Fear and Devotion, Part One

I still think closure is a thing, just not the whole thing. Not a cure-all. My newfound friendship with The Shy One didn’t stay tenable for long—that probably comes as a surprise to exactly no one. I loved being able to share a little bit of my life with him, to send him a sunrise, a ring around the moon, a short video of my work area looking just so. I loved the glimpses of his life that I got while we were avoiding almost all topics. It was such a lovely respite from missing him. I felt peaceful, hopeful, and complete in a way I hadn’t for such a long time.

But.

There was a moment last fall that I’ve always meant to write about. I was at brunch with Rainbow Pal (Not too long before a 5% difference on Palestine/Israel made Rainbow Pal and me feel unsafe to be around each other—a different heartbreak for a different day.) It was a rough week—I was just back from a family trip and my body was pretzeled with grief. The war had just started and everything felt brutal and mean.

Anhedonic, is the word. But joy prevailed: RP and I were talking about whether we think I’m poly or not (the eternal conundrum) and I said something like “I don’t know, when I was with (The Shy One) I didn’t want anyone else in the whole world, it was all about him.”

Saying that unlocked my heart, and a butterfly swarm of giggles came out. An unlatching, a relief. A bubble of assurance and self-knowledge so profound that I couldn’t stop laughing. RP said later that they loved seeing me come back to life—they helped me come back to life. I miss them so much.

But anyway, devotion.

Back to the present day, dating is just being a little bit scary. Talking to so many people, sometimes rematching by mistake and feeling like I might be stupid or mean, sometimes not matching because the person looks a little familiar, getting a “Hello?” when I hadn’t written back in like ten minutes, it can feel so depersonalizing, so disembodied.

Most app-suitors are kind-if-boring, but the ones that aren’t kinda add up in my body and heart. Accreting.

OMG First Horror Movie Date, Part One

I’m not being falsely modest when I say I didn’t understand what The Coach was seeing when he first asked me out at my college bookstore job in 2016. I was in a real post-adventures schlubby phase. I probably had on my heather-purple college logo shirt with loose AND ill-fitting jeans and (still my faves admittedly) the Payless version of black lowtop Converse. It was first thing in the morning so my long hair was probably damp in its lazy bun. This was (only a little bit) before Mr. Makeout Music came into the picture and made me want to doll things up again.

But here he was, getting sports-guy snacks before work or class or whatever. Slight-but-strong, a little less than my height, skin the color and smoothness of caramel, fluttery innocent dark eyes. In retrospect, the way he hit on me was delightfully old-fashioned and direct: He wrote his number on the back of a receipt and JUST CAME OUT AND SAID (something like) “I think you’re really attractive and I’d like to take you out. Give me a call sometime.”

Honestly it was tempting to think he was trolling me, but he really did seem sincere! I was working with BFF at the time and, well after The Coach had left, I was all “I think ______ _______ asked me out?” (He’s a full-name guy. Love it.) I couldn’t imagine us having anything in common.

Next time he came in, he looked a little shy-but-still-swaggery and said “ You didn’t call!”

I was a little snappish about it—I had this idea that nobody should be hitting on someone when they’re stuck behind a counter, but seriously, 2016 me, I was a middle-aged assistant manager, not a kid! It’s not like there was a power imbalance, unless you count the part where he was 24. (As was Mr. Makeout Music! Should I stop automatically swiping left on the under-30 set? Maybe not.)

A few months later, I apologized for being kind of a B and asked him out, but he’d gotten a girlfriend by then, so I happily/flirtily wished them well.

After he and the girlfriend broke up and after I was COMPLETELY DECIMATED by Mr. Makeout Music/the 2016 election, the thing with The Coach came around again. We’d planned to get together causally, but got derailed by some mismatched sexting—I got triggered by the way he talked about my body, too porny and harsh. The ways he talked about my fatness felt fetishizing, so I blocked him. We were still friendly in person, so we meandered back into each other’s feeds. And then I blocked him some more.

In her book, What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Fat, Aubrey Gordon has a chapter about different forms of objectification of fat people that really shifted my perspective. Why, she asks (I’m paraphrasing) does it have to be something shameful when somebody is attracted to fat? Why do we consider it a bad fetish? I mean, he did need to learn a LITTLE bit of manners, but I wondered why I was so triggered by this particular (sporty, fit) person finding my big ass hot? (NOTE: Aubrey Gordon is way better at talking about this than I am. You really should read the book!)

