The night before J. was set to stay over at my place, I had
one of the most optimistic shopping trips of my life. I really wanted to
celebrate my slutty self and all that was joyful between us, what was beautiful
in my dripping-wet desire for him. I got a matching fancy blue lace bra and
underpants with delicate peach accents. Since I had a toothbrush at his house,
I got him one for mine. Buying a 24-pack of condoms seemed so hopeful as to be hubristic.
(I’ve since remembered that I’m happy to have them for my own use, too!) I
overcame my mental block about buying lube. It felt like as soon as I made
these purchases, he might disappear.
I got picnic fare for our Sunday breakfast: nice bread,
cheese, chocolate, and pretty little red delicious apples. For some reason I
had a twinge of fear about drinking with him, so I didn’t copy his (AWESOME)
champagne-in-the-fridge move.
The morning of our date, I felt sunny and expansive. I had
been squishily turned on since our picnic and was fully embracing my desire to
pounce. He understood that he was to surrender his pants promptly at three. In
preparation, I went down to the corner to the neighborhood co-op and got
rainbow carnations for the table inside the door and little mum pots for the
outside front and the terrace. All of my plants were thriving green and
blooming, and the nasturtium seeds I’d bought at our garden date had grown into
nice little sprouts. I cleaned and organized my girly apartment until it felt
like a perfect welcome. You could certainly say I was trying to hard, but I
might call it service. Or art!
I had my pink soft pajamas on over the sexy lingerie and I
was full of my lovey-dovey self when he knocked on the door. I let him in, gave
him a quick kiss, and asked, “Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Do you have
to pee?” When he said no, I pushed him up the steps to my loft bedroom, shoved
him down onto my princessy bed, straddled him, pinned his arms above his head,
and kissed him hard. He pulled off my top and the lacy lingerie was summarily
dismissed. There was an odd moment when he said “I didn’t bring condoms, so…”
but I was way to rarin’ to go and stocked up on condoms to be all WTF about it.
I opened one with what I hoped looked like confidence, slipped it on him,
rubbed his big, hard cock until it was more than happy, and with a relieved
exhale, pushed him inside.
He was the one who made me truly love being on top. I felt
so at home there, so in control and competent. He sucked and played with my
nipples for the longlong time I so enjoy, and when his hands were at my waist
or on my back, they felt made for me. I keep saying magical, but those hands
were. As we were turning over to switch positions, I asked him to stop and hold
me a minute, I felt overwhelmed. I was out of breath and dizzy from emotion and
release. After we breathed together for a while, he had me lay back, held my
hair, and pushed in, and I looked up into his eyes and loved him. There’s no
other way to say it.
We stayed in bed a long time, listening to my makeout
playlist (YAAAY for having one again, it’s been since Steampunk Guy!) cuddling,
staring into each other’s eyes, and fucking some more. At one point, when he
was on top with my legs wrapped around his back, he hit the spot so precisely
that I blurted out “If you were me right now, you’d believe in god.” and he
said “No, the name’s J___.” and I laughed for like forty five minutes. It was
one of the funniest, happiest, silliest moments of my life so far, but all of
the laughing had the unintended effect of killing his hard-on, so we went back
to cuddling and pillow talking. We decided to consider ourselves a couple, but
I was still afraid to ask about the boyfriend word even though I was tired of
referring to him as “the guy.”
Eventually we got our clothes on so that we could go to
dinner. I was showing him my favorite neighborhood diner, so we decided I would
drive. My little car was parked in a tight spot, I bumped the car behind me,
and though I laughed and said “that’s why god made bumpers” I felt really
stupid. I’m normally an okay driver (not the best, as we’ve established here…)
but the dizziness of the day and his razor-sharp attention to my driving made
me feel lost and discombobulated.
Sweetie was the world’s worst backseat driver, in the car
and in life. Her protectiveness made her chime in over and over on what wasn’t
safe and what I shouldn’t do. It took years for me to convince myself that I could
drive on my own and to feel competent to drive others. Now I do, I even drive
my niece and nephews to the comic shop when I visit them. I want to keep
steering towards autonomy, so I have an inordinate amount of baggage about
backseat driving. The night might have ended differently if he’d driven, but
probably not.
Dinner was fine, lemon meringue pie for and appetizer and
mostly pleasant sweet nothings of conversation. We made so many plans—for me to
spend weekend-after-next at his house, to go back to the art museum sometime,
and the beach before it got too cold for him (instead of Sweetie) to help me
pick out an external CD drive. He was planning his next mix CD for me, now that
he knew me better. It felt like we were kind of a snowball picking up
relationship momentum, except a few little things, like this: He had a sandwich
with SO MANY onions and refused a stick of gum after, giving the rest of the
night a literal bad taste. Knowing how it turned out, I’m tempted to see that
as evidence that he couldn’t really empathize with my side of things, but that
seems like a stretch.
Next Time: Taking too long to say goodbye.