Goodbye (Again), Mayor of Kittentown

“She wasn’t just cleaning out her locker, she was cleaning out her life.” (Kevin Arnold on The Wonder Years as Winnie Cooper got ready to leave town.)

This week, I broke things off with the Mayor of Kittentown. For the third time. I’ve never been quite able to figure out what doesn’t work between us, only that something doesn’t. I’ve known almost the whole time that he wasn’t a romantic match, and maybe I’m just not an FWB kind of girl.

Remember last week when I was feeling fretful about guys only liking me for my boobs? Here’s part of why: I was texting with MKT, just catching up because we hadn’t seen each other in a while. When I asked how things were going with the other woman he’s dating, he said she wasn’t really exciting him too much and

“Besides, she needs bigger boobs. ;)”

I sent him back an “Eeeeeeew” for talking about a woman’s body that way, it really got under my skin. Yes, I’ve heard and enjoyed guys saying much filthier things, but in dirty-talk context and therefore consensual—how would she feel if she knew he was saying that about her? He isn’t poly so I can’t expect him to know he shouldn’t compare us, but the fact that that’s the first way he could think of to say he liked me better, not my heart, my face, my general enthusiasm for B-movies and pancakes, just my boobs, of course.

The trouble with being new to sex with guys is that I don’t always notice when I don’t like something until it is kind of way too late to do anything about it. Like I’ve said before, I like for my boobs to get lots of attention, but the way he fixated on them was kind of childish. “Boobies!” He would say often, even on days where I was feeling objecty from other jackasses. And the fact that I was feeling objecty from other jackasses always made me want to give MKT a pass.

Is worrying about being an object old-fashioned or prude? It certainly does seem to be getting in the way of my fun.

He said insensitive things in other ways, too. On out first date he said something demeaning about a homeless person, he made jokes about them regularly. I think that’s a mainstream thing to do, but I thought it showed a lack of empathy—a lot of my dealbreakers just seem like guidelines for being a decent human being, but I still feel obligated to compromise them sometimes. I am a perfectionist and I don’t want to be, but I guess limits are limits. Close to the end of our relationship, he told me he’d once tweeted that the woman being loud on the bus behind him “Should choke on a bucket of cocks.” That’s hard for a girl like me to get past, even though, again, comments like that are part of everyday culture. I’m sure plenty of decent guys say things like that every day nowadays, it sucks.

Anyway, those seemed like small things compared to the fact that he was being so sweet to me almost always. I wanted to like him because he liked me. He has the prettiest green eyes and (when it isn’t leering) an angelic smile. He called me beautiful and held me when I was sad. Sex was always fun between us, even if we both wanted to be on the bottom. He’d usually take the top and make me a very loud, happy girl. His neighbors probably got woken up more than once.

But I can’t quite get away from the idea that being together when we aren’t/won’t be in love is a kind of using each other. It feels objectifying to both of us. I wish that I didn’t feel that way—I am very, very frustrated that sex is such a big deal to me, it’s really gunking up my experiments. Maybe it isn’t a matter of rejecting the whole idea of FWBs, maybe just this particular situation didn’t work?

All in all, I’m grateful to him. He was such a good first-in-a-long-time—I appreciate that so much. It’s hard to let him go and scary to have an almost-empty dance card, guywise. Aside from my date with the Gentleman this weekend, I’m turning my attention back to my friends for a while. I’d love to be a little more healed before the next guy comes along.

I wish the Mayor of Kittentown all the luck. I think the lessons here are: treat people like whole people as much as I can. Get better at saying (kindly and directly) what bothers me. Get better at listening to my body and heart, and don’t cling to things that don’t work. Those are good lessons.

I’ll miss him, his cats, his episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Thank you, pal.

How I Found out I’m Kinky Part Five: I Am a Greedy Little Brat

Sweetie was really upset about the grabbing-for-second-base aspect of The Song Sender. It was the first of many consent-themed fights with her. The Song Sender caused more fights in our household than any other guy before or since. I do want to write about the problematic aspects of the relationship, but for a few posts, I’d just like to focus on the hotness.