Anyway, last year sometime, I sent a friend request from The Coach into the ignore pile, but he must’ve still been following. When I posted about loving the new Shang-Chi movie (Speaking of deliciiiiiiiiious men) The Coach commented/messaged three different ways to try and talk to me about the movie. And of course, I’m superslutty for talking about movies!

 

Good Second Date to Ghost, Part Two

Since Nearby Guy and I had a nice d/s-ish vibe going, I maybe should have done some negotiating before welcoming him (OMG yay!) into my bed. But sometimes, a soft glow of trust feels like enough—that sweet letting-go when bodies take over safety feels easy. I just love those rare moments when humans know exactly what to do.

As we settled into my (unmade-I wasn’t expecting company!) bed together, our bodies felt so well-matched. I don’t often find anyone who can make me feel delicate and protected, but the way his arms encompassed me gave me all the princess feelings.

His kisses were skilled, assured, and leisurely, emphatic but reigning in my tendency to be a tongue-y teen about it. Sweetly and thoughtfully is a very good way to be kissed.

He held my waist with such ownership, then pushed upwards to very decisively whole-hand my boob through my PJs. He claimed it and me, wholeheartedly, nipple squeezed up into his palm. I know none of this seems like it should be a big deal, but it WAS.

As much as I envy my podded-up friends (And Nearby Guy’s cozy situations) this post-quarantine return to touch was a miracle to take in, too much to process or absorb except in heaves. Feeling the grasp I’d daydreamed and nightdreamed so much for so long made me into a full-body groan/yelp, a writhing sea serpent high on giggles and warmth. I was fully enthralled but I was also wondering if I could possibly be touching him enough, worrying I wasn’t doing it right, wondering how my one human body could possibly earn this much pleasure in this or any lifetime.

“I feel so overwhelmed, “ I pant/sighed, and he slowed to a snuggle while I caught my breath, arms circling my waist again and squeezing my shoulders toward him. When his hand wandered to my ass, I said (of course I said) “You know you want to spank it.”

He startled for a quick moment, maybe taken aback like that escalated quickly but then he grinned and his arm tensed for action. I turned over onto my tummy, ready as ready as READY could be.

“Ohmygoodnessit’ssucharelief” I exhaled sharply, my face half in my pillow, after the first hearty THWACK. Ohhhhh boy. The hard slaps, the thigh-tickles, the playful grabs. The perfect gift of him gently easing down the back of my pajama bottoms and my lacy-but-practical soft purple undies.

He smacked out yelp after yelp, my feet kicking with joy and my hips squirming with anticipation for every impact. He was pressing pain out and magic in at the same time. I curled close to his body like it was a warm cave I lived in now. He held me tight. Lightning bolts of squishy arousal pummeled into the center of me. I wanted everything, forever. I had everything I wanted forever.

Yes, relief, but also a power source flipped on, like when Godzilla’s blue lights glow up over the horizon. I was both kaiju and sea. How can a person do this for someone they hardly know? It seems impossibly generous and highly unlikely that any of this could have happened. It’s hard to believe my own typing hands!

From Good Second Date to Ghost, Part One

 

From Good Second Date to Ghost, Part One

Nearby Guy and I chatted for most of the summer, on Hinge and off. I originally asked him if we could be just friends because I was scared about poly stuff after that adorably mortifying late-afternoon with Poly Friends’ Partner. I fully owe PFP an apology for griping about his friends-ish winky-facery! When Nearby Guy and I finally met for a just-friends dinner a few weeks ago, I was a fountain of mixed signals, using the friends word a jillion times but at no point turning off the flirt.

Not JUST because his Hinge profile included “pretty good with knots” or because he’s wildly geographically desirable, but also because he seemed to be the perfect combination of hot and warm. I felt comfy with him. He’s just a little bit shorter than me and just a bit fatter, a dark-skinned black man with just the absolute sweetest smile. Plus big dommy hands I could not stop thinking about when I got home from that friendly dinner. Horniness and bravery overtook me and I asked by if we could retroactively upgrade our friend dinner to a date-date. He said he was down so yay!

