Totoro and a Visit From 2016, Part Two

 I don't know what's better than making out on the couch in front of a few episodes of Adventure Time! Probably nothing! But I wanted to take this snuggle party to bed.

First, I shuffled around in my playlist to find just the right song. I settled on Miles Fisher's cover of This Must Be the Place, dreamy and automated and perfectly spectrumy. "Home/Is where I want to be/but I guess I'm already there." The perfect longing, fulfilled. I felt a little self-conscious about the aptness of the song as we climbed the stairs.

I wanted Angel Boy in my bed so badly, and there he was, in my girly pink marshmallow cloud sanctuary, my happiest happy place. He was a happy place too. I took off my favorite (white with bi-colored flowers) summer princess dress, leaving on my favorite lavender lacy underthings, a gift from The Shy One that keeps on giving. Angel Boy stripped to his boxer briefs and I swooned with happiness feeling his soft, warm, fuzzy skin next to mine. On mine.

He was, as promised, softly dommy, but he let me pull his hair. As I carefully tugged at the scruff of his neck, a growl came from all the way inside him, he tensed and sprung upon me, that favorite kind of kiss where the tiniest part of me thinks I might be eaten.

He pulled down my pretty bra and sucked my nipples, too hard at first and then just right. "OH!" I cried out, mentally checking to remember the window was closed. I was in a cloud of blankets and stuffies and pleasure. When he went for my clit, I was soaked slick for him, the feeling was monumental. With his fingers inside me, I felt powerful, transcendent. I was grounded in my body in a way that felt new, a new kind of health.

After a good loud while, Angel Boy looked a little shyly into my eyes and asked-without-asking if I'd orgasmed, and I told him the tide would just keep rolling, let's take a break.

I love holding him and being held, kissing and nuzzling, but guess what I love even more: an impromptu sing-along. Tears for Fears Everybody Wants to Rule the World came on and, tentatively at first, we sang. 

"Help me make the most of freedom and of pleasure, nothing ever lasts forever..."

Friends, I don't know how he does it, but this guy stops time.

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Part Two)

As he was getting acquainted with my couch and my one cat who’s interested in visitors (The other was likely to have been hiding in the back of a closet or behind the dryer.) it somehow came up that he’s on the outs with the Maximum Fun crowd. I’m only obsessed earswise, but lots of people go and hang out with the podcasters a few times a year.

“It makes me look bad…” he cautioned, but I persisted and got the story out of him, mostly just for the sake of curiosity.

I paused Hulu and sat down to listen. I’m going to write his story in quotes, bearing in mind that I’m quoting imperfectly.

“A few years ago I had a text-thing with one of the women in the scene, and I guess I went too far. Then, instead of coming to me, she called me out publicly on Twitter. This just happened a couple months ago. Now people are talking about me—the word “creepy” has been used—and I’m not a part of it anymore. I looked back at the chat thread and I just don’t see what the problem was. It’s a big feeling of loss and grief.”

I don’t think an Aziz-Ansari-level #metoo story is necessarily a dealbreaker. (However, AZIZ, devoting huge swaths of comedy special time to R. Kelly IS. Ugh how did I even ever.) I felt sympathetic towards Comedy Guy in some ways—groups, especially scene-style groups, can be terrifying in the way that they close ranks. I also wondered if the lady might have been predisposed to find him creepy because of the fat—though who knows what his Twitter avatar is…)

I tried to listen without judgement--we’re all going through a process and I certainly don’t put myself above it. I have a couple of nondefensive apologies on reserve in case the people I’ve harmed come for them. But the more he talked, the more it became clear that:

1.      He saw himself as the victim in the situation.

2.      He expected me to take care of him about it, even though MAYBE he knew that was wrong.

But despite my knee-jerk empathy (DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME, HIMPATHY QUEEN HANNAH ROSEN!) for the sincerely regretful guy before me, I knew our focus was in the wrong place. My heart and mind shifted to that unnamed Twitter lady, a lady in comedy on Twitter, such a perilous person and place to be. Even being a lady who likes funny things feels prickly and dangerous sometimes, so I found the Max Fun response in Comedy Guy’s story to be a comfort.

I didn’t tell him to call a Lyft, though. I put Bob’s Burgers back on and moved closer to Comedy Guy on the couch. I fit perfectly next to him and the warmth of his body soothed the triggered fear enough to settle back into the date. It’s hard to stay jangled while relaxing in Linda’s songs and Gene’s inexplicably dated pop culture references.

