And okay, my right arm got the teeeeensiest bit tingly, so I couldn't lay around in the ropes as much as I like to--next time!
But it was really nice to come back to my ropes, to light some candles and incense (rose) and turn out all the lights. I tried music, but silence was nicer.
Before I untangle this connection any further, I have
to say, I chose this. I went all in on The Shy One because, well, I’m not sure
I have other settings. But I knew he didn’t want the same kind of relationship
I wanted, and I chose him anyway. Partly because love, but partly because I don’t
feel worthy of what I want. It seemed easier and more fun to try to fit into his
limited vision for us than to keep looking for the kitchen table or otherwise
more available guy/constellation that I wanted. Sorry, me!
And while I’m fumbling through the push-pull cycle of
neediness/withholding/being marooned on weeknights, it’s important to acknowledge
that there was a three-day trip coming up for us, mid-February. I can’t fully
explain why that wasn’t factoring into my heart’s schedule math. I really,
REALLY wish I could have made it to Friday the 17th.
Anyway, a week before the actual breakup, after I
admitted that the texts were carrying too much weight because I missed him ALL
the time, because I wanted more intimacy and more groundedness to our
connection, he suggested daily calls. (I remember in the beginning, he was
always telling me I could call whenever I wanted, but that never felt like the
right thing to do for whatever reasons.)
So we picked a time that worked for both of our work
days (This daytime stuff has a mistress vibe to me, but I don’t think it would’ve
if our hearts were aligned.) and had nice calls for a few days. I liked having
a little more of his ordinary dailiness in my ears, but I also resented the impingement
on my work/art/whatever during the day.
But it was lovely, those little chances to know him a
little more. Until Thursday before last. My small-talk go-to, what are you
making for supper?
Thursday was Chinese food night, it turns out, so I
was like, “Oh yay! Send me a fortune!”
“Nah. That’s (Younger Daughter)’s thing. I wouldn’t
want to mess with that.”
She likes to smash the fortune cookies when they come,
a precious tradition for sure, and one I would never have asked to be present
for. But would really have liked to be present for, I guess it’s okay to admit.
A fortune cookie slip is so small. Grab it after
dinner when you’re clearing the plates, snap a pic, easy-peasy!
I didn’t say that of course, I just made agreeable
noises and let the subject move on to other things. Like I did after so many
little rejections like that.
I couldn’t and can’t fathom how I could have “messed
with” his daughter’s tradition by wanting a picture of a fortune cookie slip,
but that’s how it felt to him. I guess, like the me world and the family world
would have come too close, the fortune cookie slip turning into a vortex and
then a black hole that would destroy both worlds somehow. He was having a protective
instinct, I don’t think it was intentionally cruel or phobic, but just whoa.
Not this.
Aside from the closetedness, his conservative
background, and general resistance to change, I can see how being in a
relationship with someone who wants more could feel claustrophobic, even
threatening. I can empathize with the pressure there, I felt it too, from the
other side. A mismatch feels oppressive no matter what anyone tries, that’s why
there’s breakups!
But being seen as a threat to children. That’s just
something you just have to live with, as a queer educator, as a queer ANYTHING.
I’ve lived my whole adult life with the societal idea that I might be a “groomer”—it
was there the whole time, even before the DeSantises of the world decided to
make the implicit prejudice more explicit.
I know that it’s partly his own shame, his own
dissatisfaction with his own poly situation that made that cookie slip vortex such
a real fear. I’m just really, really sorry to have put my poor heart in the way
of that shame and fear, especially since I saw it coming. So I’m writing myself
a little apology.
Dear Self,
Yes, I knew better, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t listen
to what you really wanted, that I tried to make you settle for so much less.
In fairness though, we also deserved the pleasure and
happiness he WAS able to give! There’s no reason to feel ashamed of all that! It
was real.
