I have a secret to share.

Up until this past weekend, I haven’t spent three whole days with a guy in seven years. And . . . it’s something I horribly miss. Having someone to wrap your legs and arms around on consecutive nights.  Getting more than an hour or two to have sex—and fucking more than once a day. Not having to worry about setting the alarm so we can take off in opposite directions.

But I was also scared. Scared that I would enjoy it so much that I wouldn’t want him to leave. Or cry myself home on my five-hour drive. Or, experience the funk that can sometimes happen the day after spending a lot of time with someone you really like.

To help manage my fear, I tried my best all weekend to be present in the moment—even though I’m hard-wired to live life in the future. And, I made it through just fine. No begging him to stay. No crying. No funk. What I do have are some really memorable Kodak moments.

I relished in eating the breakfast that Tank made me one morning. Not any old breakfast either. Yummy Denver scrambled eggs with raisin toast (already buttered for me) and apple slices.

I learned I love being bitten. Hard. On my neck. My back. My shoulders. I felt like a kid in high school using make-up to cover the marks when we ventured outdoors into the warmth of the desert sun. Damn good thing I already had a bit of a tan!

And every day, he’d wash my back in the shower. You know, the spots that are hard to get to on your own, no matter how imaginatively you contort your body.

Saturday, in particular, was memorable. Let me start in reverse—at the end of the day—as I wait for the photo to tell the rest of the story.

Tank wanted prime rib for dinner. There was no argument from me. You don’t grow up in the heart of the Midwest and not be a carnivore. But we didn’t want the chains that were in abundance—Ruth Chris, LG Steakhouse, Morton’s and the like. We wanted a locals hideout. The place no one reveals unless you prompt them several times.

We found it alright. We were the youngest people in the place—by at least a decade—until a kid showed up with his parents. According to the woman who was part of a singing duo that started at 6 o’clock that evening, we got the very best seats in the house. Beneath one of the band’s main speakers. Seated next to each other, we got to see every single person who walked into the joint. The people watching was fantastic. Especially the married guy in his 70s who was fondling and flirting with a single woman at the bar as his wife watched them.

Our meal ended with a huge slice of chocolate cake—the fudgy, moist kind—and a great chat with the female singer whose husband had fingered many a guitar with the Righteous Brothers and other major Motown recording artists.

After this sort of meal, you don’t really have many choices, other than to retire to the sofa for a while. Which we did to watch some of the tennis matches that had played that day at the BNP Paribas Tournament.

Now, one of the things that attracted me to Tank is that he loves to talk. No sooner had I found the Tennis Channel on TV, when I heard:

“Didn’t you say some couples contacted you recently?”

“Yes.”

“Can I take a look at them with you?”

“Sure.”

We huddled over my laptop on the coffee table, reading their online profiles. A few of them interested both of us so I designated them as friends to remind me to write back to them about us. Then, I heard Tank say, “Could you pull up my profile? I want to read it. I think it’s got old stuff on it.”

So I did. It showed Tank being two years younger so it’d been a while since he’d updated it. He placed the laptop in front of him. After erasing his fantasy—to find a swing partner—he started writing.

“I currently have a swing partner and we are totally enjoying playing as a couple. I must say it’s so much more enjoyable and exciting to play as a couple, which I never realized as a single guy, and has given me a whole new outlook on swinging.”

I didn’t say a word.