A night with Dr. Freud

Last night was the choir's last fundraising dance of the season. We don't do it during the summer months. Attendance was modest. It felt more like a year-end party for the Rainbow Chorus. I was missing Danny and the evening felt lacklustre.

Then Dr. Freud arrived. He'll bear that name for reasons I'll explain in a moment. I met him last fall when he moved here from the West to attend school. He's a handsome Irish-Canadian, born and raised in Quebec. Imagine young Sean Connery with a reddish-brown beard, but prettier, with long-lashed eyes. He has a secretive smile, like he has a joke on the rest of the world.

In fact he does have a joke. He moved here to study Freudian psychology. Looking into those dark, glinting eyes I see a world full of meanings within meanings. A world in which Dr. Freud is his own worst enemy, always fending off nightmares. He doesn't believe how handsome he is. He's amiable, but anger and shame storm beneath the surface. He had a good Catholic upbringing. He likes to be alone.

I spent a night with him six months ago and would gladly have spent more. But Dr. Freud likes to dabble around the crowd, getting the attention he needs, then slip into the night alone. Last time I saw him, in the winter, he disappeared without saying goodbye.

But last night was different. I asked for a ride home, which gave him time to decide, and he agreed. We left at 12:30. In the car he started debating. I appreciated him expressing his doubts, rather than keeping me wondering. I didn't place any pressure, but reassured him.

He was tired, just wanted a cuddle, which I was happy to do.

"I'm not a cuddler," he said, "but this feels good. I need it. I'm trying to get my life more in balance, get more physical contact. You have great touch."

I was nestling behind, my free hand exploring the thick pelt on his front.

"I know how it feels," I say. "I love to be held this way."

"And you have been," he replies. "Many times?"

"Yes."

He had been asking about Danny and his partner. Like other friends unfamiliar with polyamory, he's curious how it works.

"It is changing me," I told him. "I feel well-loved. What I'm giving you is overflow."

"I can fantasize about that. Loving hands."

I was startled to hear such vulnerable words from this masculine, independent man. Later he would want more than cuddling, but I waited until he showed me.

This morning he was grateful.

"You gave more than you received," he said guiltily.

This was untrue by any stretch of the imagination, but I just said, "I got back as much as a I gave."

He accepted an affectionate hug. Then he fretted that his snoring had kept me awake. It did, but not endlessly, and I didn't mind.

He drove me home and I told him about the Guelph Pride picnic on May 31. I would be surprised if he attended, but would have been remiss in not inviting him.

"I'll see you at the picnic," he said when he dropped me off.

"Or if not," I said, "I hope to see you before too long."

He laughed good-naturedly, caught in a half-truth: "You know me."

"Yes I do." And as I got out of his pickup: "And it's a pleasure."