Self, I’m going to try to hear you. You want someone
you might see on Christmas Day, even though the 20th was lovely. You
want someone who will share his life, organically and at a pace something other
than glacial. You want to take your time and date whatever number of people
feels right. You want to feel like a gift, not a duty or a burden. You want to
bloom and vine and grow love all over the place. You want to have bad days or
panics or sad moments without feeling like an annoying todo list item.
Self, you’re a morning glory, not a bonsai, not a
cactus, not a pruned miniature rose. You want to love big. You’re already doing
it. Go ahead.
As soon as we stepped out of the entrance building, a deep night-before-Solstice hush came over my whole being. The trees and archways were lit bright and the stars sparkled above in the clear, cold sky. The Shy One is tropical at heart, so he grumbled a bit about the low temp, but it was a good-natured Luke Daines kind of grumbling. He bought us hot chocolates. We took a jillion pictures of trees and lights and flowers. I asked a stranger to take our picture together.
On the drive home, I put on my A She and Him Christmas CD until it made me too sleepy, then he DJed from his Spotify list. My tire light came on, so we pulled into a gas station to check them, and then the tire light went off.
And then, back at my place, the presents. I knew he would go all out (See: post-Ramadan princess tea cup!) and I don't have much money this year, so I painted him a little painting and made him a photo scrapbook of our cuteness so far. I got him Knots: The Complete Visual Guide and a start to his rope collection, black and silver.
And then, his gifts for me! A rose candle. Two pretty-scented lotions. He's always perfect with candles and lotions! And THEN, the lingerie.
I've always LOVED lingerie. I started collecting it from thrift stores when I was a teen, and lord knows this blog has seen its share of pretty bras and special-occasion undies.
But these.
These are surprise-from-a-boyfriend-in-the-best-kind-of-chick-lit-novel lacy things. They are Princess Slut Goddess lacy things. They are FANCY. 
One of the tamer pictures The Shy One took!
I tried on one set during the date, and I'll keep that lovefest mostly to myself for now, but all day yesterday, while I was blazing along through my Christmas chores, doing festively half-assed work sessions, and avoiding folding the laundry, I daydreamed about the Fancy Purple Thing. When my last client of the day cancelled, I rushed home to be with myself, to wrap myself in rope and tinsel and The Shy One's lacy love language. Very, very festive indeed.
I usually love my Saturdays to myself, love reading
and taking walks and zoning out on my Animal Crossing island. I love listening
to Nicole Wallace on a Saturday night to get riled up enough to fold the
clothes. But today, nothing’s working. My brain just wants me to think about
why they’re there and I’m not, how I’ll never find a real place in his life.)
Filet mignon. Lobster mac and cheese. Wine on my own
since he hasn’t been drinking with me lately. Cheesecake with a birthday candle
in it. Maybe I am a fancy date girl after all.
It’s strange being in such a wildly romantic context
with a guy who doesn’t do PDA. Handholding had to express the whole bouquet of
attractions and emotions, it’s pretty intense. We talked and schemed. I made
him blush. I love the way his entire face glows when I tease him—the deep-seated
smile, the twinkling eyes. Oh, the cheeks. I can’t even with this guy.
On the way home, the driver’s seat was too far back,
so my legs wouldn’t fit on my side, they had to spill over onto The Shy One’s
feet. Half a cuddle. More hand-holding. I felt swoony even though the music on
the radio decidedly wasn’t, felt like I was looking at the moon even though I
wasn’t. I closed my eyes and felt his hand softly on my arm. I opened them and
saw the city lights, glowing in the twilight, the river reflecting the
darkening sky.
Let’s just take a moment to say: I love him. I love
him to the moon and streetlights and stars, from the river to the whole entire
sea. I love him as sweet as birthday cheesecake and as special as wine. He hasn’t
said the love thing yet, though the l-word snuck into a couple of GIFs last
week, maybe by accident. But he does the love thing—he is love as a
verb. He listens, he pets, he caresses, he reassures. He celebrates. Someday
maybe he’ll say the thing, maybe I’ll wait forever. But for now, love as a verb.
