Be My Valentine

A smart reporter does their best to never go into an interview blind. It doesn’t matter if  they have agreed to speak with you for five minutes, an hour or all day. Their comfort level with you or lack thereof has a significant impact on what you come away with.

Your job is to dig beneath the surface and find the gold nuggets that they haven’t talked about or shared with anyone else. You do that by building a rapport with them and part of the way to make that happen is by taking the time in advance to learn more about them. Even the biggest cynic will appreciate your having taken the time to learn about them.

One of the big advantages of living during the Internet age is that it has become much easier to do this sort of research, especially when you are dealing with a personality like Kim Boston. Not only did Ms. Boston have a million clips online but her personal website provided links to many of the interviews she had done and some of her YouTube videos.

I used a chunk of the afternoon learning more about her and her philosophy for a healthy relationship. It involved the usual mumbo jumbo about communication, honesty and something about women learning how to “own their orgasm.” Because I have a juvenile sense of humor I wanted to suggest that she write a book call “Communication and Copulation.”

I also made a mental note to ask her how women were supposed to “own their orgasm” and if perhaps there might be a place that sold them. It seems to me that could be very useful for men, not to mention that it would make a great Valentine’s Day gift. “Honey, I have good news and bad news for you. The bad news is that I didn’t get you chocolate or flowers this year. The good news is that I got you an orgasm.”

Don’t try to tell me that wouldn’t be an amazing gift that she would cherish. How much fun would it be to write ad copy for a product. We could call it “She Came First.”  It would make one hell of an infomercial. Who wants to watch some hairpiece wearing celebrity talk about how he found a way to regrow hair when you could be watching some hot babes hawking “She Came First.” Order now, operators are standing by.

Some of you may mock me for my my million dollar idea but I am telling you that it could work. Sadly I can’t focus on that now because I am too busy getting ready to talk to Ms. “Own Your Orgasm” Boston. Do you think she’d mind if I called her “The Big O.”

Something tells me that I better save that comment for the end of our interview. It probably wouldn’t be wise to take a chance on antagonizing her at the start. Not that it has ever stopped me before. When it comes to aggravating women I am a professional.


The car ride to the hotel was filled with the sweet sounds of rush hour traffic and pleasant examples of road rage, most of which was not caused by me. Ok, I concede that I might have tapped my brakes several extra times but that was only because the driver of the Mercedes behind me seemed to be quite interested in sitting in my back seat. Who am I to deny him.

I walked into the hotel lobby and looked around the room for Ms. Boston my soon to be business partner and discovered she was running late or maybe I was just unnaturally early.

My cellphone buzzed and I looked down and discovered that Ms. Boston was indeed running about 30 minutes behind so I decided to make good use of my time. I wandered over to the hotel bar and grabbed a seat facing the television. I ordered a drink and watched the Lakers dominate the Mavericks.

Even though it had been years it was hard not to remember my time with Ann here.  I tried to figure out if the hotel had made any significant changes but I couldn’t really tell. The last time we had been here we had spent the bulk of our time in our room.

There were only two memories outside of the room that really stuck out in my mind. Instead of ordering room service we had come down to eat lunch in the hotel restaurant. I turned to my right and spotted the room. If I wasn’t mistaken I was staring at the table we sat at. Four empty chairs stood vigil over the condiments and white tablecloth.

“Waiter, can you please take the ketchup away we really don’t like it.” We didn’t have a problem with it. I like ketchup and use it on my eggs and hamburgers but Ann isn’t a fan. Her sending it away was one of those silly things that couples sometimes do. She did it solely to get a reaction out of me. I knew what she was doing so I kept a blank expression.

Later on when we went back up to the room I told her that since she loved the taste of it so  much I was going to make a point to drink and bathe in it. At the time we thought it was funny and cute but now it just sounds ridiculous. I might have to ask Ms. Boston if women who hate ketchup can “own their orgasm.” Yep, when it comes to finding ways to endear myself to others I am a master.


My phone buzzed again.  It was a text from Harold that said Ms. Boston was running late. It included an admonishment not to start drinking before she got there. I sent a text in return that said “Thanks Mom” and looked around the room to see if Ms. Boston had arrived. She hadn’t. I looked back at the television and saw that the game had gone into halftime. There wasn’t any sound and I didn’t want to read lips so I took out my note pad and a pen and started doodling.

