Dear Readers, I'm looking for a literary agent/publisher for my memoir about on-line dating. I give you one of the milder chapters for your critique. The book is raunchy, but the events over five years were real. Your honesty is appreciated, but don't be mean, please. I cry easily.
CHAPTER 23: JESSE
"...Ships that pass in the night." -Tales of a Wayside Inn, Henry Wordsworth Longfellow, 1863
JESSE T.
May, three years ago. 65-years-old, SMBLT, one adult child, hunting dogs, Midwest attorney.
Elite Name: Judge Me Not
Frog Type: Not Over His XYZ
Subspecies: Separated in Name Only
From the moment we talked off-line, I could tell that Jesse was the type of guy who knew to weigh his options and hedge his bets. Generally, I think that this is a smart strategy, but sometimes it simply means that you are afraid to commit to a position. I had the time and interest to wait it out and see where the chips with him would fall.
I liked that Jesse was honest and upfront about his life history. He had the average amount of baggage expected without insurmountable problems. He was interested in my life, and we seemed to be in-sync with our outgoing personality styles. He had married immediately after law school even though he and his wife had always been "sexually incompatible." They had one adopted son who lived on his own. Jesse still shared the family home with his wife, but they slept in different bedrooms for the past three years and they maintained separate lives.
He had some nebulous timeline to move out of the house, but he seemed to be waiting for something or someone to start the chain reaction, assumedly someone from this dating site. We played a cat-and-mouse romance because he loved the thrill of almost getting caught. We'd talk and text while he was at work, stealing time when he hurriedly had to terminate the call because his secretary or client needed him, or at home when his roommate-wife would initiate an interaction.
Jesse was proud that he built his lake cabin, and we planned to consummate our relationship with a weekend tryst. He was focused on seeking a compatible sexual partner this time around and the other obvious obstacles like distance and possible relocation, blending of families, culture and religion, were back-burner items. This philosophy worked for me, and we agreed that if nothing else, we would enjoy a fun vacation, no guilt involved. I was single, he was almost.
Jesse: I assure you, babe, that there is no possibility of rekindling this marriage which has been on life-support for decades. Separate bedrooms for three years is proof that it's over, Susan. Right?
I overlooked the rhetorical question that only he could answer. He emailed me airline reservations to fly in on a Friday afternoon and we would drive to his Great Lake cabin until the Monday holiday. I agreed that 72 hours together should settle the sexually compatible questions and most all of the rest.
He climbed off the fence a few days before my scheduled flight.
Jesse: Susan, dear. It makes more sense for me to look for a companion closer to home. You're a wonderful person and I'm sure we'd be sexually compatible, but...
I read and thought about him no further than "but..." I know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em.
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