I’ve been grumbling a little about The Good Boy’s not-out-ness, but I’ve got a little tangle of shame of my own to work on. I mean, I’ve got many, but let’s start with this one:
Love.
It’s not like I fall head-over-heels for everyone I’m
attracted to, or that I don’t know what’s normal to say or feel after just a
few dates, but my heart simply DOES NOT GIVE A FUCK what pace I would like it
to move at. In the case of The Good Boy, the pieces slid into place before we
even met, as soon as I felt him submitting to me by text, probably even before
the app-to-texts promotion the best cuties get.
I’m sure there are plenty of explanations: It was my
first time really trying to be a rope top, he’s superpretty and a little in need
of rescue. We’re both teaching each other and learning from each other and that’s
so so sweet. And you already know about the work-of-art cock.
I guess I’ve known it for a couple weeks at least, but
yesterday when I told BFF-Formerly-Sweetie the actual “I love him” phrase, I
started to cry a little and felt a gentle rush of relief. BFF and I agreed that
I didn’t need to interrupt the pause to tell him how I feel. Then I interrupted
the pause to tell him how I feel. When I heard back from him (Not love on his
end, but the potential is there.) I felt the warm relief even more strongly,
not just because it does, for now, really seem to be a pause and not a
break-off. I felt all warm and full and settled into my skin because I told him
how I felt. And it helped that he was very, VERY good about it.
But seriously friends, it would have felt less fraught
if I’d been making an STI call. I feel so mad at myself sometimes for getting
all-the-way smitten so fast, like I’m a crazy person or like I have something heavy
and dangerous that I should have disclosed in advance. I would like to be less
harsh with myself about it, to just name it when it arrives and let anyone who
would flee, flee.
Now that I’ve said all that, let’s keep writing about
this adorable Saturday-before-last.
Sex with the good boy is so pure and sweet.
Not always gentle, he’s as rough and fast and pushy as I want him to be, but he
fucks with his heart, every time. He held me in place like I like, but he did
it by wrapping around me, pulling us all the way together like his limbs were the
sweetest, softest, most lovingly sentient ropes. He was giving me his whole
dear self and it felt so, SO good.
(In some alternate universe, this is also me-at-sixteen
and The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow. This is how we may have intertwined in a 1992
world without Catholicism, without trauma, and of course with him being
actually-bi and not just bi in my hopes.)
Afterwards, well-fucked and inspired, the praise
flowed out, decorating him like the ropes had. I worry that I may have disappeared
into the praise, but no matter, he deserves it.
The window was open, and he laughed at me for being so
sure that I heard snow. (It was! Such pretty snow! And I really hate winter.)
We laughed and talked for such a long time. Then I put on my sleep mask and,
after another while, fell asleep on his shoulder.
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