So it was that I found Nearby Guy on my couch a few nights ago. We’d met up at a bar but it was too loud so he graciously agreed to come over even though I had nothing to offer but the supersweet pink Moscato I like to mix with Pasteque La Croix. (My official drink of lesson planning, and also of typing this.)

I swear to jeepers, it was a paradigmatically good second date. We chatted for hours, touched a little, then touched more and more. I had so much fun talking to him that I almost forgot to be distracted by the playlist. (It’s really time to make a new makeout playlist. The last one I made was for Mr. Sweetface in 2017 and it lives in what used to be iTunes—on the desktop! Why does that feel so old-fashioned? And why isn’t it in my Apple Music? Mystery!)

Oh my goodness he was so lovely to be next to, strong and soft and so warm. His smell, a dizzying/lush perfect musky man smell, reminded me of Pagan Boy so I felt right at home.

Once we finally kissed, I insisted that he high-five me, forgetting for a sec that he hadn’t been in the same drought as me, hadn’t just finished an epic trek through the touch-desert.

You know I love some hot hand-holding, and this was…oh boy. Our hands and forearms felt made for each other. I loved feeling his soft pulse under my gentle grip on his wrist. I loved that thing where we put our hands together to compare sizes. Oh, those fingers. So strong-but-yielding, so alive.

So of course when he asked if I wanted to go upstairs, (Inviting me to my own bed, but that’s fine!) I said yes. I changed out of my pretty date dress and into my pajamas.

Fell in Like with The Drummer, Part Three: Hot Nap Pic

 

**********Incredibly sad synchronicity alert: Pagan Boy, who was next in line in my ersatz High Fidelity thread, my friend of 28 years and one of my most formative boyfriends, passed away of complications from Covid over the weekend. I found out while this draft was on the desk waiting to be typed. I say synchronicity because The Drummer woke up such a hankering for chatting through bad movies that I drafted Pagan Boy into the madness. Before he was gone, I got to mock Dear Christmas (my choice) and Five-Headed Shark (his) over messenger with him.

 

The Drummer has gently ghosted by now (Well I HOPE he ghosted and didn’t, you know, die.) but even aside from the copious cuteness he provided, I’m so, so grateful he led me to those good hours with Pagan Boy. I miss them both a bunch and I’m basically pining like Wonder Woman over here.***********

 

Back to December:

 

One of the side effects of being underemployed, traumatized by America, estranged from part of my family and also possibly being part bear is that I’ve really ramped up my nap-taking. With that comes a little bit of nap-guilt, especially while I was in touch with riskily not-underemployed The Drummer. Ask me about my NAPS FOR ALL platform.

 

Nap-guilt notwithstanding, I asked The Drummer one Friday afternoon if I should do something productive (I WAS, despite all of the above, nonetheless in full Virgo goalsetting/Tidying Up/budgeting mode) or take a nap.

 

“Nap! Nap! Nap!” he wrote back right away.

 

Inspired, I typed “Hot nap pic in the works”

 

I got into my longjohn-style, vaguely Christmas-themed pajamas, cocooned in the covers, then set about learning portrait mode. The blankets were pulled up over my head, you could only see a fraction of my face, but my vulnerably unglassesed eyes definitely said “Wish you were here.”

Possibly I also typed that.

 

It was a silly, cute, bundled-up picture, but as I noted his kiss emojis and headed toward snoozetown, I felt such a warm wave of joyful desire. It was as if I had just texted him all of the quadrants, naked outside in the sun. It felt new to be so easily and thoroughly turned on in such a time of scary touch-desert. It was an EXTREMELY good nap. Might have to stop writing and go take another.

…

 

Okay I’m back. That weekend, the weekend before Christmas, The Drummer and I had our second text-though-a-bad-movie date, this time with blue speech bubbles instead of Bumble yellow. I thought we had already agreed on Left Behind (Y’all! It’s so much like The Leftovers except really bad and boring and with disconcerting references to “globalism”!) but he seemed taken aback that I was actually willing to go there. This poor guy, he must’ve felt like dating me was a dare.

 

For all the fun and happiness and quipping, bad movies are REALLY LONG without eventually switching to making out. So when he asked me what my choice was for next time, I said a six-feet-apart walk in the woods. And so, after the holidays, that would be our plan.

