Hold Me Upside Down and Shake All the Nonsense Out, Part One

 

Later in the story I text this to The Song Sender and then I'm like OMG I SENT HIM A POEM WHY AM I LIKE THIS?! But he got what I was going for, I think.

After that second first date with The Song Sender went SO well, my perspective shifted. Softened. Scattered like light. Opened up. If my life has THIS much possibility in it, if fate (and, okay, my very goal-driven sluttiness) could offer me The Song Sender after these very long eleven years, and if that could make SO MUCH SENSE, even just for that one night, why couldn’t I find a way to be in touch with The Shy One, too?

So I texted The Shy One on that full-of-submissive-clarity afternoon, to ask if he would accept my apology and try for being friends with benefits. I didn’t think he would write back, he had every right to have blocked me, but he hadn’t. He did text back.

He said we could be back in touch, but he was taking the summer off from dating to reflect on how he wanted to handle his poly life. I didn’t think he had done anything wrong, definitely thought he shouldn’t be depriving himself of snuggles, but I was so touched by the pause he was taking. I have this terrible habit of thinking I have no effect on people, that I’ll fall out of their consciousness as soon as I say goodbye, but his planned summer sacrifice humbled and chastened me.

Convinced of how much I’d meant to The Shy One, I vowed to figure out a way to be in his life, however he would have me. So haltingly and politely, with some good ol’ Downton restraint, we started texting some. We talked on the phone and it made me sad, made me long for him and doubt I could make it as a platonic friend. But I put aside time to feel that sadness, and stayed determined.

We sent pictures of flowers and “happy Friday” and I confided in him when a date didn’t work out. The Shy One and I planned a dinner for mid-July, but before we got to there, The Song Sender cracked me open even more. Though he, generous and sweet Sir that he is, would probably say I did it all myself.

For my (second) second date with The Song Sender, I think he meant for us to have a date-date, but I was lazy and it was hot so I decided to just take him home to play. He helped me put some flowery street art up first—I liked seeing him pull the silk flowers off their plastic stalks. Good muse.

There was gorgeous, wonderful, THOROUGH hotness, which I’ll get to in a different post, but there was also a fight. During aftercare time, a couple of misfired jokes stirred a wild sense of abandonment into my reeling and breathless body and mind. I got rage-quiet and kicked him out. Well, I drove him home.

“At least it was a good sequel,” I said. I am kind of a jerk.

There was a big, hazy supermoon in the sky that seemed like it was a little bit mocking me with its naked romance.

“Thank you for letting me drive you home,” I said, “It would be too sad otherwise.” He caressed my arm softly and I felt so much regret about things being over (re-over) already.

“Hug” he said kindly when we pulled up in front of his girlfriend’s apartment. There was a car waiting right behind us so there wasn’t time to aim the awkward car hug. It was more like we just bonked our heads together.

This story makes me miss him, makes me sad even though we figured it out and he’s still very dearly in the picture. I would have to go to that humble place some more, let down my defenses, and maybe, maybe, MAYBE (please please please) just get (at least some of! A LOT of!) what I wanted all along.

An Absolutely Beautiful Mess: Part Three (I Win Fastest Heart Every Time)

 

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.

An Absolutely Beautiful Mess, Part One

After three maybe too-intense dates, The Good Boy and I are on a pause so we both can figure out which end is up. (BFF says that’s what fizzy water is for because the bubbles go up. I don’t know why I find that observation so comforting.) Let the untangling begin:

On Wednesday the 9^th, The Good Boy and I were scheduled to have our third date—an actual go-someplace date! We were going to see the new J-Lo romcom—I’d originally planned it as a self-date but he suggested we go together before we’d even had our first couch date.

I think maybe the combination of Ma’am-ing and Valentine’s week made me lose my mind about our movie date a little bit. I was so, SO excited to get dressed up, for him to buy the snacks, to sit in the back row and hold hands, maybe make out a little. My anticipation was a little bit teen-girl-childlike, maybe bordering on unhinged.

