"You have to help me. You can't let me sleep with you."

"You have to help me. You can't let me sleep with you."

I'll give you a moment to let that sink in.

That's an actual quote from a friend and former lover, said to me today over a Pyramid Ale, a double shot of Patron (chilled, of course), and a half-eaten chicken Caesar salad.

Roman (as always, not his real name) and I met for lunch this afternoon after not seeing one another since early October. We have had a friendship with an on and off sexual relationship for a year now, meeting for a meal or a movie or drinks every six weeks or so. This last stretch was caused by a few things. Dad's passing, work schedules, making sure that all was well with his daughter and his pregnant wife.

Yup, his pregnant wife.

Believe it or not, I didn't know. Not completely, anyway.

When he and I met, we were both going through a divorce. We were friends with a common life situation and we chatted over movies and meals and such for months with the sole purpose of being friends who understood one another. He lives for his daughter and he was worried about what was going to happen to her having to go through this. We work in related industries, so work also took a lot of our talk time. I am not unaware of the precarious position that this kind of sympathetic relationship can put me in; part of me thought that was for weaker people, part of me didn't want that kind of relationship.

We always had a great time, we even talked about future activities. When we're together, it's obvious that we feel alive and happy and we enjoy one another's company. At the same time, there was the relaxing notion that we weren't in it for the future... in other words, there was no hurry to jump into another relationship. My divorce was final before his (no kids, no alimony, easy peasy stuff) and we celebrated.

Time passes. We talk on the phone, via text messages, and on Yahoo! Messenger. Things are normal, so to speak, and life goes on.

One afternoon in December I am out shopping with a friend from work. We just thanked a salesman for his presentation of a $5000 toilet and were headed to Trader Joe's for a case or two of Two Buck Chuck (Charles Shaw table wines, damn fine for $3-4 or so per bottle - the price went up since the nickname was coined).

My shiny, little silver phone starts making that vibrant, happy, chirpy-beepy-vibration noise that it makes when I get text messages. Repeatedly. Buried at the bottom of my purse. In the back seat. Under some of my friend's purchases. I try to ignore it but, sadly, I get my oxygen and vital nutrients through my cell phone and I am starting to go through withdrawal; the production of endorphins has slowed and I need my mobile-phone-heroin-substitute. I dig the clamshell out of my bag to find:

"When I am with you it scares me because I like it so much."

"I can't resist you."

Then the poor, neglected, dulled-metal, material incarnation of evil tells me, "My wife is pregnant. It's a boy."

Never did I curse the invention of the telephone more than that moment.

Of course I told him that I was happy for him. He loves being a father and as he shared more texts with me, you could tell he was excited. He also made it clear that they were staying together.

I won't bore you with two months of conversation (although, if you are reading this far, maybe you're a glutton for that type of punishment). Suffice to say that we did keep talking and his excitement grew. He even credits our friendship and some of our conversations with his attempt to rebuild his marriage, his desire to have a better handle on his emotions, and his newfound hope for happiness.

Lunch was normal, friendly, and functional. We chatted, shared photos, compared notes on work, and enjoyed the stuffed mushrooms. We had some drinks, some laughs. He allowed me to open up about my dad and was a supportive friend. He then ordered a Tiramisu and excused himself for the restroom. Upon his return, he made the subject request.

His plea was simple: He wants to be friends and he wants to spend time together, but he can't be with me if there is a chance - a threat - of physical intimacy. I promised him that there was no worry of that and there hasn't been since he told me he had decided against the divorce. He looked visibly relieved and started talking about some ideas we had to teach him about wine.

And all I can think about is this: The onus shouldn't be on me to make this work. I shouldn't have to worry if I am handling things right in order to keep him at bay. I shouldn't have to worry about the possibility of unwanted sex. It is not for me and me alone to keep him under control. We're adults and it should be his issue.

The fact that it is an issue at all means that there is a problem here.

I guess I CAN help him.... by not seeing him anymore.