The Propane Truck Driver

I wanted to be with him from the day I met him. He was sexy, masculine, a father, a traveler, fully employed, spiritual and sober. He stood tall and sat with his legs wide open, leaning back with his hands behind his head in ego, confidence. I wanted him to provide for me in as many ways a man could provide for a woman, because I knew he could….if only I could get him to.

At first, I was intimidated by his strength, sanity, healthiness. I was shy. Sick. Damaged. It wasn’t until I had some sobriety did I feel even worthy of speaking to him, of looking him in the eyes. When I did, for some reason I found myself telling him of my encounters with men. My boyfriends, my dates, my one night stands. I told him of the demoralization of each encounter, explaining to him that I just wanted to be treated like a lady, but it just wasn’t happening. I wanted a man to take me to dinner without expecting me to fuck him. Sterling was the caring but unaffected confidant, always willing to listen, always offering a consolatory hug. He had a girlfriend, so he was off limits. But he listened. Sometimes I would even cry in his arms. I wanted him to be the knight in shining armor and save me from the heathens…and then whisk me away and put me on his stallion for a good, long, hard ride.

Finally, after a year, I started to flirt with him a little, at first only indirectly. I would go to meetings just hoping he would be there, as I had done for the prior year. I started telling a mutual friend that I thought he was “hot”, within his earshot. I wished he would break up with his girlfriend. I wanted him for myself. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. As a matter of fact, I let it go, and I got over him.

Then, a year-and-a-half after I’d met him, the unexpected happened. He and his girlfriend of two years broke up. I couldn’t believe it. I was extremely afraid. I had messed up so many times with men, I didn’t know if I had what it takes, this time, to do it right.

But attracting and seducing Sterling made me feel…worthy. Powerful. He expressed his interest in dating me, but I said I wasn’t ready to date any one. I kept him at bay while I played the mouse and made him the cat. We started talking every day. He said he respected me and didn’t want to lose our friendship – it was very important to him. We should remain friends, he conceded. I was invited to his house a few times. Invited to spend the night one night. We cuddled. I told him that cuddling clearly wasn’t something that “friends” do, so we should consider ourselves “dating”. So now we were “dating.” I was ecstatic. I felt like my dreams had come true.

I went to a convention that weekend and thought about him the whole time. We texted and talked the whole weekend, every day. When I got back he wanted to see me. I went over. This time, we kissed. It made me nervous. I asked him if we could date exclusively (I didn’t want to date more than one person at a time; once I had gotten sober, it just wasn’t the way I’d wanted to do things any more). He said he didn’t like “the dating game” either, that he was looking for a long-term relationship, and he liked the dating-exclusively idea.

He was looking for The One.

I wanted to be Her. 

I started telling our mutual friends that he was my boyfriend. It made him uncomfortable. He said he didn’t want people gossiping.

One day we started sexting. We had agreed before that we were going to take it slow, then one day – bam! The floodgates opened and the sexual tension broke with the force of a typhoon. We described to each other, in detail, all the nasty little things we wanted to do to each other. It was quite exciting. After the sexversation, he asked me out to dinner, and he would pick me up later that night. I went and spent money on lingerie and a dress and panty hose. Money I didn’t really have to spend.

At dinner, I didn’t care for the conversation, for some reason. I was actually turned off by his attempts at having me get to know him. He was all he talked about. So I mostly just watched the reggae singer on stage and sang along.

I pressured him to ask me to dance, to display his fearlessness. I wanted him to be a man.

After we danced, I had him take me home. It wasn’t working for me any more. I had a plan. I was going to go have sex with someone else. I felt uncomfortable with Sterling. There was something in him that I sensed wasn’t right. He was way too concerned with what I, and other people, thought about him. It was a turn-off. That, and, he had suggested a “view point” as our after-dinner destination. We had eaten dinner at a resort – the least he could have done was buy us a room! So high school, I thought. Been there, done that.

But…it was late, and I imagined that the other prospect and I would most likely meet in a parking lot, any way. So I went into the house for a more comfortable pair of shoes, and off we went, to the view point.

