The Man with One Fork, a Bizarre Romp in the Proverbial Hay
He wrote me on chemistry.com, saying he’d “walk through fire” to meet me. I suppose that was red flag numero uno.
There was no photo on his profile, but it said he lived in San Francisco. Close enough. Only an hour flight away from Los Angeles. It is a possibility.
He was odd, but intriguing. His introductory email contained some witticisms, so despite a lack of photo, I wrote back. Next came a link to a NY Times article about him. Ah ha! A man of substance. A chef. A noteworthy man and chef. Someone who others had validated. I quickly deduced his full name from said article (and it was a very complimentary article at that). Turns out he’s a fairly well-known chef in San Francisco who owns several establishments and has very particular tastes, and quite an excellent reputation.
A little further stalking reveals a rough photo from another article I located which shows him in a chef’s coat standing in one of his restaurant kitchens, looking somewhat attractive with a reddish blond head of tight curly hair, a ruddy freckled complexion and a knowing smile. He looks like he works hard. He’s in his 40's, and is about seven years older than me (my sweet spot). Well then. And so it began.
We began talking on the phone right away as opposed to email. This was already an improvement versus the text heavy nation of sheepish men who would prefer to waste away years of their lives hiding behind monosyllabic communication across God knows how many concurrent threads with any number of Los Angeles bound women. Anyway, with this man, we called talking on the phone “being old school.” Revolutionary, I know. And that’s how he was. Very anti-establishment. Very troglodyte. Very witty. And quite passionate about his hatred of stupidity in the human race. He would relish in taking screenshots of people drinking as seen through the security cameras of his various bars, and caption them “Drink up, idiots!.” So there was that. Not very attractive as a quality. A bit of a superiority complex I suppose. But nobody is perfect.
So there was a pulsating curiosity within him that had me intrigued to meet him in person. It was his intellect. And his accomplishments. I am such a sucker for brains and a successful drive. And that he had. So we would talk for hours and hours on the phone about life and philosophy and whether we believed in God, and all that jazz. The issue was we hadn’t even met the person yet…not once. Not to mention he lived in San Francisco. Ok, it was just a one hour plane ride away, but still. Soon, he made plans to come meet me in Los Angeles under the guise of visiting a friend.
It was a breezy bright summer Saturday when he flew in. He claimed he had a restaurant business contact to see down here, but he really didn’t. He attempted to make that happen, but when it didn’t, he came anyway. So basically, he just lied as an excuse to meet me. Which I liked.
When he finally arrived he was at the top of my driveway. I live in an apartment at the bottom of a long winding, stone staircase, not unlike Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Except its the temple of Shangri-La as it is so beautiful. He was amped up. Very animated. He said hello from atop my stairway looking down on me in the sun. I was wearing a cute dress that was short in front & long in back. It was blowing in the wind in the cliché sort of way. I was all about that. He made me touch his hair, saying how crazy it was, and that he needed a haircut. He had a manic enthusiasm. I quickly gave him a tour of my lovely tree-house apartment, and then we headed out. We had no idea what to do this day but ended up in Malibu sitting on some rocks after having drinks at a local cafe…it was awkward to say the least. Why I did not listen to my inner hesitations that day, I still do not know. I was in it for the mystery. What made this successful, somewhat disturbed and arrogant man tick?
The next time I saw him, it was me visiting him in San Francisco. I too made it seem like a trip I’d planned to see friends — except I actually did have friends, and did visit them. A few girlfriends of mine had planned a safari later that year, so I actually did plan a breakfast with them which was splendid. Needless to say, the reason I went was truly to meet this man again, in his world. To see him in his glory. He had an apartment up on a hill in one of the most stunning parts of the city. His apartment was a studio, but had a view of the golden gate bridge for days. He had a rooftop garden, and a bookshelf full of excellent reads. And he had one fork. This is a true story.
I remember standing in his sunny bachelor pad studio, babbling about what my day consisted of, with me demonstrating an odd yoga move here or there. He dazzled me with his knowledge of coffee particulars, and then discussed what he could make for dinner. It would be steak, with fresh vegetables from his garden. Given the one fork situation, I honestly do not remember how we even ate our meal, perhaps with a plastic utensil? I think he let me use the fork. But this was such a burning red flag, I can’t really think of what human being would only have one fork except for someone who has completely renounced himself and society — which is basically a summary of this man.
After dinner, I swore I wouldn’t sleep with him. I’d already booked a hotel nearby to avoid this exact scenario. I knew that the minute you slept with a man, it was over. Especially if you did it too soon. But who was I kidding. At that time of my life, I was a bit of a reckless adventurer. And here I had flown all the way up to San Francisco. There was a need to feel loved, a need for that rush. Even if temporary.
Well, late into the night, we played a board game of some kind, the likes of which I cannot remember. The hours ticked on, until the makeout session began, and next thing you knew, we were in his bed, and it was happening. I remember the moment he came was so bizarre — right before which he said that I would be “blown away” with the force and vigor of what was about to happen. He spoke of himself as some sort of steam train. Well he wasn’t of course. The sex was extremely awkward. Why did he think he was all that? His climax was no different than anyone else’s, except it came with bear-like sound effects which were so bizarre I almost laughed. He screamed a low tone in the strangest way, almost like an animal in heat. His physical delivery didn’t warrant the theatrics.
Once the act was over, the mystery was gone. I recall a text or two from him after that, and then a fade into phone oblivion. Somehow, despite knowing he was a freak with one fork, I still felt injured when he stopped pursuing me. And of course I felt this way, as we’d slept together. I could have slept with Quasimodo, and would have still have felt like shit. But it was a blessing, of course. One more stop on the train tracks of life with a man who’s erection was certainly not a steam train, and certainly not my last stop.
Thankfully, I continued to work out the kinks of my own emotional wounds for just long enough to find my own footing, and peace. It wasn’t long after this I met my eventual life partner, who I continue to be with to this day. Praise Jesus!