It’s the night of our meetup, about which you said “It’s a date” when we planned it.

Since you are a man, I don't think my soon-to-be ex-wife suspects the “date” aspect of our meeting when I leave the house.

I'm unsure about that aspect myself, but I primp myself once in the car anyway, buzzing five o'clock off my face with an electric razor and applying some cologne too. I do want to be fully date-ready for you, in the hope that my hunch is right.

We end up parking a few spots apart, getting out of our cars at almost the same time. We greet each other with a bigger hug than might be expected for two middle-aged men who barely knew each other in high school and haven't seen each other since.

Still, I feel a sizzle of electricity between us already.

Once inside and ordered up, the conversation sizzles too. The banter flows easily and we find many things in common. We like a lot of the same movies, and much of the same music, having even attended a couple of the same festivals back in the Nineties. And although we have different degrees, we have wound up in the same line of work.

It turns out we both lived in New York in the early 2000s, including the 9/11 attacks, during which we were blocks away from each other in Midtown, and lived the aftermath as the city suffered and recovered. We both follow the same sports teams and although neither of us is a hardcore Yankees fan, we were both at the stadium for Giambi’s legendary 2002 grand slam in the rain, the kind of sports moment that makes even macho men emotional.

We don’t look alike, though; you are taller, thinner and blonder, with blue eyes. Which, by the way, seem to be drilling into me every time I meet your gaze. Stop it!

No, don’t stop. Maybe I like it.

It’s not just our commonalities that are driving our amazing rapport: we seem to have an easygoing manner with each other, with lots of playful back-and-forth wordplay. Not flirty, but more as if we were old friends.

If this is a date, it is a pretty good one. After a couple of hours of this fun, burgers and first beers long-gone, I become aware that our affinity for each other might be growing into affection, a desire for you beginning to well up inside me. Maybe a bit of welling is starting to happen inside my prick, too, which is lengthening. I'd probably have been willing to have sex with you tonight as long as we got on even half-decently, but this kind of connection would improve the experience immensely.

If this really is a date, that is.

“I haven’t heard much about your wife yet, Joe,” you comment, shifting the conversation. “Tell me more about her.”

“Well, Mike,” I tell you in a downcast tone, “the reason I haven’t been talking about her is it looks like we’re splitting up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you reply empathetically. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don't mind. She was cheating, but after getting caught she asked me for a divorce.”

“Dude, that really stinks,” you reassure, briefly placing your hand on mine. Looking directly into my eyes, you declare, “She's obviously a fool. You're successful, good-looking, fun to talk to ... admittedly, I say this because we have so much in common, I could almost be talking about myself, but what could she be thinking? Who wouldn’t want to be with you?”

My goodness! I hope you do. Having just deflated a bit at the mention of my divorce, I’m suddenly sporting a full stiffie in response to this unwonted (but not unwanted) praise, not to mention the physical touch of your hand. Flattery will get you everywhere, Mike.

“That’s nice of you to say.” I pause for a moment as I ponder what to say next, potentially drifting the conversation into the ditch. But for better or worse, my libido grabs the wheel at the last second and steers into more provocative territory that might help me finally figure out whether this is a real date. “I guess there’s been a silver lining, though,” I offer, smirking a bit. “The sex sure was good the last few months.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that can be a sign. Can’t make up for the pain, but I hope it soothes it a little bit?”

“Yeah, that’s a good way of putting it.”

Leaning in, you probe gently but earnestly. “I’d be interested in the details. If it isn’t too painful. ”

“No, I don’t mind at all. I’ve been wishing I could talk to somebody about all this.“

“So talk to me. I’d like to hear it. Especially if no one else will.”

“Thanks. Somehow, with the way you and I are connecting, I do feel like I can share these more intimate details.”

“Oh, our connection is turning more intimate, is it?” you inquire in a slightly salacious tone, your eyes now burning with blue flame. Running your tongue across your lips, you add, “Go ahead, you can get intimate with me. What was so great about the sex?”

Holy hell, after two hours of electrifying conversation, getting intimate is exactly what I want to do. You are the first man to flirt with me like this. Sure, some guys throw jokes around about gay play, and I've always taken them as jokes. In such a sensitive conversation with you, this feels like no joke I've ever known.

it occurs to me now that maybe those other guys weren't all joking either, and that I may have missed some opportunities over the years. Not that I was necessarily ready for such a thing when I was younger.

I am now.

“Okay, so here goes," I begin, perhaps a bit anxiously at the explicitness that is coming. "Until this affair got going, it had been years since Connie gave me a proper blowjob.”

“Proper?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“I mean ... to completion. You know?”

“Ahh, that kind,” you counter knowingly, leaning across the table again. “I am hanging on your every word.”

Feeling a bit more confident, I explain in a lowered voice. “I mean, for the last few years, all I ever got was her taking me in her mouth for thirty seconds when we were warming up, just before telling me to shove it in her. But then, when she started banging this other guy, well, once again she was truly blowing me every week.”

Your face still just a foot from mine, I say the following words slowly and emphatically. “And swallowing … every … drop.”

Now, my gaze directed into you as if on a dare, I throw one more punch: “I’d forgotten how good it feels to come in a warm mouth, you know?”

You flinch at that one, quietly stammering, “Oh Jesus,” as you blink hard and lean back again. “I think I'd forgotten too. It’s been ... I don’t know, almost twenty years since Alyssa did that for me.”

You crack a smile and continue. “But when you put it that way, the memories are coming … uh, flooding … back.”

We both giggle heartily and long at that, releasing some of the nervous energy that's been building.

More seriously you add, lowering your voice, “I’m really glad for you, and for your dick, that you’ve had at least that much recently. I’m also glad you feel comfortable confiding so much. Can I take a turn sharing something intimate too?”

“Of course. Intimacy is best when it’s mutual,” I respond, using my most obviously flirtatious tone yet. We are both beaming at each other at this point. I believe this is a date after all, and I like how it is progressing.