Good Vibrations Magazine

Good Vibrations is fortunate enough to welcome Rachel Sarah as a Sex & Parenting Featured Writer. Rachel Sarah is the author of Single Mom Seeking: Play Dates, Blind Dates, and Other Dispatches from the Dating World. Look for more articles by Rachel in upcoming issues of the GV Weekly!

As a single mom, my very first crush was on my local UPS man.

The first time I darted into the elevator with him, I was clutching my nine-month-old daughter, Mae, on my hip.

Two months earlier, her father — who was bipolar and an alcoholic — had walked out the door. His whereabouts? Unknown. I was not supposed to be a single mom. I was supposed to start a family with the love of my life, where we’d settle into a sweet three-bedroom bungalow with a wild garden out back.

But here I was, at age twenty-eight, clinging to my baby girl as if she were my security blanket instead of the other way around.

I squeezed in beside the UPS man. Thanks to his massive rolling cart, it was a tight fit for all of us.

“Hi!” Mae said, waving her hand at him. She had recently started to say hi to anyone.

“Hi!” she tried again.

“Oh, hi, beautiful!” the UPS man said, reaching out and touching her knee.

His sleeve was rolled up on his forearm, and I stole a glance at his muscles.

“It’s gonna be another late night over here,” he said.

I was amazed that he was talking to me. “Oh yeah?” I said.

“Just work, work, work.”

“Don’t you ever play?” I said, flirtatiously, and my cheeks turned red.

He looked into my eyes. “I bowl on Friday nights and have my daughter on Sundays.”

“You have a daughter?”

“She just turned eight. Her mama and I separated last year, so I get her two days a week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

But I was not sorry at all. No, I was not sorry one tiny bit.

When the door opened on the fourth floor, no one moved.

“Excuse me, isn’t this you?” he asked, pointing out the door.

“Oh!” I woke up, realizing that, yes, we did live on the fourth floor.

As I stepped off the elevator, I realized that he knew where we lived. Did that mean he’d actually noticed me before?

My face was burning hot. The truth was: I was longing for some affection. My daughter was satisfying all my maternal needs; I loved her unconditionally. But who was satisfying my need for companionship, and let’s face it, for intimacy?

Being in a relationship with the UPS man seemed like the perfect solution to my present loneliness. I wasn’t ready to date again. That was too daunting. But how convenient would it be to have this man arrive on my doorstep, the goods delivered as promised?

If only it were that easy: a knock at the door and I would open it to find this gorgeous hunk standing there in his brown uniform. I would never have to leave my apartment; he would simply show up.

That evening, as Mae and I were walking back from the drugstore, I could barely look at all the couples out for an evening walk without feeling jealous. Those women had access to safe and loving sex with men who adored them. Though in reality I’m sure they had their problems, in my fantasy they had ideal relationships. And I wanted that too, dammit.

~~~The next day, my doorbell rang and I pushed the “Talk” button on the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“UPS.”

I’d forgotten all about ordering a used copy of Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions as a ploy to see him as soon as possible. But now I was panicking. I was wearing a stretched-out tank top, Levi’s, and no make up.

Eavesdropping on a conversation the UPS man was having with another tenant recently, I found out his name was Otis. I wondered if it would be okay to call him by his real name.

“Gosh, it’s hot!” he said, extending his arm to give me the signature pad.

“It sure is!” I agreed, as my cheeks flushed.

“I’ve lost count of how many water bottles I’ve downed today.”

I wondered if he was giving me a hint, and I jumped on it: “Are you thirsty? Would you like some lemonade?”

“Oh, no thank you,” he said politely, handing over my package.

“C’mon!” I pleaded.

“Okay, sure.” He took one large stride into my apartment, and I quickly shut the door behind me.

I rushed around the corner to the kitchen. My fingers were shaking as I searched the cupboard for a clean glass. I felt very naughty but pleased. Maybe he was my special delivery, my parcel of love. Maybe it was this simple, to just open the door and find my destiny standing there. Uh, maybe not.

A minute later, I was back.

“Cold lemonade,” I said.

I watched him tip the lemonade to his lips. The ice cubes clinked together.

My soul was singing: The UPS man is inside my house…

“Mama!” my daughter said from the living room.

I turned my head. “Yes?”

“Milk!” she said, pulling me back from my fantasy and back into Mom World.

Elmo’s World was over, and so was my opportunity to flirt.

“I guess she’s thirsty, too?” Otis said.

“Yeah,” I said, embarrassed because little did he know that when she said “milk,” it actually meant she wanted to nurse. She was never a baby who said “noo noo” or “na na;” just plain “milk.”

Not even one year old, my daughter was a very articulate and straightforward little girl. Maybe I should have taken some tips from her.

But it was too late. My UPS man was handing the empty glass back to me.

I noticed his forearm, how tight his muscle was right between his wrist and elbow. I wanted to bend over and kiss him right there. I thought about what I’d do after he was gone, how I’d refill this glass with lemonade and drink it all alone. I’d sip from this glass, his glass, and imagine that I tasted him. I was losing it. But it had been a long time.

“Milk!” Mae called out again, pulling herself down from the coffee table.

“I’ll be right there, sweetie,” I said to her, without turning my eyes away from Otis.

“Maybe we can get together with the girls sometime?” Otis asked.

I held my breath. “I’d love that!” I said. “How about Sunday?”

It was Friday, I thought to myself. That was only two days away.

“Okay,” he said. “We can come after church.”

The next couple of days, I was lost in fantasyland. In between nursing Mae and editing textbooks after hours on my computer, I imagined how sweet and grown-up Otis’s daughter would be. She’d bond immediately with Mae. All big girls love babies, right? I envisioned Otis’s daughter leading Mae to the bookshelf, where she would read Mae one book after another. Perfect.

Then I’d casually turn to Otis and ask, “Would you like to see our view?”

(There was no real view, of course, just a tiny slice of the river you could barely see if you stand on your tiptoes at the bedroom window.)

He’d follow me dutifully into the other room, and I’d shut the door. At the window, our embrace would be automatic. Our mouths would open wide, tasting each other.

Our tongues would dance, as I propped myself against the wall and he leaned over me.

He’d unbutton my blouse and reach his hand in, teasing my nipples. I’d moan hungrily, and he’d remind me about the girls.

Shhhh, I’d say, giggling.

I’d kiss his neck, tasting his salty skin. I’d feel him grow hard against me. That’s when I would reach down and tuck my hand into his pants, taking his hard dick in my hands. It had been so long, and damn, this man felt good!

