On whorish tendencies.

"Then perhaps I was God's gift to you," said the Muslim cheerfully. Yeah, right, I thought to myself.

My fiancé, T, left me a month ago today. And exactly two months ago, today, was the last time I had sex. With anyone.

I will not bore the proverbial you with details regarding how or why he left, nor our sparse encounters since. Instead, I offer this story.

Alright, back to sex. Yesterday (Valentine's Day), I hadn't had sex in exactly one month and thirty days. And I was horny as all get out. This wasn't any sort of new development, either. For weeks I had been thinking about it, dreaming about it, nightsweating about it, hotflashing about it, fixating on it. All to the point where by yesterday, I neeeeeeeded it.

So I was working on a piece at a coffee shop. There was a hot girl sitting next to me, blabbering away over the top of her screen to her homework partner. I started eavesdropping, because you know, she was cute. Her short brown hair sort of stuck out in strange angles which only accentuated her cheek bones and pointy nose. I couldn't get enough of those cheek bones. I was packing up to leave the shop when a fleeting thought hit me: what if I asked for her number? No, no, this was too risky. Asking for something always means the other party may say that ugly two-letter word.

("No.")

But then another thought, this time wilder: what if I gave her my number? Okay, we might be getting somewhere with this one. Giving a slip of paper with a number on it ... that has never hurt anyone, has it? Nearly blinded by fear, lust and anxiety, I quickly scrawled my name and number on a torn-out journal page. Then I left the coffee shop.

Wait, WHAT? Yes, I left. I walked straight out the door. Not the first time last night I wished for the taste of liquid courage. I stood on the street corner, breathing cold air into my lungs and head, wishing I was smart enough, pretty enough, cool enough, geeky enough, hipster enough, plain old just enough. Eventually the sex thing got to me, turned me around, and marched me right back into that coffee shop.

"Hi, sorry if this seems a little creepy, I just graduated from the university (pointing across the street to my alma matter), I'm assuming you're university students?" She nodded affirmative. "Well I don't know how you identify and I honestly have never done this before but I'm giving you my number (handing piece of paper over) .... sorry if I've weird-ed you out. Happy Valentine's Day." I ran.

I was mortified and ecstatic and realizing she wasn't as cute as I was relieved to be finished with the verbal vomiting of run-on fragments. But I had just tried to pick up my first chick ever! (Not counting the roommate I kissed the year before, or the token gay girl I tried to hold hands with the year before that.) My life in film flashed before me, and I was golden. I didn't give a shit if she called me "fag" as soon as I left-- I was walking sky-high. And it felt good.

Fast-forward three hours, to a Boystown sports bar with seven other girls (I'm not drinking, they are). I get a text from an unknown number: "Hi, is this Claire? I got the note you left me in the coffee shop." Holy shit. I might have a valentine! ... actually, I yelled that to the entire bar. I quickly texted back, only to find out the number belonged to a man, S, who had happened upon the forsaken paper later in the evening and mistaken himself as the target. So it could be worse. Upon the advice of my drunk friends, I arranged to meet up with S at a late-night restaurant. Just to make sure he wasn't a murderer before I let him have me.

I leave the bar, drive to Andersonville, meet S, and proceed to converse for an hour and a half about Christian and Muslim theology regarding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, gays, predestination, and worship liturgies. This was not the easy hook-up I had hoped for. By midnight, he makes excuses and hopes I had a good evening. "Yes," I respond begrudgingly. After all, he did buy my pot of tea.

"Then perhaps I was God's gift to you," said the Muslim cheerfully. Yeah, right, I thought to myself. I stomped to my car, drove back to my bar friends' house, took off my hot bra and went to bed on the couch.

With twenty-four hours' worth of hindsight in my hands, I cannot help but see the redemption in my determinedly sex-driven Valentine's escapades. Of course, there are so many what-ifs: if he had been a murderer, if he had had an STD, if I had gotten pregnant. If he had drugged me, if I had walked into rape, if he had a temper. Just to name a few (you're welcome, Mom and Dad!).

I didn't get my sex. However, I am sobered by the near-miss. In my whorish Valentine's tendencies, there was redemption. We simply talked, walked away, and the night ended. I did not give myself away, an act which I am realizing would have only made me feel even emptier. I did not allow another person to take part of my being, that being which belongs solely to God.

So yes, S, perhaps you are right. Perhaps you were God's gift to me last night.

Thank you, Lord.