Welcome, Gilmore Guy: Part One, A Walk in the Woods

Friends, I love being single. I aspire to reach Kate Bolick heights of spinster fabulousness, and I think that I do. But this story starts where so many of them do—a gentle, long-fluttering crush. About a month ago, curiosity bubbled up and I (sort of) asked out a friendly acquaintance I’ll call Steven. (because Universe) He spent the better part of a day with me, painting watercolors and falling asleep in front of my favorite movie. (Slacker. I would blame exactly NO ONE for falling asleep in front of it.) At no point during that day did I find out if he liked girls or boys or both or neither, most importantly whether he liked me.

So, in the middle of the night, (I knew he’d be up, he’s not a morning person like me.) I texted to ask him if he’d mind snuggling. After I sent the text, my heart was pounding in that dizzying, vexing, nauseating way that I hadn’t felt in a while, and when he sent back a very kind no, I was SO MUCH SADDER than I’d expected to be. Even though it was late, I called Sweetie (ex-wife, now best friend, only call-in-the-middle-of-the-night person besides the hotline I use for panic) and SOBBED.

As unpleasant as that was, there was something healthy about it too. Irksome as an unrequited thing always is, I felt like I’d returned to a vital part of myself. I used to let my hoo-ha steer my life so much more, and it felt like a relief to have turned to that compass, even a little bit.

(Before we leave Steven, I want to report that he and I settled into friendship faster than I expected, because he’s a treasure and also probably because of the next part of the story.)

            I went back to regularly swiping through Ok Cupid, at least to remember to keep snuggles a priority. (I gave up on Tinder a long time ago because guys kept being mad at me for being a person.) Because it’s election season, my OKC profile picture is of me meeting Hillary Clinton. The picture (which I also keep by my front door for strength, along with the times I met John Lewis and Cecile Richards) served the dual purposes of both being a conversation starter and (presumably) weeding out most of the Trump monsters and Bernie bros. (Some trolls still get though, though, my OKC inbox is not THAT different than my textbanking-for-Democrats inbox.  Any opportunity to push back, I guess…)

            Every once in a while, though, somebody says Exactly. The. Right. Thing. And I have to resist the temptation to screenshot it so I can show ALL the men what the exactly right thing is. It’s a very nice bonus when the guy typing the right thing is a cute black guy with dreamy eyes and who lists Gilmore Girls as one of his interests!!!

Here is the exactly right thing to say to me on OK Cupid—or anywhere: “Wow, you got to meet Hillary Clinton! I think she is a majestic woman and I really wanted her to be our president.”

Majestic! *swoons*

            Plus! This guy lives right in my beloved neighborhood! So we made plans to spend a morning on my favorite local hiking trail. I had him meet me at the library, since my number one most exciting reserve had just come in. (Rich People Problems! CANNOT get enough of Kevin Kwan) I nervously caught Pokémon in one of the pretty chairs outside the library as I waited for him to arrive.

            When I saw him, I felt immediately special because he’d clearly dressed with care. (Now that I know him a little better I’ve realized that he probably ALWAYS dresses with care, but still.) He had on a vintage jacket and a yellow gingham shirt—picture-perfect for the woods.

            And cute. Long locks, those dreamy eyes, and yay! Close to my height. He’s fit in a way that made me worry I was too fat for him. (Sorry, no amount of feminism has banished that annoying thought.) Spoiler alert, I wasn’t. Despite my worries and jangled nerves, we felt like a match to me, a sort of “Yeah, this could work.” moment.

            As we walked through the woods on that beautifully cool grey early fall day, golden color just beginning to tinge the leaf-edges, I was delighted to find out that he was MAYBE MORE OBSESSED WITH GILMORE GIRLS THAN I AM. He even listens to the Gilmore Guys podcast. It dawned on me then—

            “Hey! It’s September 21^st! Have you seen Demi Adejuyigbe’s video about that?” (Google “electrolemon September,” you really need to know.)

            “No—what are you doing later? Why don’t you come over and we can watch it and some Gilmore episodes? I’ll make you a cocktail?”

            Um, yes. Wait, he watches Gilmore Girls AND makes fancy cocktails? Are you KIDDING me? I requested mojitos and he said he’d have to pick up some mint, but I happen to have plenty of mint in my yard. Clearly, part two of this date was mint to be.

