Spooning

by Simone Westfall — May 4, 2007

The next time I see Sam we meet at a restaurant in my neighborhood, where he has already ordered a glass of red wine and is staring fixedly at the baseball game on the TV above the bar. (As a painter friend of mine once remarked, you could have a great Matisse hanging in a bar, and if there's a television, no one will so much as glance at the painting.)

I tug at his lapel and ask playfully, "Am I going to have trouble competing for your attention?"

"Hey, Simone, I'm a guy. You gotta cut me some slack."

"And I do. I just wish some day someone would explain the mechanics of baseball to me so that I can get as involved as you do." I tell him the only game I've been to in the last 20 years was at Shea last summer, where I shivered during interludes of heavy rain, ate overpriced hot dogs for dinner, and couldn't for the life of me understand why this is America's most beloved pastime.

He gives me a hug. "We'll go to a game together. I'll show you why it's so much fun."

I like the sound of that. He asks me what I've been doing over the last few days. "Writing a book review of a new survey of Mark Rothko's career."

"Who's Mark Rothko?" he asks.

I can't help it, but I cringe inwardly, just a little. Not to be a snob, but could I really get involved with someone who's never heard of Mark Rothko? "A major painter, a big deal in mid-twentieth-century American art. He and Jackson Pollock were near-contemporaries. You have heard of Jackson Pollock?"

He nods at that, and I say, "Tell you what, you take me to a baseball game and I'll take you to the Modern to see the Rothkos."

"Deal." He kisses my forehead.

And for the time being that settles the culture wars. Over dinner Sam tells me more about his vast extended family and growing up in the South. It was a brutal childhood--his father polished off a quart of bourbon a day and frequently took a strap to the kids--so far removed from my easy suburban upbringing that my heart goes out to him. Sam is matter-of-fact in discussing his childhood, the soul of unadventurous normalcy in his blue banker's suit and striped shirt, until he whispers, "I can't wait to take your clothes off."

And we're in for another marathon night of it, though this time I'm better prepared with the rubbers and the lubricants. Sam is a big snuggler--he told me from the beginning he loves to spoon--and it's very sweet to sleep with his arms around me most of the night. I can't help wondering why it is his wife refuses the advances of such an affectionate man and what the situation is on the home front.

The next day he text messages me, "I like sleeping with u."

And I text message back: "Me 2."

What is it about great sex that turns even supposedly mature and sophisticated people into giggling teenagers?

Simone Westfall is the pen name of a novelist and critic in New York City. To read all of Simone's posts in "The Dating Life," click here.