asked.

"I don't know. It looks like it. Let's go see."

We began crossing the grass toward the enclosure when we spotted a white bunny hopping across the grass.

"Aw," I said. We stopped to look at it. It hopped toward me, and I gently picked it up. The Electrician and I looked at it for a minute, and then I realized we were being watched by a man and his five-year-old daughter.

"Oh . . . um . . . is this yours?" I asked. The father nodded. "Oh . . . um . . . here," I said, placing the bunny on the ground. I glanced awkwardly at the Electrician, who was smirking and trying not to laugh.

We hastily walked away, both snickering a bit. I thought it was hilarious, just awkward as hell. Story of my life.

We parted ways on friendly terms, with me not having once made any move toward him nor him toward me. Damn. I drove home, annoyed, wishing I had worn something sexier. Oh well. Maybe I could say something to him in our next instant messenger chat. I failed. Eventually I wrote the following letter he would never see, posting it on an anonymous site.

[Electrician], we should talk. Actually, no, we should just fuck.

[Electrician],

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, another lame [Internet] post to an initial, but I've never done it before, I probably won't again, and, God damn it, it was just that important. So shut up. I don't mean to offend anyone, but seriously, I don't have the energy to even pretend to be nice. Not whilst worked into a sexual frenzy that I know won't be sated. And, [Electrician], it's all your fault.

It started innocently enough. We talked (your voice is really fucking hot, by the way), I thought you were cute, but was mostly just interested in talking to you because you were nice and funny and we had a lot in common. You made me laugh. We talked online and emailed. We were on each other's friends lists on MySpace. I looked at your pictures on MySpace; some were cute, some were not. I looked at a rather embarrassing old picture and thought, "Hey! Where'd the cute guy go? I thought he was cute!" Then you posted a couple of more recent ones, and I thought, "Oh. There. There he is. Yes, cute. Normal pictures, much better."

And then you posted THAT picture.

Yes. THAT one. The everything-I've-ever-wanted-in-a-guy, holy-fuck-I-didn't-know-they-made-them-that-hot, when-did-he-get-to-looking-like-that, jaw-droppingly gorgeous, staring-in-disbelief-at-your-hotness, spontaneously-panties-wetting picture. I'm serious. The first time I saw that picture, my jaw dropped, and I didn't move for at least ten seconds. Then I noticed my panties were wet. I don't know what it is about that picture that makes you so damned hot, but you can bet money it's saved on my hard drive now. Seriously. It's the perfect fucking picture of the perfect . . . fucking . . . guy. You look confident and masterful and aloof and mysterious and powerful and sexy and charming and intelligent and strong and and and and and . . . oh my shit everything that could possibly be construed as sexy all rolled into one giant heap of Fuckable. All in one picture. How did you do it? It can't have been an accident, but it doesn't look like you posed, either. I guess you just happened to look really hot at the random moment when some random person who I will love forever happened to take that picture. Then you posted it on MySpace, I saw it, and my world was turned upside down.

So. I might have arrived at this point eventually unaided, but that sex god MySpace picture of yours really jump started this lust of mine. It's bad. I have never lusted after anyone in my life like this. As in, completely out of control, can't stop thinking about you, and have actually mentioned you to my friends. I'm normally very good at keeping my crushes secret, and I *never* mention objects of lust to friends. Never. Until now. Now, my shit is fucked up. I find it difficult to make eye contact with you because I know I look all flushed and lusty, I can't talk to you without my throat going dry from panting, I can't wear long sleeves in your presence because I get all hot and bothered, I've even blurted out stupid things about my underwear because thinking about you, no, just looking at you, made me think about underwear, or rather, the lack thereof, and of course all I can think about is sex and so I don't think about, for instance, not saying stupid things before blurting them out. I don't think you find that attractive, either.