Dating in the Upside-Down: A Like Story (Part One)

A lot has happened since I posted last. I’ve all but wrapped up my post-election trauma therapy, paring down the sessions from weekly to monthly, experimenting with how it feels to not spend QUITE so much time thinking about trauma.

Part of me hoped that I would be different once I finished this phase of exposure therapy for PTSD. I’d heard other survivors talk about feeling more open, more accepting, more affectionate, less quick to anger. I guess I’ve changed a little, but there are some boundaries I just can’t bring myself to cross—my yesses are sometimes stronger and easier but my nos are too. It’s disappointing not to just be open like a lovey-dovey post-traumatic flower, it feels a little lonely, but given the world we are currently trying to inhabit, I’m as open as I can be.

I went back to OK Cupid-ing a little while ago when I realized I was getting a crush on my massage therapist, whom I would never, ever hit on. I started swiping and chatting again, and I’ve honed my screening question to perfect bluntness: “Bernie or Hillary?”

To my heartbreak, I have NEVER gotten the chance to flirt with a guy who voted for Hillary in the primary (Seriously, if you know any, kindly send them my way. I will reward their loyalty with SO much generous sluttiness! And cake!) but I liked The Socialist’s answer. It gave me the immediate sense that he was solid and trustworthy, confident, and somehow, I even gleaned from his answer that he probably had a pretty excellent penis. (Spoiler alert: He does!) I don’t know how I could tell all of that from a tiny paragraph about politics, but I could, go me.

Plus, I liked his sense of humor, and he was a close-to-my-age goth guy who was EXCELLENT at the ultimate aphrodisiac: talking about Nineties music. I asked him out for wine and cake at my go-to first date spot, and I delighted in the chance to put a face on for somebody cute for the first time since the spring.

When I saw him, I was even more convinced that he might be a match—big enough to make Amazonian me feel little, so I knew he could probably throw me around. (Further spoiler alert—he could!) He was smiley and self-effacing in a charming way and so, so funny. What really sealed in the liking was finding out that we had both been at the same Dead Milkmen show in 1994-I’m an absolute sucker for that kind of meant-to-be-ness.

And then (there’s always an “and then”) The Socialist mentioned that he listens to Howard Stern all day every day at work. When I expressed shock and dismay, he defended himself a little:

“But Howard Stern supported Hillary Clinton!”

“He also helped create the atmosphere of misogyny that defeated her!”

Knowing that The Socialist was a fan of one of the grossest decades-long perpetrators of lady-objectifying, one of the deepest architects of rape culture, should have been enough to make me leave, but after he conceded that I was probably right, I stayed, and knowing we probably weren’t right for each other gave me a chance to let my guard down even more. I confessed that I’ve had a pants-wall since primaries, that I was worried I would always be at war with men. AND HE WAS THERE FOR ALL OF IT. What I liked so much about him was his ability to remain unfazed, to argue without getting defensive or fragile. He’s A MAN.

In spite of my doubt, I left there giddy. It could have been the wine (I don’t drink enough lately to take it for granted) but I think it was the laughter. He asked me out again right away, and I said yes.

Next: What kind of wine goes with toaster waffles?

A Lovely Milestone in Not-Dating

Fueled by Kate Bolick’s Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own and Rebecca Traister’s All the Single Ladies: Unmarried Women and the Rise of an Independent Nation, I’ve been inspired to embrace this post-divorce bubble of time as a well-earned luxury, not a middle-aged curse. I’ve been proudly embracing the American spinster’s contributions to cultural and civic life, photographing Saturday morning cats without shame, and generally reveling in hearing my own thoughts. This perspective seems to have changed my approach to dating for the (MUCH) better.

Last fall, after J. turned out to be such a disaster, I didn’t really trust myself to date. My ignoring of red flags and self-gaslighting seemed compulsive and difficult to overcome. So many times upon meeting a semi-viable guy, I’d convinced myself that whatever didn’t work about him was something wrong with me. Once I liked a guy, I could so much more easily see his point of view than my own.

But as soon as spring worked its magic, I went back to OKC and found a seemingly datable guy—he was smart, had a house and kids, and was interested enough in politics to hold an elected local seat. He asked me out and we made plans to meet in the neighborhood for a drink, but after a little while, I started to not like his texting style. He didn’t do anything really wrong, but had a way of angrily confiding about bad days that felt over-familiar, as though I were already placed in a helpmeet role that I know I’ll never want.