Snuggles in the Time of Kavanaugh: Part Two

I still consider it such a miracle that that Walkout Monday ended like this: Me leading Gilmore Guy upstairs to fresh sheets and fluffy pillows. My cat, the shyest little cat in the universe, letting him pet her and hold her before running away to her spot behind the dryer. Me trying to undress Gilmore Guy and finding out what shirtstays are—I told you, he’s a little dandyish.

It felt so comforting to welcome him into my bed, all kissing and warm and ready. His skin was so gorgeously soft and he had an earthy, minty smell like natural soap. Sooooothing.

And finally, I had the chance to do what I’d been fantasizing about the most.

“Get on your knees next to the bed,” I said, and he complied.

“How do you feel about calling someone Ma’am?” I asked. (A flash of fear went across his face in the middle of that sentence…)

“I feel…good.”

“You feel good…what?”

“Ma’am. Yes ma’am.”

            I spread my legs in front of his face and pressed him to me, pushing his shoulders down with my hands and then with my legs. I lay back in ecstasy and power, dissolving into joy. He did a very good job and I told him so as I pulled him up onto the bed and held him prone.

“It’s just…will I always be calling you ma’am?  I don’t think I would like that.”

“No. I don’t like anything all the time. That’s why I’m a pansexual switch.”

“Oh, okay, good.”

“Oh, okaaaaaaayyy…”

“Ma’am. Okay ma’am.”

(Writing this part down really makes me miss him and wish it had worked out. I really like the way it felt when he called me ma’am.)

Since he’s so new at kink and I’m sooooo far removed from any rope practice, I tied him up very gently (and pretty unconvincingly) with the pink fuzzy belt of my robe. I only tied him by one wrist, but it was such a thrill to be over him, his body warm and vital and delicious beneath me, playing this game and feeling my own strength against his. Though the title of this series might connote revenge on men, it could not be more opposite. This was a loving power, a kind exchange of equals. This night, I’ll say again, was such a gift and a miracle in the middle of so much bodily and national turmoil.

“What will I say if I need you to stop?” he asked.

“Just say stop.” I answered, in what felt like a new kind of commanding voice. I felt such power and peace, such connection. I felt grounded in my body and in my soul, in pleasure. He was so sweet and kind and such a gift, and in that moment, he was mine.

Snuggles in the Time of Kavanaugh* Part One

*Gabriel Garcia Marquez was also a rapey garbage person.

Before I write elsewhere about my adventures at the Supreme Court protests last Saturday, (Short recap: Screamed at a couple of Trump supporters, got in a cop’s face when he wouldn’t let me take my sign up the steps, screamed at a Franken apologist, helped take the steps of the Capitol, didn’t get arrested, went to the botanical garden) I want to keep honoring my time with Gilmore Guy, which is both related to and so sooooooooothing about the national misogynist mess.

After our wonderful time on the twenty-first night of September, Gilmore Guy and I set our next date for the following Monday. I was sooooo excited for the date that I even went shopping for cute new PJs, a lacy new bra, and underpants that were decidedly NOT the Bridget Jones kind. It felt wonderful to think about lace and ribbon and general girly adventurousness—I hadn’t felt that way in a long time!

Unfortunately and fortunately, that Monday was also the day of the National Walkout to Support Dr. Blasey Ford. It felt tricky to hold both that massively important moment and the wonder of this gorgeous, cuddly new man in my life at the same time.

I did NOT like wearing black. I would do anything for survivors, but in the future, I may not do that. Without my jewel tones and happy, sparkly jewelry, I felt armorless, marked as a victim for all to see.

I stopped at the library to pick up my holds, and the librarian complimented my NARAL pin that says “feminist” in six languages. She then felt moved to tell me that her brother had been molested by a man in the Sixties while hitchhiking. I felt equal parts sympathetic and annoyed, equal parts solidarity and irked by himpathy.

I text voters as often as I can to support the #bluewave, but I maybe should have skipped it on that day. Or maybe I’m glad I didn’t. Every time (okay it was only two times) somebody told me how undignified the Democrats were being at the Kavanaugh hearings, I came out as a rape survivor and told them why their support was important to me. It was good work, but also so discouraging and WILDLY triggering.

