Humor

Spud Love
Sometimes "forever" starts with a baked potato and a pair of huge blue eyes
Sally Sheklow

I wasn’t looking for love. Having a fling was fine, but nothing long-term for me, thanks. My "Love Forever" relationships had always ended in ugly scenes and late-night door slamming. Who would want that to last forever?

On our first-six-month-a-versary, my sweetie gave me a card asking "Wanna try for another six months?" I hit the roof. "Quit future tripping. Don’t lay any expectations on me!" I was hopelessly attracted to trouble–a shoo-in for Miss Codependency. I couldn’t trust that I had recovered enough to make good choices, so my sweetie and I shared a whole year of sleepovers before I started using the word "Love." Even longer before "forever" passed my lips.

Fourteen years later, I’m easy with "love forever." The moment I changed is hard to pinpoint. Maybe it was when my old dog died and my sweetie stepped up to the number-one loyal companion spot. Maybe it was weathering tough times without turning on each other that let me relax into love. Or maybe it just kept being good, so I stayed.

My "love forever" came disguised as your run-of-the-mill, crotch-throbbing attraction. About a month before our first night together, the future love of my life wanted to interview me on the radio show she hosted, to talk about the Gay Lobby Day I'd just attended in Washington, D.C. I was nervous, but she was cool and competent, a woman in charge. I couldn’t take my eyes off those chubby little fingers diddling the console knobs. During a break she slipped her headphones off and commented, "You’re shy, aren’t you?" Wonga wonga!

Something got me about her seeing my vulnerability–the tender inner me behind my out-’n’-proud persona. I drove away from the radio station vowing she’d be my next fling … only for the sex, of course.

I invited her to stuff envelopes at the nonprofit where I volunteered. She had a meeting. I asked her if she wanted to go to the Pride rally. She was fixing her sink. A movie? She had a dentist appointment. At a potluck she announced, "I’ve got a free pair of tickets to a concert, anybody want to go?"

"I will!" If I hadn’t been so gaga, I might have noticed her trepidation. But I was full speed ahead. I tried to make a good impression in my vintage Hawaiian shirt, a poor choice for the chilly auditorium with its cold metal seats. I scooted my chair toward her, hoping to share some body heat. Was it my imagination, or did she scoot away? I scooted again. She did, too. When we gave a standing ovation, I sidled closer. She stepped into the aisle.

It was pouring rain when the concert let out, and we had to run across the parking lot to her truck. I hoped she’d put her warm arm around me or at least lay one of those plump little paws on my thigh. I wanted to connect, win her over, get in her pants. When a huge RV passed us, I said, "Ah, that’s my fantasy, to have a big camper, drive out into the boonies, and have loud sex."

Silence. She didn’t say another word for the whole 45-minute drive home.

I made myself wait a week to call her up. "Hi, I just harvested my potatoes. Want to come over for dinner?"

"Sure, that sounds exciting."

Potatoes? Exciting? This from the chair scooter? Maybe she finally ran out of excuses. Maybe she had a thing for spuds.

We ate our baked potatoes. She was relaxed, warm, funny. Why hadn’t I ever noticed those huge blue eyes? I served her another potato.

After dinner, we took a walk, held hands, talked, and laughed. We hugged goodnight at my gate. Full body press. Progress! The next night we went to the Gay and Lesbian Center benefit dance. We made out in the car and went home to my place. We have been together pretty much every night since.

After 14 years, even I will admit this isn’t a fling. The love keeps unfolding–like one of those party-favor balls you unravel slowly so you don’t miss any of the little prizes tucked between the layers. Who wouldn’t want it to last forever?