So guess what! Instead of pushing myself to be more flexible, to take care of him, to ignore my instincts,  I told him I didn’t think we were a match and that was that. Although I’m at an age (and a size!) where women are generally expected to compromise, to respond to the pressures of the dating economy and settle for less than we deserve, I have higher expectations than ever. I have no idea what the future holds for my heart, but I know that I’m happy to be alone until/unless the right person comes along. Gold star for me!

Divorce Times Week Eight: Help! I’m Kind of Stuck

I had a dream this morning that I was walking along in my favorite park and all of a sudden the trail got way too steep and became a rock-climbing situation. I realized I’d gone too far up and when I looked down, I saw an enormous dried up river that must’ve dried up fast because there were abandoned kayaks and all kinds of other detritus in there. I couldn’t go up, I couldn’t go back, but then I noticed a light trail someone had trod in the grass right near where I was. Animals were playing two-by-two in the riverbed, and yapping dogs heckled me as I headed off into the woods.

That little trail is exactly what I need right now, because I feel trapped. I feel so stuck in this living situation and I have no idea how to get out. We’re getting along fine as roommates and friends but the sadness of the apartment is just so draining, it can’t possibly be healthy. I don’t know how long it will take us to save up and get out of here, but right now it seems like forever. My job isn’t enough hours and she still has a long commute that eats up lots of gas and money and time.

A friend at church suggested just taking my time, getting used to this new job before I keep pushing ahead and try to find a second one. It sounded AMAZING when she said it—such an awesomely simple solution.  The idea of being gentle with myself and just having time to breathe and settle in seems foreign to me—so much of the past few years has been about powering through. Student teaching, my first crazy classroom, the urgency of trying to save the marriage in various reasonable-to-misguided ways, it’s all taken a lot of strength and determination, such a commitment to unraveling negative thought-patterns and undoing habits. It’s been very hard work and I’m tired. I should be okay with the idea of an easier job for a while and sometimes I am, but I still feel trapped on an impossible path where I can’t see the next turn.

A few days this week I felt optimistic, felt like everything was in its place to eventually work out. There are sometimes clear windows of faith to look through, and I’m so grateful for those days. My favorite thing that happened this week is that, for the first time in years, I painted wholeheartedly. I wasn’t forcing myself to paint through the grief or trying to fight boredom or stress. I just settled all the way in and let the shapes define themselves, let the colors make their own kind of sense. Also, there was glitter! Maybe that’s what I need to do with my life as well, just sink in and let it form like art.

Even though Cute Glasses Place Guy wasn’t the right sort of guy, it was so much fun almost venturing out again into the world of dating. I love the feeling of seeing how far a flirt can go, of putting a new number in my phone and giving it a whirl. Subsequently taking the number back out, but still! I don’t think I’m ready yet, but it’s nice to know that those kind of experiences are out there for me. I paused my OKCupid almost as soon as I put it back up, because I really think that IRL is the way to go.

Just like the not-quite-conscious thing that figures out the paintings, there is something in me that knows how to go forward. I know it’s there because if I do something, even something little, to fight the current (Say for instance texting a certain unavailable dreamboat muse…) a terrible feeling comes over me, like I am annihilating myself. It’s nothing anybody does or says, it’s just my intuition being really pissed off at me for going backwards—my own personal pillar of salt. The way ahead feels lonely without some of these characters, but the way ahead is the only way and I’m trying to listen to myself about that.

This weekend a lot of the people I like are away at a festival, romping around being kinky in the woods together and it’s hard not to feel sad and left out. I feel like the project of divorce and saving up for my own place takes me out of so many good things. On the other hand, I’ve got three get-togethers on the calendar for this weekend and hopefully also some time to rest. I’ll see Cute Master and Pretty Slave on Sunday and I am SO EXCITED to just enjoy the heck out of them. I hope that taking that little risk and letting myself try some new pleasure and adventure will make the path feel clearer, will help me open up a little more to whatever happens next.

