I Accidentally Made Out with a Closeted Married Man, and Now I’m a Hot Mess

First and foremost, I feel the need to assure you that the events I’m about to recount actually took place. Like, in real life. Which you’ll soon realize is insane because one) I have already written extensively on the subject of falling in love with hot suited strangers during my daily commute on the Metro-North train, two) I once even blogged about a fantasy sequence in which I made out with one of them but he ended up being married, and three) that is somehow EXACTLY what happened to me last Friday night, in real life. IR-fucking-L.

There’s a lot to discuss here, so let’s just start from the beginning.

It was the end of a long week, so naturally I went out for post-work Sangria in the city with one of my best girlfriends. One pitcher turned into two, and before I knew it I was a little tipsy on a late-night train back to Connecticut. The train was delightfully empty, so I got cozy in a four-seater all by myself and prepared for the fifty-minute ride home.

Then he showed up. Hot businessman guy. He was wearing a grey pinstripe suit, fancy watch, and (according to my tipsy-goggles, at least) was ruggedly handsome – kind of like Brandon Walsh from 90210. Except manlier. And thirty-something. And, again, in a suit.

I took about five seconds to observe and appreciate his hotness, texted my friend something like “OMG, this man on the train is my everything,” glanced his way again, and then went back to staring at my phone (lest he catch me looking at him and interpret my stalkerish gazes as reason to desert me and switch to another train car that wasn’t crawling with predatory gay bloggers).

As we pulled out of Grand Central, the conductor came on the intercom and was all, “Please make all seats available,” and then the hot businessman opened up a roadie Coors Light, took a swig, and responded (to everyone and no one), “Uh, the train is empty!”

In my mind: He totally just opened the floor for conversation!!! Should I respond? I should definitely respond. No. That’d be weird. Wait, but he was weird first to even make the empty train remark to begin with. OK I’m doing it! No. YES. NO. Yes.

Out loud: “I know, right? The train is so empty!”

To my surprise, he looked my way and smiled warmly as I mentally congratulated myself for being capable of putting words together quickly enough to respond to his declaration. (Even though, let’s be honest, all I did was say exactly what he said except with a “so” in front of it.)

From there, we engaged in a bout of small talk about our commutes (we live in the same town, turns out!) and jobs (we work in the same part of the city, turns out!) and interests (we both watch football, turns out!).

While all of this was going on, I started developing the hopeful feeling that this guy was maybe gay, maybe into me, and maybe meant to be my husband. I mean, why else would he be so friendly? But then I told myself, “No. Calm yourself down, Nic. This dude probably thinks he’s just having a man-to-man discussion about Eli Manning and meanwhile you’ve let your mind go to that ‘ohmiGod is he gay and in love with me?!’ place in not even five minutes. GET A GRIP.”

After a few moments, we reached a lull in conversation. And then some random ass creepy guy in a black trench coat showed up out of nowhere and took one of the seats directly in front of me in my four-seater, despite the fact that there was a whole train car of empty seats available to him! James (the hot businessman guy — fake name, FYI) and I immediately exchanged glances to acknowledge how bizarre this was.

The creepy guy must have realized that James and I were telepathically discussing his weirdness (or maybe he just had to pee), because he abruptly got up and went to the bathroom, leaving me alone to wait for him to return and maim me take his seat back.

But then.

Like a knight in SHINING fucking ARMOR, James got up, swooped over into my four-seater and asked, “Would you like me to sit here instead?”

And so of course I said, “Yes!” and officially moved on from the “ohmiGod is he gay and in love with me?!” place into the more confident “My life is a romantic comedy and James and I SHALL BE MARRIED AND THIS SHALL BE THE STORY WE TELL OUR ADOPTED CHILDREN’S CHILDREN!” place.

For the remainder of the ride home, James and I talked. About our educations, occupations, hometowns, hobbies, and dreams. At one point I told him how I was working toward becoming a full-time writer and he responded with, “That makes sense; you give off a crazy-creative vibe,” and I had to pinch myself to ensure that I wasn’t just train-hallucinating this whole situation.

When we got to our stop, we walked off the train together.

“Alright,” I said as we approached the escalator, “I guess I should get on my way. Got a bit of a walk home.”

Then James was like, “Do you want a ride?” and I was like, “Yes!” (Because an exclamation-pointed “Yes!” had clearly become my go-to answer to any and all of James’ questions that night.)