So after that, I was jangled. I was scared both physically and about the election. I also sometimes get a feeling from guys that once you’ve had sex with them once, it’s assumed for the rest of time. That’s maybe unfair, but it’s where I was at. I texted Gilmore Guy all this, and he understood, but wasn’t very wordy about it—taciturn. I felt like I had done something wrong, but I might have felt that no matter what.

Still, I liked the idea of just cuddles and episodes, and he even agreed to bring some Prosecco, my hero. (him AND the Prosecco) The idea of bubbly wine and introducing this cutie pie to Steven Universe got me back to myself and on with my day.

After work, even more of the fear and strain fell away. My job is very restorative these days, thank goodness.

So I got home, lit candles, got happily into my pretty new undies, awake and full of anticipation.  He was a few minutes late but when he got there and popped the cork, it felt like the moment was charmed. Plus, I got to use the fancy champagne flutes that Sweetie and I got at our wedding way back when. I gave him the pink glass and took the green, thinking (BUT DEFINITELY NOT SAYING) oh, heart chakra colors!

It’s a good thing Steven Universe episodes are only like fifteen minutes long, because Gilmore Guy’s arms were so warm around me, and this apartment sure as HECK has an available bed.

Gilmore Guy Part Four: Your Arms Make Me Wish I Was Still a Poet

I'm not saying this night was about love, oh wait, maybe I am. Not about couple-love, that still feels a million miles away, but the love of bodies, of luck, of my neighborhood, of the rhythm of Amy Sherman-Palladino's writing. It was a night about the love of LIFE, and I'm so glad I indulged in it. Gold stars all around.

            As we kissed on Gilmore Guy’s couch, the magic of desire took me over like a fluffy pink cloud. The comfort and pleasure of him was making me feel woozily submissive. (In my favorite book-I-didn’t-finish-because-it’s-too-triggering, The Body Keeps the Score, I learned that the impulse that makes us freeze when we’re scared is the same as the one that holds us still so we can bond with someone. This is my favorite romantic-but-horrifying brain fact!)

           

            Rather than totally succumb to the blissful frozenness, I remembered that he’d said he’d like to try a little submissiveness himself. I took a deep breath, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved him away from me, back against the couch. I straddled him (aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh like a horny homecoming) and immediately felt a Wonder Woman jolt of confidence. He tried to put his arms around me, but I pressed them back, held his wrists as tightly as I reasonably could with someone I JUST met.

            “How does that feel?” I gently growled into his ear.

            “Good.” He gasped, “It feels good.”

I reached to the nape of his neck and pulled his hair. I was worried it might be too much, and it was.

            “Don’t pull my hair,” he said a little reticently, and I let go.

            “Okay, thanks for telling me. Do you feel okay?”

            “I’m okay. Just…don’t pull my hair.”

            “Okay. Meanwhile, you are freeeee to pull mine!” I said, placing his hand in the right spot.

            Oh my GOODNESS I needed my hair pulled! It’s always such a relief. I arched my back, squirmed in his lap, and moaned, semi-realizing that I was giving the revelers downstairs on the sidewalk and earful. I hoped nobody I worked for was down there. Downside to geographic desirability, I guess. Totes worth it.

            He helpfully noted that the futon perpendicular to the couch was easy to fold out, and I was all “Yes please!”

            I was in such a happy haze (I feel like I should assure you that I only had half a drink, this haze was pure hormones) that I don’t really remember how my pajamas and sort-of-pretty underthings got strewn about the floor and coffee table. He took a moment to catch up with me in the nakedness department. Is there anything happier than meeting a new penis? This was a GOOD one, big and ready and delicious-looking.

            But no time for that yet, because his eager talented face was already between my thighs. I came easily and repeatedly, in giggling jolts until I pushed him away by the forehead.

            When it was my turn, though, I felt stunned with self-consciousness. It had been almost a year since I’d had a dick in my mouth (Season Two of Stranger Things with The Socialist—ah, fall.) and I suddenly felt like I’d written exactly NO paragraphs about blow jobs. It felt too big to manage, I was paranoid about teeth, I couldn’t get my head at the right angle

            No matter about my precarious blow-jobbing, he pulled me into a kiss, and our bodies wrapped back up into a snuggle. He ran his hand over my ass and I said “You know you want to smack it!” So he did, hooray!

            The intercourse part just…sigh…fit. It was as natural and as easy as the kissing. In concert with his strength, I found my own lovely rhythm, pausing to realize how transcendent this moment was—a near-stranger and me, making something lovely together. A glow as lovely and golden as the fall sun.

