As soon as I opened the door, we were together. Within minutes, the fighter pilot I call "Goose" was bringing my body to life in a way I had never experienced before.
The sex was fast and furious, filled with exclamation marks of unconscious desire in giving and taking. Goose was a strong wingman. He came from behind, shouting "fu*k!" loudly and enthusiastically, like a flat boy scoring. The only loud thing was my own ecstatic scream.
Then, as we lay in each other's arms, we might have been mistaken for lovers. Talking without speaking. The atmosphere of my skin. Our bodies intertwined in the soft light of early morning.
Then he was ready for it again. When he reached climax, he brought me along with him.
In less than a week, I discovered that Goose was not just my top gun in bed (among the few officer candidates who had landed there). That brief, insightful journey was paved with a painful yet humorous lesson about the power of sexual chemistry to scare men, the lies we can convey when we try to become someone else's short-term pleasure, and the transcendent value of truth.
Chemistry appeared when Goose, a Southern gentleman and unfortunately a Harvard man, walked up to my car, and when I kissed him, it was our first and only actual date. Soon we were necking in front of family with a young child.
We met on Hinge. His profile was a welcome relief for my right thumb, which was sore from swiping left. He was tall, dark, handsome, smart, adventurous, and navigating dating while parenting, just like me. Right swipe.
On our first and only real date, Goose appeared to be armed with honesty about many things, including the fact that he had Googled me. Despite the occasional question that made me wonder if he was judging potential dates for the debutante ball, he shared a strangely familiar feeling about faith and spirituality. He expressed gratitude for the prayer of silence and talked about Catholic priests and the spiritual writings of meditative Richard Rolle. These…