And that's not even the worst of it! This is where it really gets shitty. You see, I'm both poverty-stricken and a Tool fan, and they're playing at the Woodlands Pavilion on the 11th. Before all the above lustiness happened, I'd been scrimping and saving from my shitty little job (which, luckily, is going away soon, thanks to you, but I'll get to that later) so I could afford a halfway decent ticket to see Tool. I placed my job in jeopardy in the process of making sure I had the 11th off. I explored the area so I'd know where to go and where to park. I planned what to wear and what to bring. I looked at literally dozens of websites, trolling for the perfect (cheap) ticket. I talked to every Tool fan I knew. I did nothing but obsess about Tool for weeks. And then . . .

You made me spend the money that should have gone toward a Tool ticket on sexy clothing. FUCK.

I don't know how it happened, exactly. One moment, I was chirpily emailing you on MySpace while trying (and failing) not to think about having sex with you. emailing you whilst listening to "Closer" by the Nine Inch Nails probably didn't help. (You know, the one that goes "I want to fuck you like an animal." Gee, I wonder why I was listening to that?) The next moment, I'd somehow gone to the Frederick's of Hollywood website and ordered both a corset top and a plunge top: two tight, lace-up tops, both bright red, which I've often been told makes me look damn hot. It all happened in a blur. When it was all over, I sat there, confused and blinking, staring at the numbers on the screen: $98.99. Order confirmed, will be shipped on this date, blah blah blah. And all I could think was: 1.) I bet [Electrician] likes these, and 2.) . . . That was my money for Tool! WTF?!

It's not fucking funny. I'm starting to think there must be something seriously wrong with me because this scale of lust . . . just isn't normal. It can't be. I'm getting psychosomatic symptoms like sweaty palms and weird aches and pains, and I swear to God somebody slipped some Spanish fly into my water bottle, because I don't think I've ever masturbated so much in my life. Thinking about sex, specifically sex with you, all the time cannot be healthy. Worse still, thinking about you in un-sexy situations I somehow find even hotter. I tried to think about you at work. Oh, no, that won't do at all. You're an Electrician; you get sweaty and lift things at work. No no no no no. Can't think about that. (And can't not think about it, either.) I tried to think about you sitting in traffic and instantly began thinking about stories I'd heard of guys getting blow jobs while driving . . . yeah. I tried thinking of you going grocery shopping, buying cat food, buying toilet paper, something really not sexy. That somehow turned into a fantasy involving you reaching up to get things off the top shelf in the store, affording me a perfect view of your perfect ass. God damn it. I tried to think about you being sick. Like gross sick, with a high fever and surrounded by medicine and juice bottles. Needless to say, thinking about you lying in bed, hot and sweaty, and with lots of fluids, didn't exactly turn me off. No matter what I do, everything about you now turns me on. Even the not-cute older MySpace picture I somehow find hot now.

I thought I could handle it. I mean, I knew I wasn't handling it well, but I thought I could at least keep it from becoming too painfully obvious. Up till now, you've been your usual friendly platonic self, and I've been . . . well . . . as normal as I could get, I guess. But you didn't seem to notice anything different. We've talked and laughed and hung out as usual. We talk about the usual things: work, family, friends, exes, movies, music, cars, food, politics, religion, nature, children, animals. Everything but sex, which, naturally, is the one thing I've actually been thinking about all this time.

Today, we reached a stalemate. You crossed a line. No, don't argue. I know you did. You know it, too. Do not pretend.

You mentioned . . . . your bed.

No more. This is my line in the sand.

Granted, it was perfectly innocent—well, that was how you intended it, but it sure as hell wasn't how I interpreted it—but still. You randomly mentioned that you liked sleeping in a cold room but with lots of covers, which you knew was rather inefficient but liked to do anyway. You made me think of ways to keep warm. In your bed. I couldn't say that, though. What I did say was that I myself also liked to sleep like you did (my self-restraint in not blurting out "like to sleep *with* you" deserved a fucking Nobel prize), but my current living arrangement is in a house with a shitty air conditioner, and it's always eighty degrees in my bedroom, and I therefore sleep with just a sheet and nothing else, which I hate because I also like to be rather bundled up in bed. What I meant to say, naturally, was that 1.) I sleep naked. You should be thinking about me naked, and 2.) By "bundled up in bed," I actually meant "next to you" and "in your bed."