So of course, OF COURSE it got cancelled, or, I thought, postponed. TGB was having issues with his other partner, and they needed the night to talk things through.

TGB had been together with his First Poly Partner for about six months and she was the reason he was trying nonmonogamy. Until this cancelled night, I hadn’t thought much about her except to respect her nights and be grateful she’d sent him out into the world so I could meet him. Grateful was my main emotion about FPP, and somehow, it still is.

I’d already bought tickets for the movie, and TGB paid me back double. I felt two ways about that! A little queasy, kinda I’d been bought off, but also, yay money. I bought a book I’d been wanting.

I pulled all the way back (Well, I mean, as far as a smitten kitten could.) from him that night, having no desire to become a factor in whatever they were resolving. When he gave me the all-clear the next morning, I asked if he’d like to come over after work on Saturday. He works from three to eleven, dealing blackjack. I really hope I get to see his professional-grade card-shuffle someday.

That Saturday night, I planned to do my yearly Valentine’s street art project. I’d saved up about six months of paintings and protest signs and doodles and was also planning to restore some of the watercolors that had been up for a while. It’s a love-gift for my neighborhood, which is truly one of my Great Loves. (Along with my apartment, my cats,  the Hope Diamond, and my new magenta ropes.) When it turned out the casino was overstaffed and he was getting the night off, I invited him to join me for the art.

This was a BIG DEAL—I’d only ever gone on street art walks with close friends or by myself. It felt like letting him in on a secret part of me. Maybe too intimate. Kinda like when I invited This Charming Man to the Fancy Garden, but this messy date turned out WAY better than that one.

I’m sure I’ve called many, MANY things THE CUTEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED but this was definitely in the running. He carried my bags of art and silk flowers. He handed me the staple gun when I needed it, goading me gently when he thought I was using too many staples. (Ha like that’s his business!) He reached up his nice long arms to add color to the paintings that had faded with time and weather.

I felt nervous hanging up political pieces in front of him—we hadn’t talked at all about politics since he’d passed my screening questions. But it went okay! We talked a little bit, very lightly, about empathy and growth.

In the moments when we weren’t working on the art, he held my hand like it was important to him, like it was a detail he’d looked forward to, a little like he was staking a claim. We took a short walk through the woods. I think I could be forgiven for thinking something romantic was happening between us, and maybe it was. Maybe (I hope not!) fleeting, maybe already on the way to over, but, on my end at least, definitely hearts-floating-up-around-my-head romance,

Lo-Fi and Rope Highs (How It’s Going)

I can’t make myself write the play-by-play of sex with This Charming Man, as hot as those paragraphs would be. I’m still disentangling my feelings about him, mainly the feeling of being startled (and, because I’m me, a little alarmed) about how connected and grounded I feel when we’re together. Our bodies and our learning curves fit together like the pretty knots, unraveling and being re-tied. Just like it was on our first date, the other main feeling is laughing-while-kissing.

Last Thursday was our fifth date (though the fourth was more of a get-over-here) and I was ready to relax into almost-always coziness at home, so I invited him to come over and paint. But he had a real out-in-the-world date in mind, at a beer garden/barbeque that’s between our two neighbs. Just a simple little while of snacks, cocktails, and running into casual acquaintances of his, but it meant a lot. To get cute for him, to feel his proprietary arm casually draped around me, to make out in front of strangers and probably be a little nauseating. A perfectly ordinary dream come true—not sure if it’s a big deal because of post-quarantine or because my dates have been casual and couch/bed-specific for a while…probably both.

After I took him home for ropes and snuggles, (and before more snuggles) we stayed up all night talking. I kept checking to see if he wanted to go home, and he kept not wanting to go home. At one point, I turned my face away to spoon, and he said I “went away.” I was right there!

I asked him, at like three or four in the morning, what he wanted us to be. He volleyed the question back to me and I admitted that I saw him as boyfriend material, but I didn’t want him to feel constrained. Kind of a cop-out. Can I get Rory Gilmore in here to do this part for me? Anyway, I kept yammering: “Romantic, not casual. Not just friends, but also friends.”