4. I want submission.
Near the beginning of the summer (Before it was even
Kate Bush Summer!) I was on a mini-road-trip to The Fancy Garden with Rainbow
Pal. I haven’t gotten to write about them yet, but they’ve been central to
helping me dream up the creative sluttiness of the past couple of months. We’re
both tenderhearted artists and I believe we might be platonic soulmates—they’re
right up there with Angel Face when it comes to transformative friendships.
Anyway, as I was driving us home, they were telling me
about a dom they used to have, and WHOOSH I remembered.
The hush of letting someone take over control. The
precious, adorable feeling of being small, so small I’m almost nothing. And yet,
seen in a slutty, delightedly filthy way that really
happens to me so rarely. As anyone who reads me knows, I’ve been playfully
spanked, had my hair pulled, been called a “good girl” during rough blow job
practice, but none of it was THAT FEELING. Surrender. Pushing myself to bend
and please. And that clearheaded feeling the next day, the one I didn’t realize
I’d been missing.
And the DAY AFTER that conversation with Rainbow Pal,
I ran into The Song Sender at the movies. So many aspects of subbing that I LOVED
him for in 2011 came back again, and so many new games and desires sprouted up
in my filthy heart. I assigned myself homework. I told him lovely, rough-to-sweet,
elaborate slutty stories, fiction and not, in person and over text. I lost my
mind and sent him poems about mystical submission to god. Aaaaaaaallllllllll
the pictures I sent him, naked and not.
It’s confusing to have felt so seen by someone who
will also never actually see me at all. To have been so fulfilled by someone
who both feared and actively got off on disappointing me.
Somehow, in all of that, I got a taste of what a loving
dom might feel like. I don’t know if it will be in the context of a romantic
relationship (I hope so!) or if it will be its own thing. I’ll never find anyone
to replace The Song Sender, yay and sob, but I hope to find a kinder, deeper,
more sustainable version of that beautiful, BEAUTIFUL feeling.
5. I WANT ROMANCE and synchronicity.
The night I had dinner with The Shy One and we decided
to be some kind of a thing again, it was like eleven million degrees out. But
he’s not a PDA guy, so I had to put him in my car to kiss him. We kissed like
it has been two years instead of two months. He smelled so him,
and we were both dressed up so nice for dinner, and we were SWEATING. But it
was so hard to let him get out of the car.
People get so tripped up by the word romance. I
think it freaks a lot of people out because they think it’s about wedding
dresses, and babies, and all the other Relationship Escalator things. Those
things ARE a kind of romance, but they’re not what I mean.
Back to that road trip with the submission conversation,
Rainbow Pal and I talked a lot about the Romance of Life, and that’s what I
mean that I want. Beauty, sensuality, pleasure, awe, those things are all around
us, whether we are partnered or not. When The Song Sender wasn’t passing the
Turing Test or when somebody I wanted to date turns out to have been a hookup,
I still always have flowers, the ocean, the intricacies of clouds.
There’s always a song that comes along and gives the
exact right message. There’s always the advice I give myself in dreams. There’s
always the Tarot deck to unstick my imagination when it’s getting stagnant.
I love the romantic moments I share with partners,
like when The Shy One texts me flowers, but I’m also SO GRATEFUL that this list
item is one I can keep giving myself.
6. And to that end, I want to keep dating myself.
It was one of my 10 goals for 2022, and it has opened my world up maybe more than
any other goal ever. I would love to keep giving myself the beautiful moments I
deserve. Each time, I know a little deeper that I deserve them.
There’s always a certain amount of futility in these
lists, because the next characters who come along could knock me on my ass just
as much as any ever have. If you’d told me in June that “summer fling with The
Song Sender” would be in the cards, (Literally. The Lover and The Devil! Yikes
and yay. Yay and yikes.) I would have
laughed in your face and told you about a dream I had a few years ago, wherein
I was explaining to him: “We just call it strangling now.” More about that guy in
part two, but for now, the easy things:
1. I’m
solo poly, and not necessarily destined for the kitchen table,
at least not right away. I like my space, and I’ve discovered in the past few
weeks that I like each combination to have time to grow before stirring my
darlings’ darlings into the mix.