I know what you may be thinking: Nic just accepted a ride from a stranger? Is he fucking nuts?!

Yes, I did. And yes, I am. And this is why hot people are dangerous. Because had this dude been gross looking or even just average, there’s no way I’d have said anything other than, “No, thanks.”

Still, as we walked to his car, there was a small voice inside of me that was like, “Uh, Christian Bale in American Psycho, Nic. He was hot. He wore a suit. And he killed bitches!” But I was able to quiet it down by asking James flat-out, “You’re not a crazy American psycho, are you?”

He just laughed adorably and said, “No! Trust me, you’re in good hands. I never do this. At all. Is this weird? This is weird. But I feel comfortable with you.”

And so we hopped into the car and continued talking for the duration of the ride to my apartment while our hands almost touched on the center armrest and I realized that I still didn’t have any conclusive evidence of his gay or straightness. There was a part of me that truly wondered if James was just a really nice straight man doing me a favor… but then there was another part of me that wanted to believe we had been flirting all night long.

Either way, when we finally got to the front of my building, I didn’t want to say goodnight. I considered inviting him up to my apartment, but then I was like, “WHO ARE YOU?” (to myself, not him) and instead settled for exchanging cell phone numbers with the intention of hanging out on purpose sometime soon.

And then.

I thanked him for the ride and reached out to shake his hand goodbye.

AND THEN.

He leaned over and went in for a kiss!

And so before I knew it, I was living in a dream and we were making out. And y’all – it was good. This man clearly knew what he was doing. Which is why it was so jarring to me when he abruptly stopped mid-make-out, said, “I don’t know what I’m doing!” and freaked the fuck out.

“What?” I asked, acting as if everything about this whole situation wasn’t bizarre enough to begin with.

“I don’t do stuff like this,” he nervously responded. “I’m married.”

So then my heart kind of casually just stopped, no big deal, and I said, “Wait. You’re married?” [Dramatic pause.] “To a human?”

“A human, Nic?” he replied. “Yes. I’m married to a woman.”

Jaaames!!!” I whined. “WHY?”

And then I punched him. (Playfully and on the chest, but still.)

He proceeded to apologize for not telling me about his wife before kissing me, and then he got this really sad look on his face, and for a second my heart felt incredibly heavy for him. Because I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to be trapped in a straight life and married to a woman and have to deal with inner demons and family pressures and tempting little hot pieces of ass like me just occupying four-seaters on trains on Friday nights.

But then I felt more bad for his wife, because I’m friends with quite a few women and I know for a fact that none of them want their husbands to be repressed gay men.

But then (and maybe I should be ashamed of this?) I felt mostly bad for me. Because seriously, WTF? I meet this perfect-in-every-way man — the old-fashioned, technology-free, just-like-in-the-movies way, even! — and we hit it off tremendously, and he’s the most passionate kisser in the history of the world, and then he’s somebody’s husband? How did I forget to check his left hand for a ring? How did he think it was okay to pursue me in the first place? Do any quality, available men even exist anymore? WHERE HAVE ALL THE COWBOYS GONE?

After about thirty awkwardly silent seconds of sitting in James’ car post-wife-confession, I decided to just start making out with him again. This was desperate and not okay, I know. But again: his kiss. It was delicious. Delicious and forbidden and sexual and hot. And I knew that he was a very dangerous person to even think about getting involved with, but I wanted to pretend for just the shortest moment that he was good and genuine and mine.

And so we kept making out in his car for about ten more blissful seconds, but then — and I think this may have been my conscience resurrecting itself from the low-self-esteem-y grave I’d just dug for it — I started wondering what his wife’s name was and what she must be doing and what she might think he was doing and what her Pinterest might look like. And so I finally mustered up the strength to say, “Dude. This is fucked up. We can’t do this.”

“You’re right,” he replied, not fighting me at all. “I understand if you want to just lose my number. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I sighed. “It’s fine.”

Then I got out of his car, walked up to my apartment, and aggressively slammed my bag against the floor in a fit of rage. I ran to my window to see if his car was still on my street, but he had already driven off. Regardless of all the reasons not to, I wanted to call him right then and there to ask him to come back so we could try and recapture whatever the hell it was we had both just discovered and lost, all within the past hour.

