24 – The Baudelaire Affair

After Tuesday’s spontaneous date had quite literally gone down the drain—and onto the bedsheet, leaving even the washing machine emotionally scarred—it was time to move on. New day, new date. Thursday: right day, right man, new attempt. I didn’t know this particular gentleman beyond the usual CV facts — but enough for a date. He taught something involving economics and numbers at the university, was single, fond of morbid French poetry, and generally a little reserved. We’d met once before—a quick 30-minute lunch-break date. His surprisingly passionate kiss had tasted faintly of Caesar salad. It then took four whole weeks before our schedules finally aligned again—aside from the little Tuesday-Thursday misunderstanding.

This time, things moved much faster. The moment I sat down on his big couch with a glass of red wine, his enthusiasm was unmistakable. Ten minutes later, we were already heading toward the bedroom. He sent me ahead, while behind me I could hear drawers opening and closing—a symphony of hope and panic searching for latex. I didn’t have any condoms in my handbag, but I offered to fetch some from the car.

Thankfully, he found one just in time.

He was rushing—which, to be honest, didn’t surprise me. He was single.

Who knows how long it had been? 

What was a little disappointing, though not entirely unusual, was that his erection decided to take an unscheduled creative break after about five minutes. I offered assistance, which he didn't want, and then waited politely, but the sequel never came. Well, it happens to the best of men. Nerves, pressure, stress—plenty of possible explanations.

So we lay there in his dark bedroom. My head rested on his chest. After briefly touching on Nietzsche and dismissing the Übermensch, silence fell. And then—since words had failed him—he borrowed someone else’s. He began reciting Baudelaire in the dark, in our shared nakedness, with a surprisingly moving delivery. I didn’t understand every word, but I was equally confused and impressed. After several long poems from the French master, he switched to Shakespeare—perhaps out of kindness, so I could follow more easily. I lay there, listening, stroking him gently. The moment felt surreal—but never uncomfortable.

I lay naked in the arms of an almost stranger, who softly declaimed poetry into the dark. And just as I thought things couldn’t possibly get any stranger, he began to sing—in Spanish.

And not badly, either. He had a trained voice and sang naked for me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Naked. Singing. Poetic.

As long as my fingers traced his skin, he kept speaking—always with the words of other men.

When I finally stopped after two hours, assuming he might want to sleep—or that he’d simply run out of poems—he stood up and said,

“Rest a bit. I’ll wait for you downstairs.” I ignored the remark, got dressed, and joined him on the couch. Trying to give him an elegant exit, I asked whether he had work to do. Instead of answering, he took my hand, rested his head in my lap, and I gently ran my fingers across his face while Haydn wrapped us in a quiet cocoon of sound.

We didn’t speak—we just listened.

When I later sat in my car, I felt both confused and strangely moved. It had been, without a doubt, the most unusual date I’d ever had. Nothing about it was unpleasant, yet everything was unexpected.

No sex. No discomfort. Just a touch of poetry that, somehow, I still haven’t quite shaken off.