ODC: Sweater Man.

Sweater Man: Winter 2000

Everyone has a kink.

Some people are turned on by leather and lace, whips and chains. Other people get off by inserting inanimate objects and phallic-shaped fruits and vegetables into their various orifices. Still more get all hot and bothered by watching and being watched in compromising positions.

Matt? Matt's kink was sweaters.

No, really. I met Matt back when America Online personal ads were free. Bored one night during my junior year of college, I found myself perusing the ads for kicks. He seemed to be everything I could ever want in a mate: a good-looking Jewish journalist. Just like me! So I added his screen name to my buddy list and promptly forgot about the ad.

Several months later, I saw the name on my list, but had no recollection of who he was. So I Instant Messaged him. As soon as I learned that he worked for Boston's Jewish newspaper, it clicked: Yes! Matt! The good-looking Jewish journalist. My thoughts spun wildly out of control and before I knew it I was daydreaming about starting a life with Matt. Two Jewish journalists traveling the world and the stumbling upon entertaining adventures -- the type of adventures that would provide us with years and years of personal anecdotes with which to write columns about. Could anything be better??

I came back to reality to see that Matt had asked me about my hobbies. Hmmmm. Hobbies. Other than partying and sleeping? I had to think fast. "I knit," I told him. And it wasn't altogether false. I had taken up knitting when I had tried to quit smoking. The knitting had given me carpal tunnel syndrome, so I'd gone back to the insidious cancer sticks. But every now and then I'd pick up the knitting needles and knit a friend a mangled, uneven scarf.

"Do you make sweaters?" he asked. Sweaters? Um. I paused, thinking of how to respond. Matt continued: "Because I have a lot of sweater patterns. I have a cabin on the Cape. Maybe we could go there this winter and knit together. I'd love to make sweaters with you."

I cabin on the Cape. It sounded good to me. I could agree to knit sweaters in exchange for a romantic weekend in a cabin on the Cape, complete with romantic, candlelit dinner for two in front of the roaring fire. "Sure," I said. "I'd like making sweaters together."

We exchanged numbers and it wasn't long before Matt called. We chit-chatted about the weather, life, Boston culture, and journalism in general. And then it came. "Do you wear lots of sweaters?" he asked.

"Well, I have lots of sweaters. I mean, this is Boston. But I don't tend to wear lots of sweaters at the same time."

"Oh," he said. And a pause. "Are you wearing a sweater now?"

Why yes, I was, in fact, wearing a sweater. "I sure am," I said. At his request, I described the sweater to him: a lavender, v-neck merino wool J Crew sweater. Very soft. A lovely hue. And oh-so-very comfortable.

The next day, he caught me online and Instant Messaged me. He asked me if I owned any mohair sweaters. I told him I did not. We chatted a bit more and agreed to meet for coffee two days hence.

I showed up at the coffee place about ten minutes early. Being early is a compulsion of mine. Apparently, it was a compulsion of his as well. We ordered our drinks and sat down. I noticed the Banana Republic bag at his feet, and asked him whether he had been shopping. He smiled shyly. "You could say that," he said. Okay then. So he's shy about paying too much for Banana Republic sweaters on Newbury Street. Hell, I would be, too. We talked for about an a half hour longer before I told him that I needed to book it if I was going to make it to my evening class on time. He asked if he could walk me to class. I told him I'd prefer if he didn't. With that, he awkwardly shoved the Banana Republic bag at me. I gave him a quizzical look. "It's for you," he said.

Oy vey. I gift on the first date. I opened the bag, unwrapped the tissue paper and found an absolutely gorgeous purple (my favorite color -- had I told him that?) medium-cabled mohair sweater. "I figure it would look good with a camisole on under it."

"Um. Thanks." I mean, what does a person say to a man who brings her a sweater on the first date? I left took off with the sweater and left him there without a hug or kiss. I didn't expect to hear from him.

I got an e-mail later that evening. He had a request. He wanted sweater erotica.

Why not? How harmful could sweater erotica be? So I penned him a letter about sitting in front of his fireplace in his cabin on the Cape. How he ran his fingers over my shoulders and down my back, savoring the feeling of my thick, delicious cashmere sweater. I wrote about how he slowly undressed me, peeling the cashmere off my supple, nubile body, revealing what lay beneath. Another sweater! This sensual erotic writing continued for four more layers of sweater.

Matt loved it! He ate that shit up. He complimented my writing style and told him I was the only woman he'd ever met who wrote so lovingly of sweaters. "The other women," he complained, "only ever write about one sweater before they are topless. Boobs are nice and all, but sweaters are where it's at." He continued, spinning yarns of women in full-body sweaters.

Then he hit me with his ultimate fantasy, and asked if I would comply. Matt wanted me to take all my sweaters (I had about 20 at the time), and and lay them out of my bed. He wanted me to toss the sweaters about like a salad, put on a full body knit suit, and lie in the middle of the bed, draped in sweater.

That's when I called it quits. I'm all about providing people with their fantasies, but I couldn't envision myself prancing among sweaters and being able to keep a straight face. After only a single date, we parted amicably.

About two years later, I was eating dinner with my roommate, her friend, and his fiance. I began retelling the story of Sweater Man in full, fluid detail. When I mentioned the publication he worked for -- before I got into his sweater fantasies -- the fiance stopped me. She asked, "Is Sweater Man's name Matt?" She explained how she had gone on a date with him about a year prior. "He kept eyeing me and rubbing his hands over my shoulders." I asked her what she had been wearing. "A brand new cashmere sweater." I then proceeded to tell her about the sweater erotica.

"Wow," she exclaimed. "That explains a lot."