That doesn’t rule out future deep
relationships with metamours or even some magical unicorn miracle, but I want
to take my time. Every person is a LOT. I am A LOT. I would like
any given combination to have its feet under it before I start to learn the
next humans. Because I will LOVE THEM TOO and that will be, you know, a lot.
2. I
definitely do want polyamory. I would love to stop
trying to wedge myself into monogamy every few years out of—self-protection? Weird
poly/bi phobia left over from my divorcing years? There have been such LOVELY
combinations of humans, such bursts or yes-this-is-exactly-it happiness that I
would love to see some more.
The Shy One, The Song Sender, and a
hookup whose name I barely remember but who made for a fucking GLORIOUS week.
This Charming Man, The Lovely Guy, and that other hookup who gave me the wrong name.
The Good Boy, The Southern Charmer, and The Adorables. Ideally, most of those
would have lasted a lot longer, and I know that humans are NOT art supplies,
but I felt like an artist working in the medium of slut, and I would
lovelovelove for that to happen again.
3. I
don’t necessarily want The Relationship Escalator, but I want feelings.
Lovey-dovey feelings, friendly feelings, and d/s feelings. Nobody has
to love as easily or as quickly or as thoroughly as I do, but I want them to
not feel/seem like a trapped animal when the warmth and affection come into
play. Talking about relationships the other night, The Shy One said “I just go
in kamikaze, and if it doesn’t work, I just try again.” BFF-Formerly-Sweetie has
always called my same strategy “jumping in with both feet.” I don’t always, but
when I do, I would love to hang around long enough to let them see if they can
catch up.
To accomplish that, I would like to
not get so mad at myself for the feelings. I would like to give myself space to
feel them and be a little less quick to flee.
And yes, I would like some of them,
eventually, to adore me. To love me wildly, emphatically, and forever. Please.
 |
| Pink is for subbing, green is for domming. A looooot of pink on that romance bar! From Enough to Make You Blush: Exploring Erotic Humiliation by Princess Kali |
“It just feels empty without the rest of the fantasy.” I said to The Song Sender, before we even got out of bed.
I felt stuck on whatever had shifted him from liking me to
feeling obligated, from sweetness creeping in to not even trying to put the
phone down when we were hanging out post-sex. (Yes, I did play Animal Crossing
for 20 mins, but that was an anti-anxiety strategy. Maybe his constant checking
was too.)
This was maybe the most talking I’ve ever done with
him, just kept yammering while we put our clothes on, while I got some ice
coffee to keep me up for the longish drive to his girlfriend’s house. (Dear
Universe, I’ll take guys I don’t have to drive around next, please! I guess that’s
up to me.)
Speaking of the girlfriend, I didn’t ask him the thing
I’ve always wanted to ask, in 2011 and in 2022—why do other women get to be
people to him, and I don’t? What is it about me? If he’s been with this woman
for five years, he can’t have been distant and cruel and thoughtless the whole
time, can he? So why is this kind of opportunist assholism reserved just for
me? It probably isn’t.
(It’s not a great habit to wonder what secret to worth
other women have that I can’t fathom, but it’s a very old habit, and he
triggers it the worst. On good days, which is most days, I can be all neutral
and just-a-bad-match about it, but inferiority to the other ladies is, I guess,
a sore spot I can’t always help poking at.)
I kept yammering as he meekly navigated the way. I
will very much miss his not-backseat-driving! Seriously one of the hottest
things about him.
He wasn’t going to navigate my life, but I asked him
to:
“Tell me what to do. I don’t want to let you go again.”
“You don’t have to let me go, just…”
“Well I have to let go of SOMETHING.”
What I was thinking was: Twice. Twice is how many
times he gets to break my heart. No more.”
For such a toxic combination of people, it was a
really sweet breakup. Re-break-up? Just a break-off since it was new? But also
not? I pulled over twice during the drive, once to cry and say: “I tried so
hard. Then and now. I just couldn’t get it right.”