“Friends with ropes?” he joked but then sort of sighed/settled in, saying “Romantic. Yes. Definitely.”

So Friday night while he was running one of his two D&D games, I was sitting here so tired writing a first draft of this post in my notebook, with candles lit and a very him lo-fi mix playing, (Extremely unsurprising take—it’s also so good for typing!) feeling dizzy and off-balance unsure of how to make whatever next plans. (We asked each other out/in for two separate dates the next day, is how.)

But. His eyes shining when he watched me “come like a Good Girl.” His arms submitting to my ropes. The way my throat often hurts from too much laughing/moaning/forgetting to drink water. His heart. Yikes.

There of course are still things that make me feel hesitant about him, about the combination of us, but I’m glad to spend occasional moments just going with it, just feeling quiet and still.

A Brief Gilmore Guy Revival: Part One

When I got his text, I was in a good mood. It was Friday and I’d just stopped at the bank to make my deposit, then took a rainy stroll in a nearby twinkle-light-filled, very window-shoppingy neighborhood. My life was just so perfectly my life. I got home, got in my PJs, lit all the scented candles, (hygge!) made some tea and settled in for some Gilmore episodes.

After a friendly back and forth about what episode I was on (Season 2, Episode 7: Rory gets Puffed because there’s no Reading and Walkman-Listening Club at Chilton.) (Lorelai and Emily mother-daughtering in the Booster Club fashion show is one of my favorite moments of the whole series.) Gilmore Guy asked, “How would you feel about seeing me?”

When I told him I wasn’t ready to be friends because I still had snuggly feeling for him (I did? I do? Honestly, I thought I’d moved on.) he made it clear that snuggles were what he was after. My body filled with hopeful light and heat. Okay, I said. A treat.

I brought him the painting above, it doesn’t really seem like street art anyway. He made me a gin and tonic, remembering that the fancy Bombay was my favorite from his collection. (“A gin-clear mind…” says The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina in my head for no reason.)

“Should we kiss?” he asked as we settled into Season 2, Episode 8. (Jess is the WORST. Team Wookie forever.)

“Should we? Probably not.” I said, already kissing him.

I’m fascinated and mystified by the way that our bodies were so SMART together. Making out on the couch, we fit together so smoothly, easily, power trading back and forth between us in such a seamless, joyful way. As we made our way horizontal, the closeness I felt to him was startling. Sometimes I held him so close to me like this was something romantic. I guess in my head, it always will be.

Hours later, when I asked him to hold me down, I felt such pure, uninterrupted happiness as I giggled and struggled. The instinct of our bodies together is a monument in my heart, a shiny obelisk of mystery. I know, I know, I KNOW it’s just sex, but I can’t understand how our bodies seemed to know each other so well. Creating such beauty together, and then not, I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. I’m more than happy to keep trying, though sadly not with him.

Snuggles in the Time of Kavanaugh: Part Two

I still consider it such a miracle that that Walkout Monday ended like this: Me leading Gilmore Guy upstairs to fresh sheets and fluffy pillows. My cat, the shyest little cat in the universe, letting him pet her and hold her before running away to her spot behind the dryer. Me trying to undress Gilmore Guy and finding out what shirtstays are—I told you, he’s a little dandyish.

It felt so comforting to welcome him into my bed, all kissing and warm and ready. His skin was so gorgeously soft and he had an earthy, minty smell like natural soap. Sooooothing.

And finally, I had the chance to do what I’d been fantasizing about the most.

“Get on your knees next to the bed,” I said, and he complied.

“How do you feel about calling someone Ma’am?” I asked. (A flash of fear went across his face in the middle of that sentence…)

“I feel…good.”

“You feel good…what?”

“Ma’am. Yes ma’am.”

            I spread my legs in front of his face and pressed him to me, pushing his shoulders down with my hands and then with my legs. I lay back in ecstasy and power, dissolving into joy. He did a very good job and I told him so as I pulled him up onto the bed and held him prone.