So. All of the above has brought me to one unshakeable conclusion: We need to fuck. Soon, and often. I'd pursue a relationship with you (lots in common, sense of humor, *and* porn star sex? Wow!), but, as usual, there's always a fucking snag. And it's not something little that I can overlook: You are [religious], and I am an atheist. I have learned the hard way, numerous times, that relationships with religious guys, any religion, *do not work out.* Ever. The last time I tried to make an exception, it ended in disaster. So no more religious guys for me. This leads me to the natural, more significant, more unshakeable conclusion: We should become fuck buddies. As in, booty calls. As in, one-night stands (but longer than one night is certainly acceptable, too). As in, now. Normally, I don't advocate casual sex, but for you, I'll make an exception. In fact, I'll make lots of exceptions. Over and over again. I can even rationalize it: You helped me find a better job. If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have known where to go to look for work in our field (technical theatre) [ . . . ] and [I] am now well on the way to getting the hell out of my job as an underpaid phone monkey and getting my career started properly as a [ . . . ] stagehand, all thanks to you. It really is awesome, and I owe you a huge favor, or lots of little ones. Which brings me to: Instead of putting the time and effort into a doomed relationship, we can just work out a system in which I am allowed to express my gratitude to you in the form of providing you with sexual favors.

Let me know what you think. You know damned well where to find me.

- L.

P.S. I'm really, really grateful.

I showed the letter to most of my friends, all of whom laughed, mostly in shock at the uncharacteristic ribald humor. A friend from college said, "This is like the librarian taking her glasses off. It's like, 'Lauren knows what a penis is?'" Thanks, thanks a lot. Though that did probably explain why I had trouble getting dates in school. Hm. Another friend said, "To think of this stuff coming from you . . . " I wondered if it would benefit my cause to show the Electrician the letter and quickly decided against it.

It was as well that I did not show it to him, for he soon afterward told me that he still had feelings for his recent ex. They had broken up twice now, and he still wanted to get back together. I was extremely upset and cried myself to sleep that night.

At the crack of dawn the next morning, I was working sound at a shady nightclub with SE, whom I met that day. That distraction took the edge off the sting, but I still liked the Electrician quite a bit. I went home a bit mopey and tried to avoid the Electrician online for a bit.

During this bit, I got back in touch with NO. We swapped unseemly pictures, but nothing came of it as we were in different cities and didn't have all that much in common anyway.

Not more than a month or so later (two months after first meeting the Electrician online), I moved back to my dad's house in Austin. I cringed at the thought of leaving the same city as the Electrician since now we'd never get together, but I couldn't stand my grandfather's a minute longer. The Electrician and I did not meet in person again before I left, but then again, my move was a bit unexpected since what was supposed to be one of a few trips to my dad's house turned into the last trip since my car broke down in the middle of 290 (halfway between Houston and Austin).

Back in Austin, I got the car fixed and in January got a seasonal job, where I met RTG. Despite RTG's apparent crush on me, he had a girlfriend. Oh well. A friend of mine decided to find me a single guy and, realizing that oh yeah, I was in the same city as SD, said friend tried to set me up with him, only to discover that he had a girlfriend too. When I returned home from that mishap, there was an email waiting for me that turned out to be the beginning of my ill-fated relationship with the Writer. The day after that relationship came to its heartbreaking close, I met TCR.

After this whirlwind of boy craziness, I talked to the Electrician online for the first time in a while. It was a week and a half after my breakup with the Writer and subsequent meeting of TCR. The Electrician, it seemed, had been drinking a bit and began talking to me about porn. I was surprised since we hadn't discussed anything sexual before, but I wasn't about to argue.

Our conversation about porn went on for a couple of hours, and eventually he propositioned me. I was surprised, but not unpleasantly so. Mostly I was just wondering, "Where the hell was that six months ago?" Who knows, maybe he'd found the letter I posted online. I didn't dare mention it, but I did tell him my hitherto-secret (to him) opinion of the one picture I described in the letter, the one that started it all. I still found him as attractive as in the letter, so within a couple of hours, he had convinced me to meet him. Right then. Unholy hell, I thought, dreams do come true.

