He spotted me back, gave a warm smile of relief, and asked what I'd like to drink.

"So what's wrong with you?" I said while my Chai tea bag steeped in hot, honeyed water.

He laughed. Took a sip of his Doppio. "What's wrong with you?"

I described my situation. He said he was going through something similar. His fiancée had called off their engagement a week before the wedding.

"Why do you want to massage someone? What's in it for you?"

"I don't know. I'm not looking for sex or anything. I just want to make a girl feel good."

I assumed this deep-seeded need to please a woman was rooted in his presumed inability to please his ex. It was sad, but certainly an issue I could handle.

"Does it have to be at 'bedtime'?" I was a bit apprehensive about meeting a stranger at night. CK said he worked during the day, including weekends. It was a legit reason, so I asked when he could start.

"Tonight? Around ten?"

I called my best friend Kat after we parted ways.

"Are you fucking with me?" she said. "He's totally going to kill you."

"He's nice." I described his situation (and his body). "He's like me," I justified. Heartbroken. Lonely.

"Dude…"

I understood her concern. But how was this more risky than meeting a random man at a bar and bringing him home after one-too-many Taliskers? Sure, it's the Internet, and the possibility of meeting a loony is greater. But I sifted and screened. I felt confident in my decision.

To put Kat's mind at ease, I promised to text her every twenty minutes after he arrived. I also promised to booby trap my place.

That evening – after showering, shaving, and spritzing Burberry on my wrists, neck and behind my knees – I hid a butter knife behind the toilet, under the couch cushion and in my underwear drawer. I also bought two "Mace PepperGuns" and placed one under my pillow, the other in the kitchen sink under a flipped mug. I vacuumed, lit scented votives, and set my Pandora station to Massive Attack. Then I slid into black lingerie that I'd bought from Victoria's Secret after Starbuck's that morning.

CK rang my buzzer at ten on the dot.

"Wow," he said upon entering which, admittedly, looked more like Prince Jefri's harem than a Yorkville studio apartment.

"I went all out."

"Ah."

"So… have you done this before?"

"Given a massage?"

"To a stranger?"

"Oh. No. It's weird, only prostitutes replied to my ad."

"Really?"

"Yea."

"That sucks."

"Eh. I met you. And you're not a prostitute." There was a slight pause. "Right?"

I laughed. "Do I look like one?" It was then that I realized I was standing in my bra and underwear.

We had a drink to ebb our nervous chatter. Then I sprawled face down on my bed while he got into his boxers.

"Let me know if I'm hurting you," he said. "Or making you feel uncomfortable."

He stood at the foot of my bed and started with my feet. Then he worked up my calves and thighs. He moved to the side of the bed to massage my back, shoulders and arms. It was pretty straightforward. There was no talking, besides my sighs of pleasure. He had strong hands that felt amazing. I was more relaxed than I'd been in months.

"Text anytime," he said before leaving.

"That's it?" Kat asked that night over the phone. "He didn't try anything?"

"Nope," I replied. "He didn't even massage my ass."

"That sucks."

"I think he was trying to be respectful."

"Still…" She asked when I'd see him again.

CK and I got into a fairly regular routine the rest of August. He came over twice a week. Afterward he thanked me and I slept like a baby.

By mid September we got more comfortable with one another. I began taking off my bra when he massaged my back, and he started straddling me. We still we didn't speak, besides initial and final formalities. And no sexual lines were crossed. It was lovely. We were getting exactly what we wanted from each other: human contact, minus emotional messiness or diseases.

"Would you mind taking off your underwear?" CK said one evening.

I gave him a cockeyed look. "Why?"

"I promise not to try anything," he said. "I'd like to look."

I was weary. But he'd been a gentleman. Plus the thought of being on voyeuristic display was kinda hot. So I slid off my bra and underwear, and let him go to town.

The vibe was different that night. His touch was deeper, more sensual, and I felt desired, wet. Especially when he massaged my ass for thirty minutes. He kept his word and didn't try anything. But he broke our routine silence. "You are so beautiful," he said. I could feel he wasn't lying.

Unfortunately things didn't go anywhere after that. CK stopped answering my texts, which pissed me off. After two weeks of being M.I.A, I called. My tone probably resembled an addict in need of a fix. "What's the fucking deal?" I demanded.

He apologized. Apparently his ex-fiancée wanted to "sort things out." And like a Stockholm victim, he was going back.

"It's stupid," he admitted. "But I love her."

He thanked me for our bedtime massages, and for restoring his confidence.

After a week of shit talking about him with Kat, I started to think more clearly. How realistic was our tantra-esque relationship? Things tend to escalate once underwear comes off, and we knew that road was a bristly one. It was an unusual predicament: we were both too emotional and emotionless to have sex with each other. Maybe it's the "cuddle hormone," but people in this state tend to go crazy afterward: Why didn't he call? Was she faking? Is he sleeping with other people? Has she really been tested? Am I ready for this?

The arrangement worked because we weren't dating or hooking up; a limbo that filled our voids of touch, while healing our issues with intimacy. I don't know what ever happened to Clark Kent. But once that seed was planted in me, it began to propagate into an awesome thing. I began talking to men at bars again; went on more dates. And finally, invited someone home.