“It’s just…will I always be calling you ma’am?  I don’t think I would like that.”

“No. I don’t like anything all the time. That’s why I’m a pansexual switch.”

“Oh, okay, good.”

“Oh, okaaaaaaayyy…”

“Ma’am. Okay ma’am.”

(Writing this part down really makes me miss him and wish it had worked out. I really like the way it felt when he called me ma’am.)

Since he’s so new at kink and I’m sooooo far removed from any rope practice, I tied him up very gently (and pretty unconvincingly) with the pink fuzzy belt of my robe. I only tied him by one wrist, but it was such a thrill to be over him, his body warm and vital and delicious beneath me, playing this game and feeling my own strength against his. Though the title of this series might connote revenge on men, it could not be more opposite. This was a loving power, a kind exchange of equals. This night, I’ll say again, was such a gift and a miracle in the middle of so much bodily and national turmoil.

“What will I say if I need you to stop?” he asked.

“Just say stop.” I answered, in what felt like a new kind of commanding voice. I felt such power and peace, such connection. I felt grounded in my body and in my soul, in pleasure. He was so sweet and kind and such a gift, and in that moment, he was mine.

Bye and Thanks to The Socialist

My third date with The Socialist (a week ago yesterday) was just as warm and snuggly as the first two. I drove out to visit him in the suburbs, to his very guy apartment with a goth mix playing and Smiths posters all over the walls. He was wearing a Smiths t-shirt that matched the rest of the aesthetic, and all of it felt very homey and familiar. When I was nineteen, my boyfriend-type-person was a goth guy who took me to a rave club on Friday nights, and that seems to have influenced most subsequent decisions.

I felt so cozy sitting on his (velvety black) couch with my feet in his lap, talking about books and life and politics. I was SO RELIEVED when he made fun of the idea of a rigged 2016 primary! I told him he deserved ten blowjobs for that, and I meant it, but maybe I need to set my bar higher than “only buys into SOME misogynist news cycles.” Kinda where we are right now, though.

In bed, it was easy and warm. He knew just how to kiss me and just how to fuck me, didn’t mind when my exuberant moans rattled the walls of his crowded apartment building, though he did eventually get up and close the window. I couldn’t contain my joy, and he didn’t want me to.

After a couple of snuggly hours, I got tired of the goth music and (this is seriously one of the best date things that ever happened to me) put on one of his TWO Monkees playlists, singing along to cheery retro deeps cuts with his whole heart and his whole face. This, to me, is the miracle of dating, the way that, in spite of every wall and flaw and trope, a near-stranger’s perfect goofball humanity can shine out of him like the sun, and I am sometimes lucky enough to be there, naked and satisfied, to witness it. (And, in this case, laugh my head off.)

Definitely not hot songs, but I climbed all over him some more anyway—"Another Pleasant Valley Sunday” indeed.

The trouble started when I tried to tell him what I needed in terms of post-snuggle communication. He had disappeared for most of the week following our excellent second date, and as I tried to ask for something other than radio silence I felt stupid and needy and a little flower of hurt bloomed in my chest. I knew I wanted him to be more present by text, but everything I said felt like it had the potential to scare him away, everything kept coming out wrong.

We did spend a very pleasant half-hour joking our way through the emoji keyboard (Upside-down-smiley-face makes a much better ping than the businesslike thumbs-up, don’t you think?!) As I was putting on my pants, though, I knew I had to try and get serious, and he could not have looked more miserable about that.

I explained that praise is a really important part of sex for me. “Praise” makes it sound more BDSM than I meant it to. What I really meant was…softness. Kind words. He hadn’t given a single tiny sparkle of a compliment, and I explained that I couldn’t read his mind to tell if he liked me. He argued that he wouldn’t have had me over if he didn’t like me, but that is just nonsense when it comes to sex. (And I have, like, five years of blogging to prove it.)