A few weeks ago, I made this list of the reasons we are divorcing, to be read during the times when I feel the most despair:

Ten Reasons Why:

1. Being able to do whatever I want in my own bed.

2. Learning to love myself.

3. Remembering how to take care of myself.

4. Breaking my family’s cycle of abuse.

5. Finding myself a partner in crime.

6. No more second-date crying. (The bad kind, I mean.)

7. Following the lead set by joy.

8. The amazing confident feeling I get sometimes.

9. Because I want a family of more than two.

10. To truly honor my poly self.

In the course of typing up this post, I clicked over to Fet and posted a thread on the local rope group’s page. The heading is a sad six-word novel: “Free Ropes (To a Good Home).” I’m doing my best to let go of a little more every day, and I hope it works.

Not Quite a Wesley and Cordelia Moment, But…

Do you think I should give it a third date?

My Man About Town is a catch in a million ways—he’s warm, sweet, excited to learn knots, excellent with logistics and making me feel cared for. I’ve been to his house and I like both his wife and his girlfriend.

After our hike last night, he sent me a Google Earth map of the route! Romantic, right?

But I just feel like the chemistry is off. I love talking to him but I just don’t feel quite right about kissing him.

If this were a romantic comedy, this would be a part where I realize that I’ve moved past the bad boys and I’m ready for some genuine affection, and choose the Nice Guy. And I really want to do that, but it just feels like we’re more a friend match than anything else. I DO want to be treated well, but a spark is important, too.

Please advise?

Things Go Haywire But Still a Good Scene, Part Two

I really want to skip this section and get right to the hotness, but it refuses not to be written. Sigh.

So I really didn’t know where this date was going, but just in case, I’d told Sweetie I didn’t want to be home until morning, and she was all settled in about it. I wasn’t having a good feeling about my chances, though. Whether that was a self-fulfilling prophecy or not, on the way to get dinner he told me it couldn’t be a late night because he had to help his mom with some stuff at 11 am the next day. When I type that sentence, it really doesn’t make sense at all.

I was not-getting-the-hint girl, and I said, “That’s still plenty of time to take me home in the morning.”

He got quiet for a few blocks and then he started to talk about how embarrassed he was about his apartment being a mess.

Okay, tell me if I was being paranoid. Have I just watched too many episodes of Mad Men or what? I just got a really bad feeling there was a lady at home who didn’t know about me, and I couldn’t stop myself from asking. He insisted that his apartment was really a mess, but it just didn’t ring true. Granted, he could be just going at a different pace than I was and didn’t expect to bring me home yet, but I really don’t buy it.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t want to be there with me, and I couldn’t stop myself from probably ensuring he’d want to be with me even less. I felt like a mean teacher trying to show someone how to be on a date. When he texted and checked his phone all through dinner, I actually told him to put it away, and the emotion I felt was exactly like a bad day in the classroom, but without the reassuring knowledge that I could re-assess and try again tomorrow.

We did get our scene negotiating done though. I really like (and will probably miss) our safeword: albatross. I love it for the Monty Python of it all, and for the fact that it’s the thing that keeps the boat afloat, isn’t it? But also a haunting burden. (I just spent a few minutes studying the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” but it was inconclusive.)

When we got to the party though, more texting. Even after I’d lent him a collar to put on me and we had a nice moment about that. He explained “I’m texting (Nice Girl) to tell her I’ll be unavailable for a while.”

This was exactly what I had been missing from him—those little transitional texts that only take a second or two but make me feel oriented and cared for. I would very much like to say that I took a deep sensible breath and calmly talked about how that is something that would be helpful for me as well.

Instead: “You never do that for me. You just disappear in the middle of the conversation, forget to answer questions, I have to ask you two or three times where and when to meet you. What is it about her that gets her treated like a girlfriend? Maybe I should ask her. Maybe she should teach me.”

I had my own conclusions as to what the difference was—the fact that I’m not single. I was not being treated with as much respect as she was because it’s hard for single guys to see poly women as girlfriendy characters.

I explained a bit more about poly, about how I was looking for a real relationship and could belong to more than one person at once. He said that he hadn’t really understood that, and agreed that I didn’t deserve to be discounted that way. He said he was really going to try to be a better communicator, and we headed upstairs to rope class.

Even after all of the trouble and fuss, I was still really excited to be there with him. I changed into my outfit for the evening: short, soft, adorable light green pajamas with little flowers all over them, Hello Kitty nipple tape, lucky underwear and purple wedge heels. I had some hope in presenting myself to him that way, but I think he was distracted by the self-consciousness of rope class.