“It’s not your fault.” He said, “None of this is your
fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
(I should say, there were other, bigger, heavier
things going on in his life besides the easier-sexting-girl. Or, he was doing a
scam an I just wasn’t doing the offer-to-help-with-money part of the script. I
do listen to too many scam podcasts.)
The second time I pulled over, it was to say a proper
goodbye—I didn’t want to rush it with traffic coming up behind me on his girlfriend’s
narrow street. I wanted a real moment, and he was kind enough to comply.
I gave him as big of a hug as the car would allow. His
body still felt warm from afterglow and affection. He still had that smell I can’t
resist.
“Well, sweets, I think I have to get over you again.”
We kissed. He held my hand. He held my hand over his
heart and kissed it, which was either a dear sweet gesture or a thing a
psychopath had learned from movies. Probably the former?
I got to do that thing where I told him he’ll always
be in my heart, to warn him that it’s crowded in there.
When we got to his girlfriend’s, the seatbelt chime
went off well before I stopped the car.
“You can’t wait to get away from me,” I laughed. This
bird had flown.
The best case scenario after I hit on him at the
movies would have been kismet, romance, and gothy playlists forever, but a lovely
goodbye is something.
When I got home, before I got out of the car, I did
the ritual: Delete the text thread. Block the number. Delete the contact. Block
on Instagram. I was sad, but it was a beautiful sad. In that kind and very talky
goodbye, he’d let me love him just a little. He let us out of the cage of our gorgeous
violent fantasies and jangled, impatient minds, and he let us do part humanely.
Not the miracle I wanted, but a miracle nonetheless.
 |
| After! Blurry again sorry, I have no discipline. |
Monday night, I was supposed to have a date with The Chef but he rescheduled, so all of that energy had to go somewhere! I decided to get ahead on the week's ropework, and asked The Song Sender if he was available for praise. He was running the projector for the local weird movie club, but he could manage both.
I love the before picture I sent him so, SO much. His version has my face, 
He typed back, "You should cum for me. And tell me what you were thinking about when you did."
I don't always hang on to text threads, but friends, I might have to keep the transcript on this one. Oh it was BEAUTIFUL. I'll keep most of it for myself, but there was this:
"I tell them you are a good little slut. and that you are mine.
And because you are such a good girl you get to pick two to play with you.
...
While I hold you down and tell you how pretty and good you are."
And THEN:
"I can be meaner with you later. (kiss emoji)
You get to be the princess of the orgy."
There are still some kinks (ha) to iron out, but so far The Song Sender is an absolute treasure. I am the luckiest slut/princess/whore/good girl in the universe.
He had to be apart from me during Ramadan, but here’s
how we’ve kept in touch: In the morning, I check the sunset time and set an alarm.
When it rings, I send him a sunset emoji and a kiss emoji. Sometimes we send
each other pictures of whatever flowers we’ve seen that day. I’ve always wanted
a sweetheart I could send flower pictures to, but it didn’t really occur to me
that anyone would send flower pictures back! (Possibly I could’ve been
dreaming a little bigger?)
Cute two-person Bitmojis. (Mostly) chaste flirting.
Sweet goodnights. Time apart has given me a chance to do romance in a way I’ve
often wanted to, but which can sort of seem out of step with my generally
slutty ways and DEFINTELY out of step with the hookup-culture-infused present
day I’ve been trying to navigate.
“Maybe this gives you a chance to get to know each
other first?” is a thing my therapist and a few friends have suggested, but I
don’t think that’s exactly it. If this were a summer-Ramadan year and we’d been
snuggling all month, if I’d have been kissing him and tying him up and getting
spanked for these weeks, we still would have been getting to know each other. He’s
definitely someone you can get to know while naked!
Still, I’m grateful for all the flowery sweetness, the
“I miss you,” the (at least on my part!) sunset-counting.
