Steampunk Guy and Two Kinds of Sex-Tears

So my second date with Steampunk Guy was very much like the first, except in the daytime, for the decadent housewifeness of it all. I got all dressed up and made sure that my little black-and-white striped dress was short enough so that he could see my lacy, hot-pink underpants when I walked up the steps in front of them. Putting on the outfit is a bigbig part of the fun, even if it stays on for like two minutes.

I just love kissing him, being in his arms, the way his whole body curls up urgently against mine, the instant gratification of him.

I did make a playlist, not necessarily just for him, but it’s called “Something Like Makeout Music,” made mostly by dropping in whole albums that wouldn’t disrupt the process too much. He says LCD Soundsystem makes him feel like he’s in a Nineties movie about the Eighties.

This time he brought ropes, and it was so good to have them on again. He was competent and careful, honoring my no-intentional-boob-hurting limit (I’m happy to report that he makes a really good effort to respond to feedback, even feedback he can’t do anything about, as you’ll see toward the end of the story.) and just generally having perfect hands about it. I liked to stop and wrap my arms around him and kiss him while he wound and wove the ropes. The smell of him was a little bitter, as if he hadn’t showered that morning or had been doing sweaty work—you know I get drunk on that smell.

On the couch, he was hard on my hair and my ass-cheeks, but was gentle about being the first person to put a finger in my asshole. I couldn’t quite lose self-consciousness about it, but I was glad to have him in there. He had me cradled in one arm and the other gloved hand probing slowly—I felt so calm and cared-for, ready to just settle in and behave myself.

Until he smacked me in the hoo-ha and I had to laugh and smack him back for being so porny.

“What’s porny about that?”

“Seriously, it’s what they do right before spitting on their hands…”

I really, really like giving him a hard time. I like how impossible and incorrigible and silly he is. The sex is pretty perfect, but the banter’s what’s getting me attached.

The perfect sex moments…him grabbing the back of the ropes while I was kneeling in front of him so he could go into me harder. When I asked for a little break and he gave it by fucking me slowly and sweetly, my brain spritzed itself with all kinds of bonding chemicals. I warmed to him, melted to him. I let him in and it felt so perfect. And I told him it felt perfect even though I knew it would only make him more incorrigible.

That melty moment was a reprieve from the feeling I’ve always had, the certainty I’ve always had that men are hopelessly separate from me, unattainable and ungraspable. He was there, we were us, there was wholeness. Straight women must get used to this feeling, but after all those penis-free years, I’m still waking up to it, feeling fragile and young and fighty about needing men the way I do.

He turned me over so that I was on my belly and covered me completely. His soft, fuzzy legs held my legs down, his arms over my arms. He held my head so I couldn’t move and I felt a rush of relief. Absolute joy. Helpless and safe, what I’d been waiting for all along.

“This. Is. My. Favorite.” I sighed, my head smushed into the couch cushion.

“Why’s it your favorite?”

“Because you’re all over me.”

He turned into a growling animal and fucked me harder. The Smiths were singing “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me” and though I knew this wasn’t that, the music and the pressure and relief pushed the experience to something transcendent and I did what he wanted me to do, which was cry. Real, deep tears this time and he came. It was lovely in a way I can’t get my head around.

So what can I do about having such deep pressing needs met in such a casual situation? What I did was enjoy him for a couple more hours, put an apron on over my ropes and make him a sandwich, argue about whether I was a hipster or not based on the fact that I think Arcade Fire is makeout music. (My argument is that I like things too sincerely to be a hipster, he says I sincerely like hipsterish things. Says Steampunk Guy.)

We finished the conversation we’d started about the Scary Party in a way that made me feel satisfied and safe. He said I really should write down this line about how The Man probably got hit on more than I did during that mess of a thread, probably girls writing to The Man and saying  “I’d shut the fuck up for you.” I’m happy to know that Steampunk Guy doesn’t seem interested in me shutting the fuck up. Although, best of luck to him if he did!

Anyway, my point is that we had lots of fun. He kept asking how he could help keep me from feeling sad when he leaves and I honestly had no idea. He just isn’t a wrap-you-in-a-blanket-and-say-sweet-nothings kind of guy, and really I’ve learned how much nothing sweet nothings can mean. And really felt fine until he started to get dressed.

All those intense experiences make it easy to forget this was just a second date. I’ve never had this reaction to any other date—in fact, I hung up the phone with Mr. Sweetheart the night before feeling close to him even though he is six hours away. Being clingy at the end of a date just isn’t me—I’m usually just ready to go back to my book or whatever.

The sad feeling really doesn’t have much to do with actual him, so I don’t know what’s triggering it, unless it’s purely just my inability to be casual. I do feel overwhelmed by the number of commitments he has, but that’s who he is, it’s who I like.

“I had a really good time and I’d like to do it again, but this is all it is.”

And I LIKE what it is. I just don’t know if I’m built for it.

Tears or no tears I went on my Fet page and listed him as someone I’m “considering.” Even that vagueness feels vulnerable, but while I was laying there thinking things through after he left, I watched this TED Talk about how vulnerability is the key to connectedness. Who knows. He says we’re fortnightly, so I’ve got at least that long to figure it out.Or figure out that there's nothing to figure out.