When I opened the door, we were immediately face to face. Within minutes, the fighter pilot I call "Goose" had enlivened my body in a way I had never experienced before.

Sex was fast and furious, full of unconscious desire exclamation marks 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 scream of ecstasy.

Later, as we lay in each other's arms, we might have been mistaken for lovers. Talking and not talking. The atmosphere of my skin. Our bodies intertwined in the soft morning light.

Then he was ready for it again. When he reached climax, he brought me along with him.

Within a week, Goose discovered that he was not just my Top Gun in bed (among the few officer candidates who landed there). This short, insightful journey is paved with the painful but humorous lesson of the power of sexual chemistry to scare a man, the lies we can tell when we try to be 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 to my car and appeared on our first and only actual date when I kissed him. Soon we were necking in front of the family with a young child.

We met on Hinge. His profile was a welcome relief for the pain in my right thumb, tired of swiping left. He was tall, dark, handsome, smart, and adventurous, navigating dating while parenting like me. Right swipe.

On our first and only real date, Goose seemed disarmingly honest about many things, including the fact that he had googled me. Despite occasional questions that made me wonder if he was evaluating me for a potential debutante ball date, he shared a familiar feeling of faith and spirituality. He expressed gratitude for the silence of prayer and talked about the spiritual writings of Catholic priests and the meditative Richard Rohr. These...

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