The Want Ad

I put my earbuds in and attempt to focus on the narrator’s voice while still trying to choose the right shade of blue for my latest sketch. But all I can think about are the words I have reread so many times over the last few days... “this is not sexual, but a necessity.” I pause my audiobook and click back to the ad once again. Most times, I imagine the guy who wrote it to be some old pervert who lives in the basement of his mother’s house. He never showers, always in the same clothes—teeth yellow from cigarette smoking and hand calloused from doing who knows what. With my imagination, one would wonder why I am still giving the idea so much attention. But when I focus on the way the ad is written, simple, tasteful, and grammatically correct, I also can imagine just a regular guy who’s genuinely not looking for sex but rather a solution to a problem. I finally decided to hit the reply button. The only option to respond is by email, and although I am relieved because I did not want to use my phone number, I consider that this is just a scam, and as soon I reply, my account will be flooded with links to porn sites and pictures of dicks. For a couple of minutes, I try to convince myself to abandon this whole thing. Still, when I weigh how much time I wasted just thinking about it, I copy the address to reply through an old account I no longer use and whose address contained no personal information. I type “The Want Ad” on the subject line, and after several attempts of the message, I delete almost all of it and end up with “I may be able to assist.”

It was dark outside by the time I had left work. I needed the overtime, but I hated getting home so late. I wanted to stop by the art supply store, but they closed in 10 minutes, and I was too far away to make it there in time. As I headed up the street to the crosswalk, I felt the first raindrop on my nose. Waiting for the light to change, I opened my tote to pull out my umbrella when I noticed my phone had an email alert. I was surprised at first but then annoyed. I thought I would hear back almost immediately, but I never did. I even checked back occasionally to see if the post was still active. It always was, but after the 2nd week, I completely lost interest. It has been such a relief to no longer be obsessing; I considered just deleting the message.

I was sipping a Coke at the left end of the oval-shaped bar when he walked in. Even though the details he gave to describe himself were so generic: 31 years old, facial hair, dressed in blue, I was still able to generate a variety of images in my mind; however, none of them came close to what I was seeing. He was handsome. So much so I no longer had the never to go through with this. I pulled a five-dollar bill from my purse and slid it across the bar. And just as I was about the step down from my barstool, I couldn’t help but watch as the stunning blonde waitress made her way to his table. She bent over slightly as she jotted down his order, and although every pair of eyes in the room were on her, his were focused straight ahead. I was embarrassed when he slid the money back towards me, “I’m so sorry; how much more do I owe you?” opening my bag to pull out more money. “It’s already been taken care of.” And as he stepped aside to tend to another guest, I realized that this whole time he had been staring right at me.

He smiled and stood to pull out my chair before I was halfway to his table. And although it seemed as if he was looking at my face, I just knew that he wasn’t. The closer I got, it was as if my body was having a physical reaction to him. So much so it was becoming uncomfortable, and I wondered if he was able to tell. Up close, he was even more handsome, and he smelled as good as he looked.

The waitress placed a tall, dark beer and Coke with ice on our table before asking if we’d like anything else. He nodded no, and I did the same. I was so nervous I just wanted this over with, so without even thinking, I blurted out, “what did you mean by necessity?”

He brought his hand up to his chin and slowly rubbed the hair along the side of his face, “how old are you?”

“How old are you?” I snapped.

“You know how old I am.”

“You’re right,” I replied more calmly as I laced my fingers around my cold glass, “but what did you mean when you said that?”

He shifted his body in his chair so that he could look directly at me without turning his head.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

His question took me off guard. I guess it was the obvious question to ask, but I had not prepared myself for it.

“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”

“Fair enough,” he said, “ask me again?”

I took a sip of my drink and placed it back down, “you said it wasn’t sexual, but a necessity; how is that even possible?”

“It calms me down, clears my mind. Something that otherwise is difficult for me to achieve.”

“So, how would you even know that? Was it a fetish or something?”

“That’s a fair question. But no, it’s not a fetish...never was a fetish. A couple of years ago, I hooked up with a woman, and during sex, she started leaking. She said she needed to nurse and asked if I would, and I did. And I remember afterward feeling so relaxed, and that feeling lasted for days. At first, I thought she made me feel that way, but I found it wasn’t her exactly. And because she was married, I began seeking out other women, but they all wanted relationships, and I didn’t. I was looking for a...”

“A service.”

He smiled, “yes, exactly.”

We both sat quietly for a few moments before he asked, “is it my turn now?”

I gave a slight nod, then took a deep breath, “No, I am not married, and I don’t have a child.”

He had a puzzled look on his face but said I didn’t owe him any further explanation. But I felt like I did; if we were going to move forward, we needed to be honest.

“I have a condition. It runs in my family; the women in my family.”

“What do you mean by condition?” he asked.

Having never talked about this to anyone except the women in her family, it was difficult to word it correctly.

“Um. I produce milk, breastmilk and it’s not something I can control. I wish I could, but I can’t. It is something my body does and will continue to do.”

“For how long?”

“Possibly forever.”

“And I’m guessing this is something you’re not comfortable with?”

“Not at all. I hate it.”

“Then why would you even consider even doing this?"

I took a deep breath and held back tears.

“This past year has been rough for me. My relationship ended.”

“Because of this,” he almost sounded confused.

“Basically, yes. When this all started, my body went through a drastic change and almost overnight. I could barely handle it all myself and wasn’t ready to explain it to him. So instead, I just avoided him. Pretty soon, he stopped wondering why. I saw him a few weeks ago with someone. They looked happy.”

He sat there quietly, just watching me. It was as if his eyes were tracing the outline of my face, and under any other circumstance, I would have enjoyed it. I took another sip of my drink and realized he had yet to touch his. I must sound crazy, but then all of this was crazy.

“But I still don’t understand why you are here?”

“When I stumbled across your ad, I’ll be real honest; I thought it was gross. I mean, why would a grown man want that? Want to do that. But after a few days, I started to think I might turn this negative into a positive. I had something you wanted, and you hand something I wanted.”

Then suddenly, in one gulp, he emptied his glass. Before setting it back down, he motioned to the waitress to bring another.

“Look, I can tell this is far from what you were wanting, and I’ve taken up enough of your time. I should have been more straightforward in our emails, and for that, I am sorry.”

The waitress gently placed the new beer in front of him then removed our empty glasses. She asked if I would like anything else, and without looking up, I nodded my head no. As she walked away, I forced a smile and thanked him again for his time. When I stood, he stood with me, and before I could move, his face slowly brushed against the side of mine. I could suddenly hear the sound of my heart pounding, and it seemed to mimic the pulsation in his neck. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life,” he whispered, his lips brushing against my ear with each word.