The Fireman
It was the Fourth of July in the late afternoon, and I was out with friends drinking cocktails settling at a cute, quaint tapas bar with large open windows to view the pedestrians. During our drinking and gossiping a fire broke out a few buildings down. Fire trucks came barreling down the street and firemen disembarked and began to take action. Amused by the excitement, I grabbed my camera and ran outside to document the scene. I needed a distraction, anything to break up the funk I was wallowing in. But, the fire was tamed rather quickly, so I made my way back towards the bar.
As I neared the entrance of the bar, I sighted a very tall, large, strong, thick-necked man with a shaven head and a nice face, and stopped to drink that in! My sheer level of animal attraction shocked me. Normally, I would never even look at a man who wasn’t of waif weight and slightly effeminate so I was taken off guard. I proceeded back inside and sat back on my stool. Without saying a word to any of my crew, I continued to look outside to see if I could find him again. He must have noticed the impression he made on me because he my caught eye and looked pointedly at me, never taking his eyes off me, wearing a large all-knowing grin.
He certainly didn’t lack in confidence, or in physique for that matter. My friend noticing our lustful glances ran out and gave him my number, knowing I wouldn’t. I was mortified but he cleared away any worries of rejection when he boarded the truck, honked aloud and in a large, deep outer borough accent yelled, “Hey Bridget, I’ll caw you!” creating the phone sign with his thumb and pinky to his head. The entire bar, mostly gay men, screamed “wooooooooh” bearing witness to the mating dance between the petite artsy girl and the big, red-blooded, city worker. What were the odds and where was Nora Ephron?
And call me, he did. My friend had given him my business card, so when I returned to work on Tuesday after the long weekend, there were countless voicemails from Brad. Ahhhh, big, beautiful testosterone filled Brad. There were no games; he didn’t wait days to call, or act coy and uninterested. He called and showed desperate, unapologetic hunger and I wasted no time calling him right back. The phone rang and he picked up on the second ring. “Yo”.
“Hi, Brad? This is Bridget”.
“Bridget, why didn’t you return my calls?”
“Well, that was my office number, and I wasn’t in over the weekend”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Uh, tonight?” Jesus, I didn’t have a minute to think, I need to build up to dates.
“Where do you live?”
“What?”
“Where do you live, I’ll come pick you up tonight and take you out.”
“Pick me up?” I haven’t been picked up since my prom in Pennsylvania.
“Um ok, I live at ……”
“OK, see you at eight.”
Who was this guy, I thought. He was in complete control.
I stood out on the stoop of my Brooklyn brownstone and saw him get out of his car and walk up the block towards me. From where I was standing I could already see how long and big his hands were. I grinned nervously and he came right up to me as if we’d been dating for years, "Bridget!” He put his arms out for a hug, I assumed, but he picked me up instead and placed me onto the sidewalk, and asked if I was ready. Yep. Man, where was my tongue, I couldn’t speak, where were my knees, I knew how to walk, right? I decided against the small wine bars, and suggested a nice little Italian bistro around the corner. Brad ordered our drinks, “She’ll have the house red and I’ll have a gin and Sprite, and can you throw some cherries in there?” Oh no, I thought, this is not going to work out, we won’t have anything in common. Yet, I also wasn’t ready to give up just yet and began picturing ourselves laughing over telling our children, about how their mother had to wean their father off gin and Sprites.
To break the ice, I asked if he was from the Far Rockaways or Staten Island? Offended, he responded, “Bridget, you’re killin’ me, the Far Rockaways? Come’ on, I’m from the Staten Island, the most beautiful part of New York.” Ugh.
The visual of our future together was no longer looking good. I told him I was a photographer, and asked how he became a fireman. After strained conversation, I decided to wrap it up, cut dinner short, say thank you and lose his number.
As we approached my stoop he began to walk up. I stuttered, “Ah, where do you think you’re going?”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in? I like to watch TV after dinner.”
What, who did this guy think he was?! I was annoyed. “No, I’m not inviting you in, we just met.”
“ Fine, can I just use your bathroom then before I before I drive back?”
This song and dance went on for some time, until he finally said, “Seriously, Bridget, I need to see if your apartment is up to code.” He finally broke me down, I laughed and agreed to let him in.
Once inside, he picked me up with his massive paw and wrapped it entirely around my waist like King Kong. Within seconds my legs were wrapped around his thick waist while he pressed me hard against the wall. Breathing heavy, my mind, swimming and my heart pounding, I allowed Brad to take total control and surrendered to the heat of the moment. It was his humor that got him in the door, and the raw animal magnetism that we originally had that merged us together like molten lava. He hoisted me over his shoulder, carried me to my bedroom and threw me down on my bed. The words exchanged were, “Bridget, we are what you’d call a three bagger”. Since I had an uncle who was a fireman, I knew that was slang for a three-alarm fire.
He couldn’t be more correct. I allowed him to amuse and arouse me while I basked in pure ecstasy. No longer had the social differences come into play; a gallery hopper or a sports connoisseur, a reader of the New York Times, or the New York Post, all I cared about was loosing myself in the simple fact that he was a man, and I was a woman.
Although it did not evolve into a long-term love connection, to this day I stare a little longer when a fire truck passes, and am not as easily annoyed when the siren lets out it’s excruciating pitch. In fact, I even blush.
