Perfect Friday Night With Dreamy Playlist Angel, Part Four

 

Snuggling under the covers with a roped-up cutie is like a whole vacation in itself. I recently redid my bedding all in soft pink, it's like curling up in an aggressively cute cloud. The perfect place for a perfect boy.

I like holding him close, protecting him from the world. I like his angel-floppy hair and his open, sincere face. I like him lots. The confidence he'd shown when he kissed me at the door was here in the cloud bed too, eager and game. Both of us, just so happy to be here.

(Side quest: so many of these stories culminate with me on my face, screaming into a pillow in joy and delight. Is this scary for partners? It recently sunk in that I would be jarred by this level of emotion and noise from a partner, maybe others feel the same? I remember Lovely Guy saying he felt like he was being violent even though he wasn't. Poor dear! Maybe I'll talk to people about this?)

Anyway, confident. He bent me in a way that felt new, one knee over his shoulder. He hit the spot so neatly and thoroughly, a heave of relief and pleasure. Fitting together like puzzle pieces seems like a thing I should have gotten used to by now, should have learned to take for granted, but I never have. He just made me feel so, so good.

When I came (and came, and came) I cried out "Thank you, oh THANK you!" over and over. I remembered briefly that "grateful" is a stereotype about lovers my age, then realized I don't care--I was born grateful and I hope, in fifty to seventy years, to die grateful too.

The rest of the night was sweet snuggles and music-and-movies chitchat, what else could anyone on this earth ever need?

It took a couple days for OCD to start yelling at me about it, obnoxiously moralizing and strictly anti-fun. Here are some of the things that my brain decided:

*If he's not texting in this moment, I am forgotten and humiliated.

*I'm sabotaging my chances at romantic love by letting myself play casually.

*He is automatically going to choose the other lady he's casually dating, therefore proving I'll never measure up or be any good.

OCD is an asshole! I felt a little relief from breaking things off, but my body didn't want that! After a few more days, the anti-fun obsession machine quieted enough to hear my body's opinions, which were:

*Yes!

*Yay!

*More please!

He was admirably copacetic about the breaking-off and then un-breaking off. I want him to keep coming over as long as it's fun for us both, and who knows what that will look like! He's coming over Friday night for Mulholland Drive and ropes, wish me luck! :)

Mr. Popular Gets Lucky, Part Two

There’s a lot to celebrate about my visit to Mr. Popular’s house on Monday. 

His home is beautiful. I guess four incomes (his, his wife’s, his ex-wife’s and his ex-wife’s husband’s) can buy a lot of house. It’s perfectly decorated and meticulously cared for, to the last detail. They are surrounded by a lush, beautiful garden. You’ve got to be impressed by a man who grows his own pears. He picked one for me and it was very juicy. The juice ran all down my arm.

When we walked into the house, his pregnant ex-wife was chopping up eggplant for dinner with her husband and us. Un-oh, eggplants, this caused me some anxiety—I’m a picky eater and dinners in people’s homes can be a little fraught. I vowed to myself that I would be a big girl and eat whatever was put in front of me.

Mr. Popular and I sat on his bed singing approximately one million Beatles songs—it was ridiculously fun. I was a little self-conscious that the rest of the family could hear my caterwauling, but mostly I just sang with my whole body and heart. We hadn’t even kissed yet so it was exciting and adorable when he’s put his hand on my knee or his head on my shoulder. Like any good date, there was a fair amount of high-fiving. He was singing the harmony, but when the melody was too low for me, we’d switch and he’d sing my part. We made a good team. He put waaaaaay too much feeling into “Fixing a Hole” and I laughed until tears came down my face. We both got a possessive, cathartic thrill out of belting out “Run For Your Life,” probably the least poly song ever:

We got called down to dinner and there was plenty for my picky self to eat. I felt shy around the rest of the family, but he says I did okay. They went on a Whole Foods run after dinner and left us to do the dishes. I’d rather wash than dry, so this marks the first time I’ve washed a guys dishes before I’d even kissed him. We had a nice time bickering about his terrible taste in music (He only learned about the Beatles from Rock Band, can you imagine?!) and gently brushing up against each other.

After dishes and quite the grueling Abbey Road medley, it was time to snuggle. I got under the covers and right into his arms. He kissed me and made little yummy noises that took some getting used to. He is skinnier than my usual type and definitely bottomy, so he felt a little fragile, but warm, safe, deft. He ran his hands over my breasts and I sighed and cooed. Things were going fast so I said “Okay, just so you know, we’re not going past third base.”

This lead to a lengthy, silly discussion of what the bases are. I think I’m the only adult who still refers to the base system. It’s not like I think there’s only four things to do, I just keep adding more bases. Knowing where this blog is, for example, is 29^th base.

Anyway, he felt so sweet and comforting, and was kind and matter-of-fact about my “I had HPV six months ago” revelation, that I quickly revised my third-base-only assertion.

He felt sooooo good inside me. I may or may not have alienated the rest of the household with my vociferousness. I had to hold back my yelps because the ex-wife is not a fan of overhearing—it was really hard to hold back, I reeeeeaaaaaly missed this kind of sex; I really wanted to loudly celebrate. (A little nostalgia here for the Mayor of Kittentown, who lives in a rowhouse but never minded how much carrying on the neighbors might overhear--thanks for that, pal.) It may be a little fast for me to be all the way underneath someone on the second date, but the connection between us felt real. I’m not sure how deep it was, but it was genuine. I felt him gasp and surrender and come inside me (in the condom, of course). I told him that was the first time that’s happened since the Nineties, so thanks.

We chatted for a good long while after that—Mr. Popular is very easy to talk to. His soft orange kitty joined us on the bed, oh, the joy of getting to know new cats. I may have gone on a little too much about Mister Hazel Eyes, but he didn’t seem to mind—he’s in favor of me cutting MHE some slack and letting more things happen. Who knows.

We fell asleep in cozy friendship, my arm around him and petting the cat.

There’s a lot to be said for being let into someone’s life, even if it’s just for an evening. I appreciate his sweetness and generosity and warmth so much. His calendar is very full but I hope he fits me in, even if it’s just as a sometimes treat.