And! There’s only about seven sunsets left until I get
to TOUCH HIM. We’ve already sort of made a post-Eid snuggle date and definitely
already made an out-in-the-world date for later on in May. I can’t overstate
the HOTNESS of him already having planned that one, the swooniness of getting
two date-ticket QR codes in my inbox. I can’t predict what will happen when we’re
back in-person, but if I get my way there’ll be so, SO many kisses!
Last week was kind of a rough week in Kitten Calendar
land! *cry emoji* First, The Southern Charmer and I had a not-a-match second
date. I miss him a bunch!
And then, to my sadness and also some relief, it was
time to say goodbye to The Good Boy.
On Saturday night, I came home from a perfect-on-paper-but-no
chemistry date with someone new, got a little emo, and gave TGB a call. He
works late, so it wasn’t supercrazy to call him at 11:30 at night. When he didn’t
pick up, I kind of knew there wasn’t any more hope. I left a message saying I
missed him, called BFF to lament my lack of attraction to perfect-on-paper guy,
and went to bed.
You know on Top Chef or whatever when the
judges tell you you’re out of the competition, you have to be all gracious and
say “Thank you for the opportunity”? (Unless you’re Jen from Philadelphia, a
hero to one and all, who got superpissed and swore her way out! And thus is my
second favorite! After Marcel, who said “You don’t fuck with someone else’s mise
en place,” possibly the best sentence ever uttered!)
That ritual moment, in addition to a lack of people
skills and also other skills, is why I could never be on a competition show.
But in the case of responding to The Good Boy’s three very kind breakup texts
the next morning, I did the gracious response. I genuinely AM grateful for the opportunity,
so that made it easy. I untied from him via text without any grasping or
hoping, just generosity and (Gasp!) dignity.
Afterwards, I felt numb and lonely, tired and sad. I
wondered if there was some change in my search parameters, some rule I could
make that would save me from the hurt and loss that sometimes (okay almost
always) follows the best connections.
On a bright, clear, breathless hike with my pal Adorable
Queer Librarian that afternoon, I asked zir if ze thought I could do anything
about it. We walked up hills and around all the trees, saying hi to dogs and
their humans, talking about every topic we had. Then, on the last hill, almost
back to my car, ze said “To answer your question, no. I think you should just
go ahead and be even more you.”
With friends like zir, it’s hard to be sad and pretty
much impossible to give up hope. I miss The Good Boy, but I’m well on my way
already to being my grateful, isn’t-it-a-miracle-we-met-at-all self. Yesterday,
I gave myself two weeks off from flirting, but today I bargained it down to four
days. See you Thursday, Maybes! Thanks for being there and being exactly you.
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.
On Wednesday the 9th, 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,
One of my favorite moments with This Charming Man was
when, on our second-to-last date, I tenderly showed him how he could do a girth
hitch around each of my upper thighs to use as handles.
Once the handles were on and cinched tight, he told me
to get to the edge of the bed. I lay parallel to the headboard, knees in the
air. He stayed standing, held onto my ass and thrust in, then regained the handles.
I was always (and still am, writing this) soaking wet for him, the gushingest I’ve
ever been for anyone, and that is REALLY saying something. Everything in me
flowed out to him, to his smell, his charm, his humor, his beauty, and ohyeah
the ropes. In all my years of adventures, I’ve never been as turned on as I was
for This Charming Man.
I’m afraid I’ll never feel attraction that powerful again.
He tugged the ropes from side to side and then APART,
pulling me open, wider and closer. Open, open, open, pussy, heart, and soul.
“You make me feel so good.” I heaved and sighed and
huffed.
“I’m glad. You deserve it.” It’s kind of a miracle
that I didn’t cry for him until our last day. His words threaded up inside me,
stitched me up, gauzed up wounds with a peace I didn’t know was possible.