Of course, it took another couple of hours to actually meet since our tryst was very badly organized, and we each left home without actually knowing where we were going. We communicated via cel phone, and I got completely lost as he tried to help me navigate toward the sleazy motel halfway between our houses he'd chosen as the spot to stop driving.

I eventually located the motel, parked, walked up to the door, and knocked. The Electrician ripped the door open and kissed me immediately as he pulled me in and closed the door. I was surprised, but I reflected as I kissed back that it sure beat awkwardly trying to lead up to it since we were, after all, there for a purpose.

I broke the kiss and laughingly explained that before we went any further, I needed to use the restroom. Almost before I was finished washing my hands in the sink outside the bathroom door, the Electrician began kissing me again. There followed debaucherous foreplay on the bathroom counter, eventually moving to the bed.

*

*

*

We slept, entwined in each other's limbs. At one point during the night, I arose to use the bathroom. He, half asleep, had his arm around me and didn't want to let me go. I almost forcefully extricated myself, at which he made a small sound of protest. I returned a moment later and found myself wrapped up in his arms again, warm and soft. I wondered about his cuddliness, but all traces of it were gone upon waking.

The following morning, he wanted to replay the previous night, but I was regrettably too sore. He hadn't been kidding when he e-slurred the previous night that he was big. Forever afterwards, he nagged at me for refusing to sleep with him twice during that encounter at the motel, which I always countered with "YOU WERE TOO BIG FOR ME!" I strongly suspect he nagged at me for the subsequent ego boost.

I told the Electrician about meeting TCR, whom at that time I believed to be single. The Electrician warned me not to date stagehands. I found it a bid odd that he told me this while lying unclothed beside me, but then again, we weren't dating. Odd, the way those rules work. Or else, I pondered, he was a bit jealous.

Eventually I found the latter to be the more likely case. As the Electrician and I lived in different cities, we did not see much of each other. We talked online occasionally, but we did not actually get together again until the following winter, just after I had met the One That Got Away. I had not yet fallen for the One That Got Away, however, nor were he and I involved, not to mention I was still recovering from a crush on the Professor, so I did not say no to another tryst with the Electrician.

This time we could not meet in the middle since my car was in the shop. The Electrician drove all the way to my house to pick me up, which I found highly suspicious for what was supposed to be nothing more than friends with benefits. I personally would not drive that distance for nothing more than sex. No matter.

We drove around, looking for a motel. My house was out of the question since I was not home alone. In the car, we talked about work, his drive there, and so on. We made a lot of jokes about the impossibility of finding any motels in the vicinity but eventually located one.

I accompanied him inside and stood beside him as he checked in. I don't think he wanted me to, but I was impatient. He awkwardly made small talk with the attendant while I fidgeted just behind his shoulder. When the attendant wasn't looking, I blatantly grabbed the Electrician's ass. He turned around and looked at me in complete shock, and I failed to suppress a snort of laughter.

We walked back to our room, and I accompanied him out to his car as he retrieved the few things he'd brought with him. We fought with the room key, both feeling, I'm sure, fairly embarrassed when we worked it out.

Back in the room, we talked for a bit. I had told the Electrician about my unfortunate experience with the Professor, and the Electrician insisted (as did virtually everyone) that the Professor was gay. The Electrician, however, was suspiciously vehement in his insistence, not to mention his occasionally reminding me of his . . . size. When the Electrician and I met in the motel that night, he said to me, "Told you [the Professor] was gay." He deliberately used the wrong name for the Professor and looked a bit hurt when I corrected him.

Finally, he stepped towards me. I looked up anxiously as approached me. He kissed me as gently as any first kiss, completely unlike the last time he'd kissed me. 'Oh,' I thought, remembering how he had held on to me in the night last time.

This time was much the same. The wild romping in the middle was followed by tender cuddling, which thoroughly confused me. At one point, he put his hand under my pillow and ran his hand down my arm, found my hand, and squeezed it. I hesitated and squeezed back.

