Postscript: The Coach (Imaginary Asses Are SO Easy to Google!)

 

I guess it’s not a good sign that I’ve been feeling nostalgic for a breakup dinner from like eight years ago: I was looking for a hot story to send The Coach and I landed on part two of my Real Date/Car Sex story with Steampunk Guy. Here’s part one: https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/07/real-datecar-sex-with-steampunk-guy.html It’s not great that I refused to admit to myself that it WAS a breakup date until a couple weeks later, but looking at the story through my current pleasantly-poisoned-by-hookup-culture view, the dinner part of the story felt like a miracle. Steampunk Guy had like nine partners, including a wife, plus a kiddo to take care of, but he still took the time to break things off kindly. I felt, here in Slutty September of 2021, a burst of gladness that Steampunk Guy had, well, broken my heart, but in such a dignifying, humanized way.

The Coach didn’t break things off, he just finished getting vaccinated and still didn’t want to spend time with me in person. He still sexted a few late-nights a week, and I was still having fun with that until I wasn’t. But I can’t fathom, and I really wish someone would explain to me, how sexting could have been fun for him with someone he did not want to be in a room with. Why not just look up some porn or pay a cam girl (and tip her well!) instead of keeping someone he didn’t like on the line for longer than he wanted to?

When I responded to his messages/comments a month ago, I’d put a pin in the prob he and I had encountered long ago, the feeling of him having a fat fetish (rather than simply being attracted to whole hot fat people) or thinking I was just someone to be humiliated. I saw the physical mismatch of us—him twenty-nine and slight except in one particular way (I found out through unsolicited-but-not-entirely unwelcome dick pic, obvs.) (But is there such a thing as dick-catfishing? Probably.) and traditionally fit-looking, me 47, Amazonian and weighing in at 302 pounds. We WOULD have looked a little funny in public together, but someone who liked me as a person wouldn’t have cared.

What started as feeling appreciated, celebrated, overwhelmingly desired a month ago turned into hidden, erased, dirty-in-a-bad-way. Maybe he did feel attracted to me but ashamed about it, or maybe he just wanted me to be a sex-typing-bot whose feelings, bad days, and vulnerabilities he didn’t have to care about. Maybe he wasn’t brave or kind enough to turn me down directly. Maybe he was just a jerk. In fairness to him, I knew that trying to be casual would get me to this emotionally untenable place eventually. I just shouldn’t have let it go on until it hurt this bad.

This past few weeks have been a (not un-fun) scramble to find the things The Coach couldn’t provide in someone else, to distract me from the loneliness while I kept him in the mix. Not! A great! Strategy! As sad as I am to lose (and reblock) The Coach, I’m grateful to be done with that scramble. I’m so impatient with what I really want, it’s so annoyingly specific and (imaginary in this case) snuggle-prohibitive sometimes.

Yesterday, a car plowed into my side mirror and smashed it off on my way to work. I wasn’t hurt but I was heartbroken—I love my car so much, and the mirror metaphor was a little too on-the-nose. Sweetie-Now-BFF immediately sprung into action ordering a replacement mirror and rearranging her schedule to get me to work until it was fixed. And while that was happening, I was worrying that I would seem too needy when (okay IF) The Coach texted after ten. I know it’s not superfair to compare a TWO DECADES LONG friendship/love/friendship with a recent not-quite-a-fling, but BFF’s kindness and concern reminded me of what I’d like to have eventually with a guy. The Coach was not going to get me there.

So at quarter to ten, I said texted him the things I was feeling. He was was an entitled, bratty jackass about it. So ends my foolhardy foray into hookuptown. I can’t promise it’ll be the last, but I promise to keep trying to embrace wanting what I want. But first, wallowing.

 

Nearly-Naked and Fire-Kissed, Part One

 

If this adventure feels much more vulnerable to write about, does that mean I’m making progress? I hope so.

Saturday before last, I went to a BDSM play party by myself for the first time. It didn’t happen the way I’d expected, but what did happen turned out to be one of my favorite things ever.

Before I start the story, it might help to describe myself. I’ve given myself the assignment of getting through this paragraph with out any judgments.  Nothing about me is little. Okay, except my cute little sneezes, but I am a big (not natural) redheaded Amazon. I have big boobs, big hips, and we’ve already talked about the spankability of my not-little ass. I do have a waist, but also a belly. (I’m holding myself back here from writing about a million paragraphs about fat and gender and love. Stay tuned, I guess.) Men tend to gravitate toward the bosoms, obviously, but I think I like my shoulders best. I have a tattoo of a phoenix at the small of my back. I designed it myself back in 1995 after I escaped a housefire. I also have a little Valentine heart at the back of my neck, a gift from a tattoo artist I wasn’t very nice to. As you saw the other day, I have a little bit of a bruise/scar on my left forearm. On this particular night, I was wearing the same outfit I’d worn to the Photoplay story, but Sweetie had talked me into not putting a shirt on under my cardigan, just a turquoise bra. Also there were fishnets and pretty shoes.

I’d been to this particular group’s party before, just after my breakup with Bill. My first impression upon walking in was “This is way too safe,” which is partly because I have issues, but partly because, even in my inexperienced state, there’s something about that place that feels like training wheels. Maybe it’s because the crowd skews a little young.

My hope was to meet some new people and see if I could be in anybody’s supporting cast. Everybody always talks about how an available bi woman is like the holy grail, but this particular unicorn was feeling like a wallflower at the school dance. I just didn’t know where to start. I saw a few couples I would have been more than happy to help, but from the outside there’s something monogamish about D/S couples, (Yeah, I’m not gonna lower-case submissives.) something that looks impenetrable.

So I chatted with a few people in a friendly way. I learned that when people ask you “What do you do?” at a play party they don’t necessarily mean your work and art projects and such. Also, I learned that the word “torture” might have a different meaning within this context. I learned this when I asked “But who would want to torture nipples? They’re so nice!”

Anyway so I was in the middle of conversations like that when who should I notice but my photopal Q. I’ve decided that he should have a cute Kitten Calendar nickname, so I hereby dub him “Fireguy.” Fireguy had his table set up in the dimly/warmly lit stage area and was working some fire-y magic on a beautiful Pre-Raphaelite woman. It was very soothing to watch. I felt self-conscious about running into him—I didn’t want to seem needy or like I was going to take him away from what he was there to do. He very quickly put my mind at ease when one of the first things out of his mouth was:

“So what can I do to you?”

I was like “Um…fire? Ropes? Snuggling? Got any friends here you’d like to tie me to?”

And he said “No. I want to tie you up. And do stuff to you.”

Yay!

Next time: First time naked in front of a room full of strangers. (And one friend.)