Sometimes I worry that I'm just telling the same stories over and over, and maybe I am. How many different times did Monet paint the cathedral at Rouen?! Am I saying I'm the Claude Monet of describing dicks? Kind of.
We stayed in front of the TV, kissing and petting and chatting and snuggling and sort of also watching Twin Peaks. He said, "I want you to lean this way and tease me while I cuddle you."
His cock reached for me, hard under his soft pants. "Oh, you ARE a good boy," I said, just grazing my arm over his lap, then feeling the contours of him, friendly and hopeful and utterly here to serve. Not mine at all, but also, mine.
I played with the tip of his cock, thick and reaching. I'll never get over the jolt of it, of a dick that likes me. I would like to have him in my hands and mouth right now, or expertly folding me over, or just cuddling under a blanket watching TV and feeling him hard for me, like it's the first time I ever felt that. Every time, it feels like I've never experienced this before. Every time, a surprise.
Despite the ropes that will delightfully happen in the next installment, this wasn't really a Good Boy/Ma'am situation. It felt more equal, a delicious taste of vanilla, a warm friendship all full of kissing. I'm starting to feel so excited for everything that comes next!
Is it weird to feel all swoony making out in front of "She's dead, wrapped in plastic."? Probably!
I think Dreamy Playlist Angel sent me a ping on Feeld. He's 29, theoretically below my oft-ignored and somewhat arbitrary lower age limit (35) but the floppy-haired vulnerability of his picture and the boldness of his texts convinced me he was not to be missed. Plus, he reminded me of my dear friend/crush/friend The King of Carrot Flowers, the quintessential Cute Boy With Records. (You don't have to have records to be one, you just have to not mind when I stop the proceedings to change to a better-suited song.)
(Side note: There might be paragraphs to write about the worry and protectiveness I feel around playing with twenty-somethings. Not now though!)
He'd never seen any David Lynch stuff! So I picked the coziest possible thing, the Twin Peaks pilot. Fish in the percolator!!!
He (the boy, not the percolator fish) arrived at my door at 9pm, Friday before last. I don't usually like to do things on a Friday night, I'm more likely to be in bed playing phone games and bingeing Normal Gossip by 7:30 pm. But he gave me time for a nap, and said he didn't mind a pajamas date, so here we were.
He was prompt! He didn't stand at the entrance of my apartment complex and wait to be shown in! He just used the directions I gave him and came right to my door! Perhaps I should not be THIS excited not to go down the driveway in my pajamas, but it's the little things.
Is there anything better than opening the door and finding out your cute date is also tall!? Yes! The confidence!
I don't think I'd even closed the door behind him yet when he said "Do you mind if I kiss you?" He held my face and took me in, his first kiss both gentle and reassuring.
We made room on the couch and snuggled up, easy as if we already knew each other. Comfortable. Peaceful. And so, so hot.
The thing that sticks with me the most is kissing his wrists. I felt a sweet, devouring spark there. Pausing briefly to identify with vampires. I wanted all of him in my body, just from knowing that soft pulse. A heave in my chest and an absolute river in my pajama pants. Ohboy.
I'm a teacher. I'm always ready to teach, but he didn't need it. He treated me like my body was already his home, already lived in. I love how somebody can belong to me without belonging to me at all, mine and his own, eternal and also time just flying by.
Snuggled under the downstairs comforter, his hands found their way inside my bra and just stayed there, friendly and gentle. I felt a brief worry that we were going too fast, but my body hushed me with deep wellbeing, and got still, let myself be held.
Everyone, divorce is booooooring. Well, I guess actually
it’s the job hunt accounting for the semi-weekly bouts of crushing ennui.
Remind me never to take the summer off again unless I have a really riveting
reason, like a more-than-two-person family to take care of or a tour of the
French cathedrals. Sitting by myself and being a cover letter factory just ekes
away at my soul sometimes-thank goodness there have been smutty blog posts to write!
I’m really worried that this process is not going FAST
enough. We’ve been trying to think of ourselves as “living with a friend” to
take some of the divorce stigma off our list of things to worry about, but I’m
concerned that I’m still being much too dependent on her.
I’ve been financially and emotionally dependent on her since
just a few months after we got together. When we got engaged, it was 2002. I
may have been craving safety, but so was everybody in the country. Did I just
blame my semi-failed marriage on 9/11? No, but it feels like it fits. She and I
were actually at the same peace vigil a few weeks before we met. With even my
most liberal friends spouting jingoistic threats, Sweetie’s proclivity for tie
dye seemed forgivable, almost preferable.
I’d also just moved back to the East Coast from California,
and I missed my poetry friends so badly—I really needed the move to have meant
something, for the sacrifice to be worthwhile. In the end, of course it was.
It was six months before we moved in together, but we had
the emotional equivalent of the old U-Haul joke even earlier on—on maybe our
third date (On the couch, where so many of my good dates happen…) I let the
phrase “soul mate” slip out. The first time she really opened her mouth and let
me kiss her, it was one of my top five religious experiences.
I was literally in the middle of a panic about career and
money when she produced a tiny sapphire engagement ring. She’d bought it very
soon after we’d started dating. That “let me take care of you” situation is not
usually the engagement story we tell—we officially proposed under a meteor
shower on her birthday (coming up this Sunday, as a matter of fact) like any
respectable poet/philosopher pair would.