I’ve already written about the importance of date two, and I’m rarin’ to go when it comes to what happened on our third date.

Since he didn’t have a place he could bring me home to, all but our first date happened in my apartment. We got a routine going: he’d come over around 10 am, kiss me emphatically, and we’d make stilted conversation while I cooked him breakfast. I have a little bit of a Mad Men thing, so I didn’t mind a little housewifery at all. I especially liked it when he’d pull me into his lap after breakfast and spank me. Once, while doing this, he dangled me upside down and said “Do you trust me?

“…Somewhat?”

I’d had a few dates with the MKT, but I was still quite inexperienced-I was hoping that in the process of pushing me around, The Song Sender could teach me a thing or two.

That day, he pushed me onto the couch like I’d always wanted, angrily shoving me down and holding me by the wrists. He unbuttoned my pants and ripped them off in one angry motion. The he grabbed my lucky underwear and yanked them off in an equally swift and ruthless way. Violent. He pulled my legs apart and then sat back and played, suddenly cheery and peaceful humming to himself, fully clothed while I was naked. Then he pulled me up and lay down on the couch, pulling me on top of him. He held my shoulders and looked at me, playing with my nipples. Occasionally he’d give my boob a little smack, and I’d yell at him for using move that clearly quoted mainstream porn.

“I don’t want to think about porn, I want to think about you.”

That made him kiss me harder and give me a few good bites to my arm. He put his hand across my throat and I pulled it off.  To get his hand between my legs, he had to push my belly out of the way. He gave a little sneering laugh about this, but I just leaned back so he could get at me. With his other hand, he grabbed my hair and pulled me into a vicious kiss.

“You’re a little brat, aren’t you?”

(cue fireworks)

“Mmmmmm hmmmmm”

“You’re my little brat. You’re only sweet to get what you want. You just have to have everything because you’re such a greedy little brat.”

(Okay, fucking swoon. Also, “Greedy Little Brat in ‘012” was my New Year’s Resolution)

He pushed his fingers inside me. He had these deliciously fat fingers that I just adored.

“Are you my little brat?”

“Uh huh.”

“You’d better be, or I’ll leave.”

“Okay.”

My head got smushed down into the couch pillow. He kept calling me names and pulling my hair and biting me and fucking the shit out of me with his hand until I was yowling/screaming/crying.

“Come on. Come on, you can do it. Ah, come for me, ya little brat.”

I kept yowling until I was done. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. He shoved his fingers into my mouth and I happily sucked.

When it was his turn, I felt suddenly shy. He was hard underneath me and I wanted to go down on him but I hadn’t done that in a long, long time. I said, “Seriously, there was a World Trade Center the last time I did this.”

He unzipped his pants, grabbed me by the hair, and showed me what to do. I gagged as much as I could. I had a teenage fear of putting my teeth in the wrong place, but I was just happy to have his/a dick in my mouth. He was not a patient teacher. He ripped my head up and down and gave me notes on how to do better. You know I always want to be an A student. After a while he pulled me up next to him and took matters into his own hands.

I love to watch guys jerk off. When I look at porn (not often these days) I look at bukkake, not so much for the messy parts but for the sight of so many men playing with themselves at once. When he asked me to tell him what I wanted, I said,

“Well, I like to idea of being come on. Like, a lot.”

I talked a little, but he talked a lot.

“I’m just gonna take you, just throw you down and fuck you, like a little rag doll.”

“I like to feel like I can’t get away.”

“What makes you think you could?

“Let’s say for the sake of argument that it just feels that way.”

“You wanna be my little cum rag?”

By now I’d joined him in getting handsy with myself.

“When I fuck you, and I will fuck you, I’m just gonna…pull the condom off and come all over you, is that what you want?”

That’s when he came. It was the first time anybody ever talked dirty to me. I wanted so much more.

Coming up: Christmas and the long goodbye.