It had been four months since Jonah and I broke up. That isn't a long time by any stretch of the imagination, but we'd had an active sex life right up to the end. That was never our problem. Although I don't consider myself to be a predominately sexual person, I still have needs which aren't being meant. Consequently, I could not stop thinking about Brian. Brian is an older man in the neighborhood, living alone at sixty after his divorce over a decade ago. Though he is friendly, not much is known about his social life. My mother has frequently observed the strangeness (to her mind) of a man as...

It had been four months since Jonah and I broke up. That isn't a long time by any stretch of the imagination, but we'd had an active sex life right up to the end. That was never our problem. Although I don't consider myself to be a predominately sexual person, I still have needs which aren't being meant. Consequently, I could not stop thinking about Brian. Brian is an older man in the neighborhood, living alone at sixty after his divorce over a decade ago. Though he is friendly, not much is known about his social life. My mother has frequently observed the strangeness (to her mind) of a man as attractive as Brian not seeming to have a romantic life. I'd moved in with my parents while I found a new place. The neighborhood was nice - not one of those subdivisions, just a scattering of modest, single-family homes. Although I'd met many of the neighbors before, I'd gotten to know them in greater depth since the move. At my mother's request last week, I'd gone with a jar of chicken soup in hand to check on our neighbor, Brian, because he'd mentioned he was coming down with a cold or possibly the flu. He hadn't answered the door to my insistent knocking, even though I could tell he was home. He'd injudiciously left his side door unlocked. Knowing how sick he'd b been, I'd worried that he was passed out on the floor in need of resuscitation. Imagine my chagrin when I pushed open his bedroom door to find him in the process of satisfying himself. Although I'd made a hasty retreat, I'd been impressed by the sheer magnitude of his all-too-briefly glimpsed manhood. The next day, he'd been at my parents' house to return the jar and we'd cleared the air sharing a hearty laugh at the supreme awkwardness of the situation. Despite the passage of a week during which I've waved my friendly wave as I passed by his house periodically, my mind continues its preoccupation with the thought of Brian's naked body. When my mom suggests that I bring some muffins over for Brian's breakfast, I readily consent, a plan forming in my mind. I set off after ensuring that I look half-way presentable. Once again, I'm at Brian's door. Upon receiving no reply to my determined tattoo, I turn the handle. It's déjà vu all over again. Shaking off the feeling of repetition, I deviate from my actions the prior week by locking the door behind me. I call out his name a few times, but not too loudly. Having caught a brief glance at his SUV secure beneath the carport, I know he's home. As I ascend the staircase, my pulse increases with the surreality of the situation. I can't quite believe I'm about to do this. Maybe he's taking a nap. There was no guarantee that I would find the situation to be anything like I'd imagined. There is a telltale flickering of the television light under the doorway which simultaneously boosts my anxiety and relieves me of the burden of volition. It was a direct repetition of prior circumstances, almost a cosmic confirmation of my plan. My knock sounds timorous in the silent house. No answer. So, I'm doing this. I open the door. Sure enough, there he is, sprawled in his bed. His hand freezes in the act of self-satiation as he catches sight of me. "Ellen! Jesus!" he pulls frantically at the covers, the tenting of the sheet only serving to emphasize his situation. "Sorry, Brian. I knocked, but the door was unlocked." My unapologetic tone belies my words. Without looking, I place the Ziploc bag containing the muffins on the dresser beside the television. Holding his gaze, I walk slowly towards the bed. I may not be his ideal woman, gods know I didn't have anything approaching porno-grade boobs, but I was determined. "I'm ok, I'm not dying!" His attempt to cover up his embarrassment with forced jocularity fails, his laugh more like a nervous whinny. "Glad to hear that." Sexy isn't really my thing, though I try out the line I'd prepared in advance. "Is there anything I can ...uh...help you with?" The words sound far clunkier when uttered in real life.