That’s a lot to put on one young man who has a lot of
other stuff going on. I try now (though I certainly didn’t see it this way in
the moment) to understand it was just dom stuff. I didn’t and don’t know where
to go with all that fulfillment, all that healing, all that emotion. I don’t
know how to take it to heart now that he’s gone, but I hope I can before too
long. I don’t know what any of it felt like from his perspective, I wish I
could. Either way, that bliss, that comfort, that rest, is mine and I
hope it doesn’t always hurt so bad to think about it.
Anyway, we came together beautifully, and if I hadn’t already
fallen for him like four dates ago, I was certainly a goner now.
Afterwards, when he was up taking off the condom and I
was laying back tangled in the comforter, feeling ravished and adored, this
thing happened. I think he said a thing. It was the second or third time I
thought I heard him say it, probably a dick-drunk trick of the ears:
“I love you.”
It could have been “how are you?” or any other set of
syllables. I left it there because I couldn’t have heard what I thought I’d
heard. This is the part (one of the parts) where I feel truly crazy, this
shimmering hallucination of my dearest wish. He can’t have said it, not on the
third date or the sixth, not in the afterglow or the throes. If he did, maybe
it was a trick, maybe a spellish part of the charming. Or maybe it was real.
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.
The Lovely Guy joined me under the covers and our
bodies just fit so nicely together. He was so warm and open, I just loved being
all wrapped up in him. It’s hard to access what order things happened in, the
whole night (And I do mean the WHOLE night) was such a lovely, moan-y haze.
I played at trying to hold him down, pressing his
wrists into the pillows behind his head. He very temporarily submitted. The power/tension
between our bodies felt easy and fluid, like watercolors. He looked so beautiful
beneath me, glowing and sweet but also amused and just barely letting me have the
top—like there was only so long he would let me be up there. I thought I’d
better make the most of it. I had to spread my legs wide to straddle him. I
loved feeling his dick get harder between my still-legginged legs.
Some of these clothes had to go. I wanted him to tear
them off, but I got the feeling he wanted me to show the initiative, so I stood
up and stripped before I kissed first his face, then his neck, then his chest,
then his tummy, his smooth obliques, his thighs. I gave him a few unselfconfident
caveats about how I still need lots of blow job practice, and he PERFECTLY
understood.
He gathered my hair into his big hands and gently and
sweetly guided my motions. His cock, friendly and cheerful, tasted salty and
delicious on my tongue. He gave directions so kindly and patiently. He knew the
phrase I wanted to hear, but he would hold it back nearly the whole night,
until EXACTLY the right moment.
“Is this how you want me to come?” He growled, looking
into my face with an expression that was somehow hungry and indifferent.
(Fucking SWOON)
“Uh-uh. I want you to fuck me.”
And because he is a very good first-date guest, he’d
brought condoms.
No more initiative for me now! I sprawled out lazy and
submissive underneath him, hands back, legs open and ready. He bent my legs all
the way up and went in and …oh. That relief. That letting go.
He fucked me so powerfully, so expertly, so easily,
generously, looking me in the face so much that it was almost startling. But it
wasn’t startling. It was natural. It was (part of) how this is supposed to be.
I said THANK YOU lots of times. I could NOT believe I’d gotten SO VERY lucky.
When he came inside me, it felt so absolute. I
know it wasn’t a promise, or a bond, or a declaration, but those were the
feelings at the center of me and in my heart. A long-awaited completion.
I know! I totally want to be chill about this guy! All
signs point to FWB at this week-later point. But I can let the feelings live in
these moments, can keep and take care of them, right? Let’s try that.
I forget sometimes how deprived of closeness I’ve
been, so many of us have been. I’ve spent so many years, even before
quarantine, being as determinedly self-sufficient, and closed-for-business as I
could manage. I’ve been boarded up against the fires and the storms. Letting The
Lovely Guy in felt so ordinary and also like such a dazzling revelation.
There definitely would NOT be any sleep that night.
 |
| I was looking for the original Blair Witch quote, but Lorelai makes it even more apt. |
The next night was one where he didn’t text, and I
ached to hear from him, literally felt a literal ache in my abdomen waiting/hoping
for that little red text-notification number. I could have texted him I guess,
but I didn’t want to be stepping on any other lady’s time and sure didn’t want the
comparison if he was busy with someone younger, prettier, and (somehow!) more
game.
