In the eight months since my separation, he’s the only man from the dating site with whom I’ve felt a strong connection. A real, honest-to-god, working pea coat, not the kind you buy at Abercrombie and Fitch. He turns on Pandora blues and Stevie Ray Vaughn wails as we sit on the cushion he has made for the wrap-around bench in the salon and make out. I touch my tongue against the front part of his teeth. These aren’t real nipples, they’re just nubs of tissue.
He steals sideways looks at me in the dark, his face glowing with the light of the flames, and slowly shakes his head. He lives on a boat docked just around the bend on the lake.
Levans decided that she needed to get away from the theme of the album is also worth mentioning is the small.
When I close my eyes and concentrate on his kisses, it feels right. I open my mouth against his open mouth and just breathe. I pause and tell him, “I want to take my shirt off and show you my breasts.” In an act of solidarity, he says, “Me, too” and pulls his Henley off over his head. He looks me in the eyes and says, “These are still a part of you.”Later that day, he emails: “I can only imagine the courage it takes for you to open your heart and your body to a new person…
Welcome to the second installment of Rachel Joy Horn’s tried-and-true-and-possibly-resulting-in-a second-dinner-invitation DOs and DON’Ts of dating post-mastectomy.
Since writing my first post in November, I am still single.
It’s my first date with the boat captain, and I’ve already told him I’ve had early-stage breast cancer, a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgeries. It was his coat and his no-nonsense manner that first put me at ease. on Friday, I was sitting in a Lake Union oyster bar when I saw this tall, ruddy-complexioned man enter with a ready smile. It’s the middle of winter, a clear, freezing night and our fingers are getting numb. Then we kiss in the parking lot, our cold noses touching while a man in a passing car rolls down his window and yells, “Get a room! It’s got the prime slip spot, furthest out with an unobstructed view of downtown Seattle and Gasworks Park.
I’ve also told him some of the good stuff — about my recent, post-divorce New Year’s trip to Costa Rica where I zip-lined, spotted baby monkeys and sailed on a catamaran. I recognized him from his profile pictures and noticed he was wearing a pea coat. At 8 p.m., after four hours of drinks and appetizers and dinner, we vacate the table because another party is waiting. Just outside the restaurant and feet from the lakeshore, a circle of Adirondack chairs surrounds a roaring fire pit contained by wired-in stacks of oyster shells. I reach over to the arm of his chair to hold his hand and pull it under the scratchy wool blanket on my lap. Inside, it has a wooden steering wheel, a galley, a salon, a bunk, a head. He has crafted the interior woodwork, he has drawn the framed miniature sketches hanging on the walls, he has read all of the books lining the built-in bookshelves.