There wasn’t much of a view, though – a fence, and a freeway. And I was annoyed at his lack of initiative. Talking, talking – more talking? I hated having to try to be – or at least act – interested in anything he shared about himself. I really didn’t care about his kitchen remodel, or about his family problems. Finally I put my leg on his. “What kind of a man is this,” I thought, “not even willing to make the first move?”

He did kiss me, finally. We kissed passionately, hard. He had told me before that I was a good kisser. I knew I was. That’s how I do it -- I make them want me.

I just want to be wanted. My mom and dad didn’t want me when I was growing up. The only people who wanted me were men – older men. I felt it. They always told me how pretty I was. They came into my room at night, drunk. Mom’s friends. Mom was behind a closed door with her boyfriend who drank and beat her. She drank. He beat us. She let him. Dad worked hard and when he came home, his girlfriend yelled at him. Threw things at him. Yelled at us. Threw kittens against my bedroom door, and killed ‘em.

Sterling was ten years older than I. He was a man. He could take care of me. He could love me. I didn’t need to know him. All I needed was to give him me, and he’d be mine.

He got on top of me before he asked if it was okay. I said yes. I took off my clothes, and so did he. He put himself inside me. It was hard, fast, good, and quick. I feel good when it’s quick. It means I was good.

I had him take me to his house. I didn’t want to feel demoralized. I wanted it to feel like a relationship. We did it again in his bed. Longer, harder. Finally I couldn’t go any more. I wanted to stop, but it kept going for a long, long time. Finally it was over.

I got a urinary tract infection and was sore for days.

It took me four days to tell him I had an infection. I didn’t want to worry him. But finally I mentioned it, and he said – he had a habit of saying – “If there’s anything you want to ask me, anything at all, go ahead, okay? You can ask me anything.” Usually I couldn’t come up with anything to ask him. I thought it was a strange prompt. But this time, I responded, “Just be honest with me, all the time, about everything. That’s all I ask.” 

After a moment, he texted me and asked me if I could come meet him at his work. I thought that was strange, but it excited me. “I want to marry you,” I imagined he was going to say. Or “I want you to move in with me – today.”

I went the nine miles to meet him. I was there within fifteen minutes. He was filling up a propane tank in a church parking lot.

There was a lot of small talk. Shooting the shit. Beating around the bush. He picked me up and let me sit in the driver’s seat of the propane truck. He showed me what all the buttons and knobs were for. I wrapped my legs around him as he brought me down.

He was mine.

He finally started to tell me why he had asked me to come to see him. “I’m a very private person,” he said. “I don’t like gossip. I don’t open up to just anybody. But I know I can trust you.”

He continued, “I just want you to know that neither my last girlfriend or my ex-wife had any problems from what I’m about to tell you. I was with my ex-girlfriend for two years and my ex-wife for seven years. Both of them were fine.”

My heart sank. Something was telling me that whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be good. It had struck me early on that he must have some dark secret. “Is there anything you want to ask me? You can ask me anything you want.” I was starting to put it all together. But he was taking too long. Something in me just blurted out, “Look, can you just, cut to the chase – what, is it genital herpes or something?”

I was half-joking, hoping that was nowhere close to the truth.

But his face was dead serious, as he nodded, and said, “Yes.”

I kept my jaw from dropping, but I imploded from within. He began to apologize…but then the apology turned into an explanation about why he didn’t tell me. He was afraid of how I would react. He didn’t want anyone to know. Everybody gossips in this town. His ex-girlfriend and his ex-wife never got it, so I probably wouldn’t get it. It can only be transmitted if there are symptoms, but there were no symptoms. He felt so bad for not telling me. But when I had told him that morning that I had a UTI, he started to worry. The bottom line was – see – it’s just that he didn’t know we were going to have sex.

Outwardly, I was calm. I thanked him for his honesty. Inwardly, I wanted to rip his dishonest fucking head off.

I think the reason I was calm was because I could immediately see my part in it. I made him The One. I trusted him without knowing him. I didn’t want to know him. I just wanted him – for me. I was gonna get him – and I did.