In the morning, we showered together, lathering each other's bodies with that sensual tenderness so often practiced by young lovers. We left the motel, and he drove me home. On the return trip, I pondered him surreptitiously from my position huddled into a corner of the passenger seat, pulling my hood up over my still-damp hair that glowed red in the sun.

We talked about iPods and iTunes. He told me about how he'd found all the episodes of Sesame Street for free on a podcast. We excitedly discussed the show, extolling its benefits and lamenting the lack of more quality television. I reflected that it was rare to find a young guy who wasn't ashamed to admit his love of Sesame Street. I remembered being displeased by other, younger guys mocking the show. I suppose on some subconscious level I was thinking that this implied he'd be good with children.

Back at my house, he came in for a quick tour and a glass of water.

"I really like the layout of this place," he kept saying. I had never really cared for it myself since it was an exercise in wasted space. No matter. Within a few minutes, he left. On my doorstep, he kissed me goodbye.

I paced around the empty house by myself, thoroughly confused. Who would spend six hours driving, not to mention paying for a hotel room, if sex were really all that was going on? I consulted a few friends online. All of them held the same opinion: "He drove all that way to see you and cuddled and held your hand—He has to like you." I secretly agreed, but as he had not said anything or spent time with me for any other reason, I wasn't sure what to think.

I talked to the Electrician online. I told him I might be moving back to Houston soon because of my dad's job. He joked, "We could make porn all over Houston!"—clarifying, of course, that this excluded the theatres. I agreed, saying, "I don't feel like explaining to the union that I got banned from the [theatre] after a public lewdness incident." I did not manage to screw up the courage to ask him about his cuddliness before he had to go, and then he did not appear online again for some time.

After a couple of weeks, I could stand it no longer and sent him an email in which I asked, "I'm confused about something. I've been wondering for a while about how . . . cuddly you are. This hand holding of yours; did you mean anything by it?" He said, "I'm pretty cuddly. If meeting for random sex doesn't work for you then we should stop." I replied, "No!, it works for me, and will as long as each is clear about what he wants. Should your intentions change, let me know. I was wondering because hand holding/squeezing is typically not something I would associate with random sex." I was lying through my teeth, obviously, but that didn't stop him from continuing to talk about sex with me.

I did not move back to Houston with my dad, but rather I made arrangements to stay with a couple of friends. Before moving in with them, I sent the Electrician an email about the likelihood of us seeing a lot more of each other.

I should have said this sooner, but oh well. It seems that we'll be seeing more of each other in Houston [ . . . ], and before that happens, I should clarify that I am not comfortable with either of us sleeping with other people because of the risk of STDs. I have no reason to believe I have anything, but I believe I should be tested anyway, and I will likely put my next paycheck toward that.

I added that I wanted us both to get tested, and I included the address of a local Planned Parenthood and the fees they charged.

He did not respond.

Two or three weeks later, I sent him another email saying only, "I am still waiting for an answer to the email I sent you on the 28th." He did not respond to that either, at which point I began to suspect that he had contracted a disease and was not willing to discuss it with me. At the very least, his unresponsiveness certainly proved that he did not care much for my feelings or health. Heartbroken, I composed the following and reluctantly sent it four days later:

I'm tired of waiting for an answer. I feel that my feelings and wishes regarding my health are not being treated with respect or consideration. With that in mind, I cannot continue to sleep with you. You cannot be my friend with benefits if you will not be my friend. . . . I will of course be civil if I see you at work, but I otherwise have no interest in continuing to pursue any level of a relationship with someone who I cannot respect and trust or who does not make more of an effort to talk to me.

I never heard from him again.

I saw him online a few times and kept waiting for an answer, resisting the urge to inquire if he'd received my email. My heart broke as I realized I'd fallen for him and then lost him. Not only did I lose a good friend, I also lost what could have been the one. Ah well.

I lay in bed for two days . . . just like with the Writer. I thought about all that might have been. If he had offered me a relationship, I would have accepted. I would have followed him anywhere.

Of course, not long after this, I fell hard for the One That Got Away, chasing him for a year before getting somewhere with him. The One That Got Away made forgetting about the Electrician relatively easy. Forgetting about the One That Got Away, however, was another matter.