When I started my drive to the hospital to visit my grandmother, sex was the last thing on my mind. As I stepped out of the elevator and began my trek toward the geriatric ward, my stomach began to churn. I swallowed my angst as I walked up to my grandmother, grabbing hold of her hand and taking my seat for the next few hours.
With nothing better to do, and no one around to hear, I decided to use this hospital visit as an excuse to brush up my French skills. My grandma was silent as I spat out mundane statements in French. I was perfectly content doing this for the rest of my visit, but my day was about to take a drastic turn.
The knock on the doorframe gave me a fright. My grandmother and I were no longer alone. I looked up to see who was knocking and was taken aback with what met my gaze. There he was: slim, tan and impeccably groomed. “Can I help you?” I asked.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you were speaking French,” he replied. He didn’t need to explain any further; his thick French accent gave it all away.
Hospitals can be really weird places. Everyone comes into a hospital with baggage, whether they’re welcoming a new family member into the world, saying goodbye to another or visiting a close friend. Whether good or bad, it’s always a nerve-wracking and emotional experience. Luckily, I found solace in my new friend.
I learned a lot about him that day. His name was Klyde; he was 28 years old. He was visiting a close friend who had been in a car accident. We sat in that room and talked for hours.
I felt as if I could really trust Klyde. I told him in detail about my grandmother’s situation and why it was so hard for me to see her in these final days. I laughed, I cried and Klyde listened. This man who I had known for a matter of hours knew more about me than most of my friends.
Then, we were interrupted again. A doctor came in. “We have to take her downstairs for some tests,” the doctor mumbled. I kissed my grandmother goodbye and watched as they rolled her down the hallway.
“Are you hungry?” Klyde asked. Next thing I knew, I was in his apartment eating a home-cooked meal. At this point, I knew Klyde and I were going to have sex. As we ate our meal on his loveseat, I could feel him inching in closer and closer.
“Now I get why they call it a loveseat,” he said. How tacky. How wonderful.
Finally, the inevitable happened, and Klyde had straddled my lap. As we made out, he’d occasionally pull back, whispering something undoubtedly filthy to me in French. What more could a guy ask for?
I scooped him up and brought him to his bedroom, throwing him down on the bed and crawling on top of him. Some time passed, and we shed all of our clothes. I had never felt so confident in my life. Here I was, with a man I’d just met that morning in a hospital of all places. He had seen me at my worst as a nervous wreck, and he still wanted to pleasure me.
He pinned my hands down. He wouldn’t even let me touch him. “C’est pour toi,” he would say (meaning: “this is for you”). He kept my hands bound even as he went down on me, perfectly okay with just letting me writhe around in enjoyment.
Klyde saw me through to completion, without ever letting me return the favor. After I orgasmed, I sat panting on the bed as he rose up and planted a gentle kiss on my lips. He had such a devilish grin at that moment, and I will never forget.
I never got Klyde’s number, and I may very well never see him again. That’s not what matters to me. Though most would frown on my experience as a promiscuous one-night stand, it was much more to me. Klyde saw me through full emotional release. Though we only interacted over the course of a few hours, we knew each other’s lives. Klyde and I saw each other on an honest, raw and emotional level. That connection, however brief, is a powerful one. Who knew I’d find all that in a hospital?