Last night I came - quivering, grinning, exploding.

I came into the hand of a man I'd met for the first time in person only a few hours before.

He told me I was adorable. He promised even if we hated each other someday he would always tell me I'm adorable. He said he wanted me to feel safe and protected. I wanted to feel safe and protected.

The pain, humiliation, and fear of the past two months slowly began to gather in my abdomen. I kissed and gnawed at him. He would stop, tickle the head, whisper more promises of safety into my ear, then suddenly grip me again as I begged him to make me come.

I didn't think I could do it. I didn't trust my body to get there; how could I possibly get there with this man, a stranger?

We'd met a few weeks ago on Match.com, exchanging a handful of e-mails. Then I met H and stopped communicating, but H ultimately decided he didn't feel a romantic connection. He shared his decision on Tuesday; the same day I found a new e-mail from my Match.com connection in my inbox. I wrote back, apologizing for my silence. More e-mails followed, then he asked to meet.

I asked if he could pick a spot near the PATH train; he chose a wine and cheese bar. I know little about cheese and even less about wine, but I'm assuming we drank and dined extremely well; our bill was 150 dollars for a bottle of white wine and a plate of cheeses and thin-sliced salami. I reached for my wallet. My Match.com connection, who I'll call "Match Man," insisted on treating me. Emboldened by the wine, I asked if he wanted to take me back to his apartment. He hailed us a cab; we kissed and touched for better part of 75 blocks, pausing only as he showed me some of his photographs on his iPad (he's an amateur photographer) and spoke humorously and nervously about the shock he would no doubt experience the next morning when he realized how much he'd paid for the wine and cheese. When the cab stopped at his apartment, I paid the driver.

We parted for a few minutes as I smoked a cigarette outside his building (he hates smoking). Then I rode the elevator to the eighth floor and knocked on his door. We grabbed each other in the doorway, continuing what we started in the cab. He showed me into his large living room and switched on the TV; for a moment it seemed as though we were going to settle down for an episode of Reno 911!. Seconds later, we were kissing again. At one point, mid-kiss, I burst into laughter as I heard Deputy Raineesha Williams proclaim herself "a proud black woman."

Eventually he shut off the TV. I pointed to what looked like a large closet; he opened the door and showed me up to what was actually a loft. As I write this, I'm recalling my pubescent explorations with Sam in his loft bed, but I didn't make the connection last night. It didn't occur to me that I was about to experience my first, non-solo orgasm after my breakup in a loft, just as I had experienced my first-ever prelude to an orgasm in a loft bed with Sam.

The emotions gathered in my abdomen - the pain, the frustration, the fury, the horrible self-hatred, the feelings of loneliness and abandonment. And Match Man whispered to me, "This is my bed. This is a safe bed." His hand moved quickly, and I told him he was kind, that I felt safe. And then I lost language. My whole body seized; my breathing spiked; the emotions in my abdomen seized and liquefied. I came to the gasping, primordial sounds of my own self shaking loose. I was released.

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He sent me a text today: "Just remembering a lovely pair of eyes and several (hundred) sweet kisses." By now my self has recomposed itself, hesitations at all, and I worry about some of what he said, particularly his promise to call me adorable even in the future if we hated each other. What worries me isn't the idea of hating him so much as the "future" he already seems to be imagining. Last night he made me feel attractive, special, and sheltered. Of all these things, feeling sheltered was what I wanted most. At the same time, I know I must learn to be strong on my own, to shelter and protect myself. I can't rely on someone else for this no matter how glorious I felt in Match Man's bed.

I like Match Man. He's a square-jawed business/management type, bearing the slightest resemblance to Buster Pointexter, and sees himself as a Type A neurotic. Diseases frighten him, particularly the sexually-transmitted sort. He's fond of using the phrase "so there" in e-mails and conversation to put a humorous spin on certain, self-conscious disclosures (for example, I wrote in an e-mail that I have difficulty taking compliments about how I look; he responded with, "I sometimes have trouble taking [compliments] about my appearance as well... so there"). Part of my attraction to him is narcissistic - I'm attracted to the fact that he's attracted to me. But I'm also attracted to his voice - its clarity and attention to final consonants. And his eyes are honest. When he promised to protect me, I believed him.

At the same time, I'm swarming with doubts. For one thing, I can't believe I invited myself back to his apartment and went so far on a first date. For another, I'm almost certain I'm not ready for another relationship. A friendship? Yes. A vaguely-defined romance? Yes. But not a relationship attached to a future. This is exactly what Match Man wants, and while he definitely deserves it, I'm in no position to offer it - at least not yet.

I'm suddenly stuck by the not-so-lofty feeling that I used him.