For a moment there was complete quiet in the lobby and I hear Simon and Garfunkel singing ‘Bookends.” They sang about preserving our memories and then “Something” by The Beatles came on and a wave of memories washed over me.


Somewhere out there the song of my heart is dancing to the song that only we hear. Somewhere out there she lives her life and in the quiet of the night remembers moments when she would hold onto my arms, smile and say “Harder Kimio.”

Somewhere out there the song of my heart remembers that vacation we took together and how we stopped time. This is one of the stories that she won’t tell you because she refuses to admit to herself that together we touched the face of god. She won’t talk about the moment on the beach or stolen kisses in an elevator.

She won’t tell you about the moment on the balcony as the sun set over the sea or how we collapsed upon the couch our limbs tangled and our hair tousled.

And perhaps I shouldn’t either. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you that we couldn’t tell where one of us ended and the other began. She didn’t have to tell me to take her nor did I have to ask.

We connected and understood. She gave and I received or maybe I gave and she received. Doesn’t matter who did what with what or to whom because what we did, we did together.

The song of my heart is dancing to the song that only we hear. Somewhere out there she dances and her body remembers my touch. Somewhere out there she remembers my hands upon her hips and the rumble of my voice in her ear.

In the secret garden of promises made and promises kept she remembers how we dropped the camera into a sink filled with water. She remembers how we laughed until our sides ached and how we walked her fingers intertwined in mine into that crazy camera shop.

We were short on cash but somehow we scraped enough together to buy a new Canon camera. An hour later as we got ready to go to dinner I snapped a picture of her standing in front of the sink in bra and panties.

When she asked me why I did it I told her that I had been possessed by the spirit of Kimio. She laughed, threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.

Sometimes during the quiet of the night when I am embraced by the darkness I return to the garden of promises made and promises kept and look for the song of my heart. Under the moonlit sky I wonder if she still glides when she walks and secretly hope that one day I will feel her hold my arms and whisper “Harder Kimio” again.


I’d be the first to tell you that I am sentimental but I don’t live my life in the past. I am good about being rooted to the future and about participating in the present. But recent events and the fact that I am sitting in this particular hotel lobby have hit me hard.

Instead of focusing on the coming interview I am busy thinking about Ann. Busy wondering what she is doing and who she is doing it with. Busy asking myself questions about what I want and wondering why I am giving her this much free rent inside my head.

We haven’t spoken. I have no logical reason to believe that she is interested in me. The girls say otherwise. They tell me that I am a fool and an idiot. They swear that she isn’t hanging out because she is curious and that some flames still burn bright. They tell me to follow my heart.

Well my heart says that we are that rare couple who could take the sort of hiatus we have had and find a way to make it work. Find a way because it never really felt like work. When everything fell apart it felt like hell but it wasn’t work.

So I sit here in the lobby staring at the ceiling as if it will provide me with the answers that I want. My imagination paints a picture of the two of us gliding across a dance floor and I see her in my mind. There is no doubt that she’ll still be beautiful to me. She’ll be nervous about that. She’ll wonder if time has robbed her of her looks and be concerned that she doesn’t have the hard body I remember her with.

I don’t claim to know much about women but that much I am certain of. Just as I am certain that one kiss would bring it all back. You don’t lose the sort of chemistry that we had. That is part of why she refused to see me after we broke up. It would have been too hard in person to say no. It would have been impossible not to submit.

I kind of want to send her a card and flowers asking her to Be My Valentine. Haven’t had one since we broke up. I’d slip a note inside it and quote the Beatles.

“But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you”

Maybe I’d include a picture but I’ll have save that for later. Ms. Boston just walked in and the real world beckons.

Categories: Uncategorized | 5 Comments

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5 thoughts on “Be My Valentine

  1. Outstanding, Jack!

  2. Gina Bellandi Freyn

    My favorite part, aside from being a professional at aggravating woman, is the Beatles quote at the end. That is truly special.

    • John, Paul, George and Ringo get the credit for creating one hell of a song. It is a favorite and easily applied here.

  3. Pingback: 5 Reasons You Need To Read This

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