“I’m just not good with praise” was the verdict and so was “I just don’t like all the talking.” I said that if we were fucking, he needed to communicate better, and he seemed to take it to heart.

On the long drive home, my phone chimed, and I got my hopes up that maybe he’d said something sweet. When I pulled up at home, I opened the phone and saw…more bantering about emojis, which is admittedly fun and cute but also nagged at that little void in me where kind words should’ve been. I have all the kind words to offer, and I wanted to believe that I deserved some in return.

He pinged the next day, but the connection felt broken. There would’ve been so many things to chitchat about all week—the Blue Wave! The new emojis! Orange heart! But my phone was silent except for reminders from ResistBot, so I had to admit that The Socialist didn’t like me the way I liked him.

After I let him go, I felt a return to myself, a relief from the emotional hangover that had made the sad election anniversary even harder to navigate.

What I want is simple, I want the cute person to tell me I’m cute. What isn’t so simple is remembering that I deserve it.

As the dust settled and I sent my OKC app to the cloud for a breather, I realized something I’ve never been able to non-judgmentally take in about myself before: sex is a scary thing to me. It’s all of the wonderful things, too, but sharing my space, my body with someone takes a deep investment of trust. I’ve always wanted it to be no big deal but with a sensitive body and soul and a heart that will leap into action at the least provocation, I have to take care of myself. I have to admit what I need.

So it’s a sad week, guywise, and I’m disappointed, but this is also a good, big step. I listened to him when he told me what he had (and didn’t have) to offer, and I believed him. Instead of treating the difference between us with self-sacrifice and eventual resentment, I treated us both kindly, setting us free to find a better fit. Sigh-go me.

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years, Part Two

The more we walked through the fountains and gardens and woods lit in hypnotizing and artful ways, the more playful we became. He dared me to push him up against a tree and I giggled at first and then shoved him with all my strength. He exhaled sharply, pulled my arms up so they were around his shoulders, and gave me a kiss that made me feel as if I was flying and falling at once.

We made out on many benches in that garden, but the last and best was on an unlit path behind the trees where a lightshow of birds taking flight was being projected. (I have to be awesome at life to have lived that sentence.)

He kept trying to feel me up, even though I pushed his hands away over and over—we may have been in a secluded spot, but it was still a family park. I may have been ridiculously, dizzily turned on, but I still wanted respect. I told him about wanting to be valued for my whole self, and he said, don’t you notice me enjoying every inch of you? Charming and clueless at once.

We wrestled a little, and he caught my wrists behind my back with one hand, bent me forward by the hair with the other hand, and had his rough way with my nipples though my pretty satin floral dress. I let out a groan and a “Huh!”—it was spot-on and not-okay at once. After just a moment, a deep “Stop.” came up from my belly and he let me gather myself. “Good boy,” I said, and patted him on the head.

As we walked out of the woods, chemistry-drunk and holding hands, the lights, the music, the flowers, it all became too much. I couldn’t take any more sensations. I was hungry and in need of coffee, so we got directions to a nearby diner and I agreed to follow him.

I put on The National’s High Violet and was prepared for more dreaminess, but also was headachey and having trouble concentrating. We got lost on the way to the diner and I ended up following him down dark country roads. The sky was full of stars and it was the week of the Perseid Meteor Shower, and I hoped to see one, but didn’t. We did see some leaping deer. We were lost for a long while, a good forty-five minutes. My headache got worse and I had the sensation that I was following someone who did not know where he was going. I found out later it was a while before he even checked his GPS—why didn’t I check mine?

When we made it to the main road, the only thing we could find open was a Hooters. I had the thought that if we ever became a thing, this would be a funny part of the story of how we got together. I am utterly amazed by my brain’s ability to hope, to let romance bloom, and I hope that doesn’t change.

I ordered cake as an appetizer and he had Key Lime pie. We fed each other and I drank weak coffee and we both felt sad that the waitress felt compelled to address us in a baby voice.