~~~On Sunday, the doorbell rang at three o’clock sharp.

“Oh!” I said to nobody, as I tried to pull the zipper up on my skirt.

Mae was on the floor, tugging at my leg. “Mamaaaaaa . . .”

“It’s okay, honey,” I said. She didn’t get her afternoon nap. She was cranky, to put it mildly.

I was wearing one of my miniskirts from those old office days, a cream blouse that showed a bit of cleavage, and long turquoise earrings. Mae and I had matching red clips in our hair, and I’d put lipstick on for the first time in months. I’d put her in a cotton pink dress with ruffles, but she kept reaching under the hem and undoing her Velcro diaper cover.

When I opened the door, I was relieved to see Otis and his daughter dressed up, too. They were both in their church clothes. He looked so different — even more handsome, if that was possible — in his white, button-down shirt and creased black slacks.

“Hi,” he said, reaching out and patting my arm.

“Hi,” his daughter, Alicia, said, sticking close to her daddy.

“Come in!” I waved my hand. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

I wanted to be the best hostess in the whole wide world. I wanted to please him. I wanted to show him what a good mom I was. I set out some juice and crackers on the coffee table, but there was no place to really sit down, except for the throw pillows on the hardwood floor.

“Uh, I guess I’ve got the yoga studio motif going here,” I said.

“Are you okay on the floor?”

“Sure!” Otis said, as he tried to sit cross-legged on a bumpy pillow, a look of pain crossing his face. “My knee has been acting up lately, but I’m fine.”

“Your knee?”

“It’s an old football injury,” he said. “Since I’m always on my feet at work, it doesn’t help.”

He grimaced. I wanted to go right over and massage his knee.

“Milk!” Mae demanded, as she crawled to my feet.

“Here’s a cracker, sweetheart,” I said, offering her a rice cake.

She smacked it out of my hand. “No!”

I picked it up from the floor. “Someone didn’t get a nap today,” I told Otis.

Damn, why couldn’t she just get with the program and see that we had a man here?!

Meanwhile, Otis’s daughter had gone over to the bookshelf, where she sat quietly and read.

“Did you enjoy the sermon this morning?” I asked Otis.

He looked at me strangely. “Oh, yeah,” he said dismissively. “It is what it is. I go because it makes my mom happy.”

I’d been so removed from any kind of organized religion for so many years that I didn’t really know how to talk to someone who went to church.

“So, what do you like to do when you’re not working?” I tried again.

“I’m in a bowling league every Friday night,” he said.

“Great!” I said. I’ve bowled a couple of times in my life, mostly gutter balls.

Then Mae started to cry. “Milk!”

“Okay, okay,” I said, letting out a sigh. I sat down with my back against the wall and hike my blouse up. I wanted to do this discreetly, but it was impossible. Mae was tugging on my boob.

My blouse was so tight there was no way to squeeze her head under it.

I draped the blanket over Mae’s head. She sucked loudly and pulled the blanket off, revealing my pale breast.

Otis looked away. I tried covering her head again, but she yanked the blanket right off. Even worse, as Mae sucked my left breast, she reached up and grabbed the right one. Lately, she had gotten into this habit of taking a sip from my left breast, then the right, and back to the left. Mastermind that my girl was, she had figured out that switching back and forth made my milk come down faster.

I tried to move her hand away from my right breast, which she was now squeezing as if she were milking a cow.

But she jerked it right back, underneath my bra. This was not quite the scenario I’d imagined when I thought about going bare-breasted for Otis.

“How you doing over there, baby?” Otis said to his daughter, purposefully gazing away from me and my chest as Mae sucked noisily. Yes, this was very awkward.

One hour later, Otis and his daughter were back at the door, pulling their coats on. I gave him a quick hug, but it felt futile. Wouldn’t you know it: Mae had fallen asleep, lying peacefully on a pillow. And here I was, on my own again.

	Rachel Sarah is the author of Single Mom Seeking: Play Dates, Blind Dates, and Other Dispatches from the Dating World, which was published January 2007. (Avalon/Seal Press). Visit her at www.singlemomseeking.com and write to her at Rachel@singlemomseeking.com.