The One

There's only one man I haven't slept with. Okay, before you go asking your boyfriends and husbands (and that waitress from the Flamingo) if they know me, there's technically lots of men I haven't slept with. But there's only one I really regret not sleeping with. And in case you're wondering, no, it's not you.

I really have no idea why it never happened. I can tell you, in great detail, the circumstances, even the cocktails, that led to me sleeping with every other person I've gone to bed with, the evenings or events that took us from flirtation to consummation. But I can't really tell you why this particular relationship remained chaste, except for a goodnight kiss or two. It certainly seemed like it would head in that direction. I mean, it's not like I play that hard to get.

We met in our early 20s, and very quickly took to each other like Joanie to Chachi. It may have been our mutual love of music (listening for me, playing for him). Or maybe leather (jacket for me, pants for him). We spent a ridiculous amount of time together, often with alcohol involved. We talked on the phone all the time, drove around the city (he always opened the car door for me). He was a great driver, which earned him major hot points. He was also very tall, great hands, darkly handsome, quick to laugh, with a sexy / dirty voice and great hair. He always insisted on paying. And he adored me. Still does. So what the hell? There were so many times friends ran into us at a bar and wondered what the hell was going on. Not nearly enough, much to my continuing dismay.

There was one night I thought the planets might be aligned. We were at a party in honour of the G-7. And no, he wasn't Bill Clinton, by the way. The venue was beautiful, the vibe was exciting, the beer and the booze were both free and free flowing. I remember us sidling up to the bar and asking for tequila shot after tequila shot. I do enjoy a man who'll do tequila with me. After a somewhat liquified evening, we hatched upon a brilliant plan, a plan so simple yet so perfect it seemed foretold by the gods. The plan? "Let's go back to the media centre and see if we can find Wolf Blitzer." So away we went, just the three of us; me, him and our wing man Jose Cuervo. A quick bag search, a flash of a pass, and we were in. The media centre was surprisingly busy for nearly midnight. We skulked, we slunk, we stumbled, we ran into Irving R. Levine. Not good enough. Bow-tie be damned, we were on a Wolf hunt. Just when we thought our search would be fruitless, we rounded a cubicle-maze corner, and there he was. The man himself. Wolf. We were doubly Blitzed that night. Did we introduce ourselves? Nope. We gazed upon the object of our journalistic affections from several feet away, then we practically skipped off to a quiet corner, giddy in our accomplishment. There, we slowly came down from our CNN contact high and called his Mom to tell her of our conquest. She was both impressed and, I think, a wee bit concerned for both our blood alcohol levels and Mr. Blitzer's safety. However, she'd heard a lot about me, and I'm pretty sure she knew her boy was in good hands. Or could be, if he'd just make a damn move. C'mon - could there have been a better time to finally act on it, drunk as we were on both our success and the bittersweet nectar of the blue agave plant? You'd think so, but no. Alas, our mutual satisfaction that night was limited to watching our unsuspecting hero type.

I know if I were to email him right now and ask why we never got carnal, he'd say something silly like "because, baby, I knew I couldn't handle you", or "you would have ruined me for everyone else" or something equally flattering but non-serious. Part of his undeniable charm, but not exactly illuminating.

Maybe it's that we were so young, and lord knows I wasn't a make the first move kind of girl back then. I'm still not. Unless I pretty much have an engraved invitation, I'm not going to be the first one coming up (or going down) to get the party started. And it may sound silly, but he was a gentleman. I believe without a very clear signal from me, he was not about to risk our friendship. Maybe he didn't want to use me for sex. Seriously, dude, I wouldn't have minded. Had you seen your ass? I sometimes wondered if the attraction wasn't mutual. I suppose there's always that chance, but I really don't think that was it. Being frustrated and being an idiot are two separate things.

After he moved away, we'd always get together when we were in the same city. I'd get nervous, wondering if a different setting would make the difference. Or if a fast drive on a summer night along the lakeshore would make the difference. Or if microbrewed beer and a smoky club would make the difference. Or if me having way more disposable income and an incredibly sexy hotel room would make the difference. No, no, sadly no, and fuck no.

I'll always think of him so fondly, and I'll always wonder what it would have been like (fantastic is my guess), but maybe it's better this way. I never needed to ask myself "Was that a mistake" or "I wonder if he still thinks about me that way?" or "Do these hotel sheets make my boobs look awesome or what?" Here's the thing: with maybe one exception, no one I've ever slept with has made me feel as fascinating with my clothes off as he did sitting across the table from me on many an evening, clothes well and firmly on. And that, perhaps, is enough, the reason that being The One who got away is better than being one of the ones who didn't.

And by the way, Mr. Blitzer? As a matchmaker, you suck.