He asked me out for a fortnight from then (He has the kids every other weekend and had apparently not yet discovered the existence of babysitters…) and I agreed that that should be when I come to his house and jump in his pool. And then, alas, we got onto the subject of our exes. His divorce was fresher than mine and he talked about her in such a demeaning way. He told me she was depressed and I immediately suspected that he had made her that way. He even called her “dense.” I said, “I don’t like this. You can’t talk about her this way.” I kind of accused him of gaslighting her, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t wrong.

We left the restaurant and sat in my car to talk. “I really like you, but you’re scaring me.” I said, and he kept talking, about money and housework and the ins and outs of insurance. I’m not a small talk person so I do tend to learn all kinds of things about people, but I laid down the law and said this was by no means second-date talk. I said that I could just see her, trying so hard to please him and never getting it right, I said I could see the same thing happening to me and I never wanted to be in that position again. We kissed gently and hugged for a long time. I was horrified and put off but I also didn’t want to let go. He was very hard to let go of.

He got in his car and we headed toward our respective homes. There was no reason for me to follow him anymore. I turned Mumford and Sons’ “I Will Wait” the way up, sped up in as tough a way as a Yaris can manage, and passed him. I was pretty sure that was it.

Next time: And yet.

About “I Love You”

It will come as a surprise to exactly no one that I regularly exchange “I love yous” with the Mystery Man and his Family, none of whom I’ve seen in person. At first I wondered if maybe this wasn’t going a little overboard, but as a reader and a writer I’m quite used to adoring people I’ve never physically met. The stakes are a little higher, but it feels natural nonetheless.

Back when my best friend Angel Face and I were almost a thing for five seconds, he admitted to feeling overwhelmed at the amount of affection I sent (Those who balk at “Call Me Maybe” may be glad you missed my Ke$ha-ful “Your Love is My Drug” phase…) but as friends we talk like that all the time. Getting to say it romantically to a guy, though,  is new, and every time I read it or say it, it’s like a little more of me gets repaired, like I’m a little closer to getting to express my true self.

In the movies, (and in last week’s New Girl episode) the trope is that the “I love you” should be withheld until the big reveal, some big dramatic moment, but that isn’t how it feels to me at all. I love easily, instantly, and thoroughly, and that’s always made me feel a little bit out of sync. But what if there’s actually a place in the world for people who see life that way, for whom love is like breathing, like weather?

“I love you” is both momentous and ordinary. Or COURSE I love you, why wouldn’t I? My time on this planet is limited and I’m choosing to spend some of it with you. It’s obvious, it’s easy, it’s who I am. If I wasn’t loving everyone wholeheartedly, my job would eat me alive, divorce would have kicked my ass, and nothing would ever get done. All of it is running on love, all of the time.

It wasn’t until that really terrible casual sex with a random OKC guy right after Christmas that I realized I hadn’t really been having any casual sex these past two years. In some way, I’ve loved every person I played with, and every person whose person I’ve played with. I loved Cute Master and Pretty Slave from the moment they walked into that Kinky Karaoke party glowing with good sex (and probably good weed.) I loved the Cutest Boy at the Party as soon as he sat down and started chatting me out of my party tears. I loved Old-Timey Guy from the moment he smacked my behind with that godawful hurty ceramic star. (As a side note, I think it’s the romance that attracted me to BDSM in the first place—all the outfits, special names, and secret whispers, how lucky are we that that’s real to us?)  I loved the Steampunks from the moment I sat down at their table, would have done absolutely anything for them. Fireguy’s paternal gaze, The Man’s first bus stop kiss, the rope-compersion I felt for the Boss of Me and Her Boy before I even met them—all of it, love.

Most of those folks wouldn’t say they’re in it for love, or they had enough love already when I came along, and that’s easier to accept now that I can just go ahead and admit to loving them. I did, and I always will, no matter how the story ended.

And the ones who’ll take the “I love yous” and give them back, too? You’re changing the way I see the world, the way I see my place in it. You’re helping me to settle into my real self and guess what? I love you for it.