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I am only looking for a platonic friendship, NO long term relationships or sexual encounters in anyway. I was careful to crop out name tags and anything that could reveal the location in each photo—anything that could identify me. My husband had been nothing but supportive of my new job. He never complained when I got home late, which happened often. I should have felt guilty embarking on this betrayal. Instead, I felt turned on. Over the next week, messages flooded my AM inbox.
The ages of the men contacting me ranged from 27 up to the mids. But quite a few of them were intriguing: I was approached by a surgeon at the Toronto General Hospital, a finance director with a branch of the Ontario government and a detective with the Toronto Police Service. I was startled when I opened one AM email and discovered it was from someone I knew.
I will pay for everything. I hope to hear from you. But the fact that we knew each other ultimately stopped me. I would stay up with my iPad after my husband and kids went to bed, reading and replying to messages late into the night, careful to clear my browsing history after every session. The man who arrived was at least a decade older than his profile photo. His intensity frightened me—he seemed desperate and a little unhinged.
Another day I met an online journalist at a downtown Starbucks. He was seven years younger than I, handsome and sweet, and he drove a motorcycle. We kissed at the end of the date and agreed to meet again, but never did—he claimed his wife was ill and he had no free evenings. Half a dozen disheartening first dates later, I heard from a doctor with a practice in East York. The photos attached to his message showed a man who looked much younger than his stated age of He was tall, with dark hair, a square jaw and broad shoulders.
He smiled easily in the pictures, some of which had been taken on a boat, others in various parts of Europe. We agreed to meet for dinner at Sassafraz in Yorkville. It was mid-summer and hot, and I agonized over what to wear, settling on a fitted skirt and jacket, with the top buttons of my blouse undone.
I made an extra effort to primp, refreshing my hair colour, polishing my nails and fake-tanning my legs. As I made my way down Cumberland Street, I felt giddy but apprehensive. I spotted him right away, sitting at the back of the restaurant on one of its white banquettes. He stood to kiss me on the cheek. For the next three hours we talked nonstop over glasses of white wine and plates of oysters, then walked around Yorkville, en route to the University of Toronto campus in search of a more private place to end the evening.
Near the law faculty, we found a deserted walkway, and he backed me against a brick wall. He leaned into me with an arm on each side of my head and pounced on my lips. I responded with equal enthusiasm, and unbuttoned his dress shirt while his hands lifted my skirt and tugged on my panties. But we heard two joggers approaching on the path and quickly pulled apart.
He walked me back to my car, and we made plans to reconnect after his upcoming two-week Caribbean vacation with his wife. We stayed in touch all through his vacation, exchanging information about our lives and describing in great detail the many ways in which we wanted each other. We scheduled our second date for a few days after he returned, a muggy August afternoon. We met for lunch in Mississauga followed by some time at a nearby secluded park, where we lay down on a blanket I had brought along.
After some kissing and heavy petting, I unzipped his jeans and discovered his penis was completely flaccid. He said something about feeling shy and quickly zipped himself back up. We left the park, and, after an awkward goodbye, I drove home, feeling confused and uneasy. The next day, he emailed me saying he was embarrassed and blamed our surroundings.
Next time, he said, we needed a bed. Since we were meeting around dinnertime, my task was to pick up some snacks and a bottle of wine. As I made my way over, I received a text: I had imagined I would experience my first fling in a fancier hotel—the Four Seasons or the Ritz—not at a Best Western, but I was excited nonetheless. As I rode up the elevator, I thought about my husband, who at that moment was probably cooking something for our kids in our kitchen.
I had about four hours before I had to make my way to my car and start the drive back home. Pushing all those thoughts out of my mind, I knocked on the door.