My brain does this thing when I’m not hearing from
someone I like, creates a whole cast of characters for them, each partner more
beautiful and experienced and slutty-in-the-right-way than the next. This is
almost never a slut-shaming feeling, I’m always happy for them and the adventures
I’m imagining for them. I just don’t ever understand how I could keep up or fit
in.
So I knew it was time to get oriented, to find out who
the other partners were, to check in about the Ma’am stuff, to generally hang
out and be humans together. I also knew that kind of an interaction might
already be off the table.
So I asked if he wanted to go for a walk or a drink
sometime so I could get to know him better. He took it as me asking him on a
date (I guess it like 40% was.) and balked. I’d been pretty sure he only wanted
me for strictly sexy times, and now I knew I was right.
It ended very kindly this time, to the point where I
could feel a little of the Trump-era defensiveness we started this acquaintance
with leave my body a little. He texted some very sweet “it’s not you, it’s me” type
stuff that made me like him (and want to be Ma’am-ed by him) even more. While
we texted it through on my morning walk and maybe in the middle of his workday,
I cried a little. It’s hard to let him go.
I’m glad I’m able to get so much feeling from such
attemptedly-simple interactions. It’s a hard-won skill and what gives these
adventures so much meaning. But it feels a little lonely too. Are there really
ladies out there being the just-sex thing he wants, the just-sex thing THEY
want to be? I mean, there must be, he is superhot. I’ll always admire those casual
girls, even as I try to let go of ever being them. But hey! I was casual for
like eight whole days! And it was a very good eight days.
Dear Coach, Dear Goodgood Filthy Prince, Dear Kind-Of-But-Not-Really-A-Fuckboy,
Thank you. I’m so proud of how far we’ve both come.
(Pun absolutely intended.) Go do all the things, go be exactly you. But part of
you (not that part) (okay also a little bit that part) will always be
mine now. I’m keeping your swagger, your bluntness, your sunny, sexy optimism. You’re
inside me now always and I’m so, SO glad.
Spanks and vaccinated kisses,
A Princess
 |
| He's her lobster. |
Again, a look of startlement, like whoa, but
then Nearby Guy wholeheartedly complied. He hugged his left arm up under my
torse, both an embrace and a hold-down. He played roughly with my nipples while
with his other hand he pulled my hair, just hard enough that I felt like I was
surrendering, not quite hard enough for it to hurt. He smushed our faces together
into a hard-to-breathe-but-not-unpleasantly-so kiss. It took strength to leave
the kiss enough to tell him to go easier on my nipples, and once he complied,
the kiss/pull/restrain went on for a good while.
As the energy ebbed back to tender and I regained the
use of my arms, I held the sides of his face and kissed him like I was in a
movie, or like I was Rachel Karen Green on Friends. (Ross is garbage, I
know, but I feel like I grew up with them, and their romance is part of my
overall template for love.) (It would be completely fair if someone is out
there writing about me as Toxic Rom-Com Lady.) I didn’t mean it as a
quote-kiss, it felt very real. So sweet. So close to that thing I’m always
looking for, then feeling stupid for looking for.
“I might get feelings,” I said. “Is that okay?”
I didn’t really need to ask this question. He’d
already framed our connection as romantic on the first (retroactively-upgraded)
date. Asking was self-protective and maybe defensive, but also fair in that
cloud of subbiness, vulnerability, and man-smell.
“Well, we would have to talk about it…”
So we did. He wanted reassurance in the poly
department, which I was happy to give. Feelings got a tentative green light,
but the situation still felt too fragile to me (or maybe like I needed to smash
it and run) so I said:
“Okay, but if you’re looking for something casual,
that’s not me.”
In my mind, so much of dating is/has to be about
showing that I’m ready to graciously say goodbye. This is maybe not the best
strategy, but I haven’t found a better one yet.