So our relationship was definitely about love, but it was
about security, too. I had a deep need to finally be taken care of. After my
fucked up childhood and ten years of attempted adulthood, I felt like I
deserved someone who would seek me out to bring a coat when it threatened rain,
who would drive around talking for hours. (Often about boys, little did she
know that’d be her life for a long time…) I felt bedraggled and spent, and
there was something pure about her that I loved and aspired to—she seemed
redemptive somehow, and I guess she sort of was, except I didn’t really need to
be redeemed.
The fights started pretty soon after we got together, but
she’s also deeply loyal and she supported me while I dawdled through my
undergrad years and went on to be a full-time writer, supplementing our income
a little with part time retail and teaching artist jobs. She’s worked millions
of hours for us, making almost all the money for all but the last six months we
were together. During fights, she would threaten me with homelessness from time
to time. I felt like I contributed in the usual housewifely ways and I
definitely provided us both with a social life, but I’m ashamed that I didn’t
build more for myself over the years, that I let myself depend on her so much.
Fast forward to two nights ago, sobbing on the floor because
it was one of those grief-sneaks-up-on-me days where I’ve lost hope of ever
finding a job or moving ahead or ever being worthy of love. Those days only
come about once a week, and they’re getting less intense so I am not worried about
my mental health just yet. She helped me through it, telling me again and again
that I wasn’t worthless, that our situation isn’t permanent, that it would all
work out—all the things I believed so joyously when we first made the decision
to split. I feel so guilty for still needing her help. I shouldn’t need her to
tell me that it’s gonna be okay anymore. But twelve years is a long time to
have been in the habit of needing her, and it’s proving trickier than I’d hoped
to get out of the habit, but I am trying.
Eventually the tears subsided and we sat down to an episode
of Project Runway. Nothing like an Unconventional Challenge to lift the spirits
of two poor sad ladies.
Every dollar I save, every new thing I try, every time I
write out the feelings instead of calling her at work or take the bus instead
of calling her for a ride, I’m trying to create a more self-reliant version of
me. I just feel like it’s taking way too long.
I wouldn’t have called it subspace at the time, but the way
the order of things has slipped out of my brain suggests some kind of altered
state. So, Steampunk Guy, if I’ve messed up the timeline, feel free to punish
me.
“Whatever happened to this date being clothing optional?’ he
asked and I hopped up and got naked. In the time it took me to cue up the new
National album, (Pure moody summer makeout music, see above.) he was not just
naked but ready to go, complete with condom and safety gloves. (We’d already
done the when-were-you-tested conversation, after which we high-fived.)You
wouldn’t think someone could look beautiful wearing green plastic gloves, but
you’d be wrong.
Last year when Sweetie and I got our new couch, we optimistically
chose a fold-down one. Steampunk Guy’s the first guy I’ve folded it down for. (Because
my life is awesome, Mr. Shiny Eyes became the second one last night.) After I’d
figured out how to work the mechanism and got the bed all situated, he had me
lay down on my stomach. I felt all cozy and happy, like I was at the beach.
He went from spanking (He’d mentioned that his tools were in
the car, but I didn’t think he’d need them, and I was right.) to probing—pulling
me open, pressing me apart. I’m starting to get a little fetish for the feeling
of gloved fingers in me. (See the previous post’s hand-rhapsodizing.)
He left my legs together and lay on top of me, entering
not-all-the way but from such a lovely angle. I’d never been in that position
before. I let out a moan/sigh and said “Aaaaaahhhh,
nowonderyouhavelikeninegirlfriends…oh, oh, oooohhhhh..” (and so on) He felt so
perfect—I’d been needing it so badly and now I was getting all filled up.
He turned me over and fucked me so hard that it hurt. I
screamed and cried and took it for as long as I could, just kissing him and
yowling and carrying on. (It’s possible that the neighbors might hate me.) This
is being thoroughly fucked, stripped all the way down to my primal animal
whatever. I wailed, I balled up my fists. It felt like I was lighting up and
tearing apart, like I was everything and nothing but light and warmth and pain,
and he doesn’t stop when he comes, just keeps pushing in and in until I’m
breathless and “Oh, wait, okay, I have to stop, sorry…”
As we moved from fucking to snuggling, I was somewhere
between ecstasy and trauma, panting and dizzy. “I’ve never felt anything quite
like that before.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Eyeroll then, eyeroll now.
My scalp was warm from my hair being pulled so much. My cheeks were blushy with exertion and beard
burn. My ass
was lightly bruised and my pussy was throbbingly, gushingly wet, trying to
figure out what hurricane just hit it. He held me and his fuzzy chest hair felt
all nice and soft against my chest.
We got to know each other a little. It turns out he’s military,
just got back not long ago. Why do I keep feeling drawn to guys who fought in
wars I’ve protested? (Well, I have protested every war since I was in ninth
grade.) It could be some urge to connect and humanize the Other. Or it could
just be that I like guys who are really strong and tend to be on time. I don’t
know, and I never know what to say when someone tells me he’s been in a war, other
than “I’m glad you didn’t die.” which is actually what I said.
We talked some more about our respective kinks. He says he’s
good with ropes, so I hope I might get to test out his knotsmanship sometime,
should we make it to the magical land of the second date.
He looked so happy, and I was too. It was snuggling with a
pal. A very smiley pal who keeps laughing to himself for whatever reason.