But then I walked into my bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror, and realized that I really, really needed to take his advice — and just lose his number.

 

Comments

  1. I’m sorry that happened! But I seriously almost woke up the whole house when I read the line, ” I started wondering what his wife’s name was and what she must be doing and what she might think he was doing and what her Pinterest might look like.” LOL! Glad you can focus on the priorities…

    • Haha, thank you! Yeah. I just, I pictured lots of wedding stuff and crafty DIY-mason-jar projects. And I love mason jars, so that really gave me the impetus to be like, “OK fiiine I’ll stop making out with your hot husband!”

      • It’s good to know Pinterest can potentially save marriages. I have a board full of mason jar things, myself, so I will worry less than I do now about my husband being stolen away from a cute gay boy on the train.
        Granted, that’s not something I worry about at all, but I will not worry about it even more. Thanks to my board of mason jars.

  2. Ohmygosh. This made my morning. Don’t mean to get some twisted enjoyment out of your pain but, I mean, it’s your fault for making it so freakin’ funny.

  3. Curtis Webb says:

    I love your writing Nic. A lots.

    Sent from my iPhone

    >

  4. I forgot about this blog of yours — I read it awhile ago and then stopped for some unforgivable reason. You are hysterical. I’m back.

  5. Dude…My heart is aching for you. That must be crushing. :(

  6. This: “train car that wasn’t crawling with predatory gay bloggers”
    is something I’ve never experienced here in Colorado. When are you moving to my shed?
    And also…you do know that your adopted childrens’ children are still called grandchildren, right? You’re allowed to use that term when referencing your future progeny, even if the progeny were not an actual result of the efforts of your loins. <–awkward sentence, both in structure and content

    How is it that this tale is so over-the-top (because, dude, this kind of thing really does only happen in books and movies), so funny, and yet so sad at the same time? How the HELL do you DO that?

    • ***LOVING*** you for this comment! So glad that the over-the-top/funny/sad combo came through in the piece, because those are the EXACT feelings I’ve been experiencing about it ever since it happened!

      Also: LOL @ at the grandchildren remark. You make an excellent point.

  7. Oh punkin, dang it. This is really good writing, REALLY good. ekgo is right, so funny and sad on so many levels. I feel bad for him. Doesn’t it make you happy that you live the real Nic? it makes me happy.
    xoxox

    • Aww, thank you my love!!! I poured my heart into this one. And yeah – I feel bad for him/his wife/everyone involved… Further proof that it is essential for all of us to stand in our truth!

  8. I’m so sorry, Nic. This hurt to read. It sounded like the perfect beginning of something beautiful and then the worst ending. Love hurts. Hang in there – you will find your Prince Charming one day – and he (officially!) will be gay.

  9. Oy vey.

  10. What a great story this is! You have a way with words, my friend. Sorry it didn’t work out with the hot guy, though.

    • Thank you so much for this comment! And you know, I was just saying that if nothing else, this experience was a GIFT for a memoirist like me. GRADE A material to work with!! Haha.

  11. Fabulous story. Well…fabulous to read…not fabulous for you unfortunately. And if it were me I would accidentally forget to lose his number. And then down the road I’d pretend to be cleaning out the contacts in my phone and I send a text all like, “Hey…cleaning out my phone. Whose number is this?” and he’d be like, “James.” And I’d be all, “Oh right, you. Totally forgot about you. Out yet??” and then he’d say yes and you’d live happily ever after.

    Hmm…apparently it is possible to have a vicarious fantasy.

  12. Well that just sucks!!! So, kudos for living the fantasy…. bummer that the fantasy turned into reality. I remember the really hot guy I made out with at the bar (and in the bathroom of) the lesbian bar I went to with some friends. Still have no idea what his name was, but for that one evening, he was perfect. Just like Suit Man. Lose the number. Embrace the fantasy. And next time you are out you will totally put out sexy vibes because hey – you made out with Suit Guy and those pheromones can’t be subdued.
    Then go play on Pinterest with me, we’ll pin more mason jar crafts! :)
    Seriously, lose the number.
    xoxo

  13. So heartbreaking! But you’ve done the right thing and at least you’ve got some sweet memories.

Trackbacks

  1. […] that married guy I made out with a couple months ago? I suppose it could have been his wife dramatically seeking […]

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