Sweetie says she really feels for him during this part—she says rope class can be a lot of pressure, getting the knots right and keeping your date happy is a lot to think about at once. It really makes me think about how much work I am to be with. I have a lot to offer, but still.

Unlike Sweetie, who is comfortable with the fumbling aspect of learning new rope stuff (“Practice makes pervert,” the class leader is fond of saying.) Mister Hazel Eyes clearly felt frustrated and embarrassed when it took him a few times to get a knot or when the ropes clung to a bit of velcro on his shorts. The lady who was acting as demo bunny came over to help, and I liked the times when they were both working on me.

He had to do some of the knots so many times that some of them started to become clear in my head and I started to learn them. Look! I made my own cat’s paw! I get a badge or something. He was having a really hard time and unfortunately this meant he kept apologizing for being “retarded.” I know! Am I a bad person for messing around with somebody who uses that word that way? A bad teacher? I sure didn’t have any desire to correct another thing, so I ignored it. But he said it a LOT. Ugh. As I write this, I’m feeling a little less like a harpy and a little more like it’s just a bad match.

Next: Somehow a bad match becomes a beautiful scene.

Stuuuuck! But, Cuddle Party Tomorrow!

I took a few weeks away from The Kitten Calendar to let some healing happen and get caught up on my mountain of school work. During that time, a lot of parts of my life have really been coming together—I was placed at the school of my choice for student teaching, I’m finishing up two years at a wonderfully productive job, and my first full-length collection of poetry just went on sale for preorder—there’s even a person WHO IS NOT ME in charge of promoting it—as a poet, I find this incredible. I’m in school this summer, but I also scheduled enough poetry teaching to keep myself inspired and entertained.

So my life is coming together, all except the dating/adventuring part. That part feels stuck and very lonely. There isn’t even the suggestion of a possible masculine person on the horizon, and I’m beginning to lose faith that I’ll be attracted to a non-Sweetie person again. I’m still (ack) sort of pining for Bill and I’m still seething at Fireguy and co. Those things are just not getting better fast enough. I still get scared, attacked feelings when I think of going out into the BDSM world—there’s nothing like that on the calendar. Maybe I should just put it on there and get on with my life.

One bright spot on the body front has been that I’ve gone to a couple of Tantric poetry workshops. I’ve gotten over the idea that the Tantra folks’ll think I have bad energy; at least I have made that kind of progress. The Sensual Poetry teacher combines movement with writing in a way that tries to let the body have a voice—I really appreciate that.  She has us write letters from our body to our mind, from our mind to our body, and so on. Once, she assigned us to write a letter from our genitals to our brain, and my poem amounted to my vagina yelling at my head a bunch for taking all the penises away. Yep, my head does do that. My brain wrote a letter apologizing, but my body is still pissed. More than a decade was way to long to make it wait, and my body’s afraid that it’s settling in for another guy-free decade. Oh body, I really am supersorry.

I intellectually know that Bill was far from the best I can do, and even if he HAD been the best, he didn’t end up wanting me. I know that Fireguy’s shenanigans don’t necessarily exemplify all of BDSM. I know that if I went to a BDSM event, I would not be in danger. It would be more like a safe little bubble, with DMs there to help me if I called red. But right now, I’m facing a wall of fear about it. I’ll get back there some day, hopefully sooner than later.

Sometimes (not often, but lately) the frustration even keeps me from enjoying Sweetie. I get worried that if I settle in too much now, if I get too happy with her, before I know it another decade really will have gone by, and I will be even more of a bundle of repressed penis-craving nerves. I’m doing my best to fight all these fears, to pay attention to Sweetie and all of the other things in my life that are working, but jeez, dudes, where are you? Technically, I can probably wait forever, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea.

Tomorrow, I’ll be returning to my body adventures project by attending a cuddle party. I’d love to get past some of the barriers I’ve set up for myself and just play with trust and contact a little bit—I would love to spend at least a little time cuddling a guy, feeling that trust, smelling that guy-smell, it would be really nice. Cuddling seems a lot more intimate, more personal, than spanking, so we’ll see if I feel comfortable enough to try.

I guess what I realize after slogging though this litany of fears is that part of this is a project, yes, but some of it can’t be. The love part, much as I hate to let it go, has to be left up to fate. Fate’s who I’ve got to submit to, do you think I can do it?