            There was this little dip between his shoulder blades that I could have spent weeks caressing. His body was glowing perfection to me, and so, in that happy haze, was my own.

            “Your arms make me wish I was still a poet,” I said. He’s yoga-strong, like a huggable sculpture.

            “Well, you could always put pen to paper…” he said.

            It’s helpful to have permission to wax poetic about the deep, glittery waves of release and joy I felt as we cuddled, then fucked, then cuddled some more. He spent a long lovely time with my left nipple that I will use (and have used many times already) during personal time. When I come from the inside, there’s rarely any big finale, just waves and waves and waves til we both get tired. I yelped and giggled. “Welcome!” I wanted to say. “THANK you!” I probably did say.

            Afterwards, until we eventually put back on the Gilmore Girls, we lay listening to a mix of silence and street noise, breathing and heartbeats. He put his hand on my heart, I lay my head on his chest. There’s just as much romance in short-lived flings as in more serious stuff, I think. Maybe that’s why I keep revisiting the casual—these brief sparkles of connection are no small thing. They’re important to me, and they give me hope.

            There was talk of sleeping over, but I wanted to go home. Not just because they have a no-other-partners-in-the-bed rule. (Though it did bring to mind a piece of Cunning Minx’s advice from years ago that still chimes like an old friend in my head: “You got all these rules? You don’t get me.”) (Also, in fairness, Sweetie and I had that rule as well. I was soooooooo happy when I got my own bed.) It was more that I wanted to go home and be with myself, to honor and process what had just happened.

            He put on his shoes to walk me out (It was around then that we finally exchanged last names. I wonder how/if he ever spelled my last name in his phone) and I thought he was walking me chivalrously to my car.  Instead, he gave me a quick peck at the door, looking around exactly like somebody who’d done something wrong. While I later wondered if he was being secretive or ashamed of me, I also do enough thinking about weaponized white womanhood to wonder if he just felt unsafe being seen with me at night.

            Whatever the reason, his furtiveness didn’t register until later. I went home well-fucked and starving, ate some night cereal, and slept the best I had in a long time. There are more Gilmore Guy paragraphs to come, and I’m so glad I gave us a chance.

A Conference with Myself, Part Three: Hugging Heartbreak, Embracing Joy

“Even if you feel overcome with nihilistic thoughts, your body is still alive with an optimism of its own.  Join the thoughts of your body.” –Yoko Ono

            When I first started adventuring way back when, I decided to use cuddle parties as a benchmark for how far I’ve come in inhabiting my body and letting go of grief. The first one, way back in 2012, I spent crying over my struggling marriage and unexpressed bisexuality. The second one, I spent mostly on my own despite the puddle of people, enjoying all of the lovey vibes in a very surprising new self-contained way. This time, I dove all the way in, tapped into my body’s optimism as Yoko suggests, and was blessedly immersed in the easy, soft connections with and among my fellow lovey-dovey souls.

            Still, sadness did need to have its moment. As I lay curled up and relaxed in the afterglow of The Kind Ma’am’s sweet/hurty attention, the loss I’d been trying to deny for months crept in and I just ached for Mr. Makeout Music, for all of the November grief. Since one of my New Year’s resolutions is to ask for help when I need it, I asked the Cuddle Facilitator to disentangle herself from a beautiful-looking embrace so we could talk for a minute. (I’m not a monster, it’s part of her role. But I still feel bad for interrupting snuggles!)

            I told her the story, the story my friends and I are all sick of, and she had an idea: “Let’s try this. I’m going to hold you, and you’re going to just feel it all. Feel it as deeply as you can, and then we’ll see if you’re ready to go back to playing.”

            So she put her arms around me, and as she held me, her heart against mine felt like MM’s heart, from those twice-a-day hugs that I missed so much. The connection I still felt to him was keen and wrenching and real, and I loved it so much. (I still do, though thankfully it feels much less claustrophobic/painful now.)

            I almost cried, but didn’t. I thanked her mistily and went back to the party, joining a cuddle pile with a few nice strangers who’d seemed fun during consent practice.

            I was blissed out and petting the hip of a nice woman from Colorado when (Hooray!) The Professor appeared above me and asked if he could join us. I was spooned in behind the nice woman, and he spooned in behind me, a friendly wall of warmth. I asked if he would pull my hair (or he asked me, I don’t remember) and he was such the perfect balance of gentle and forceful that I whooshed down into subspace, for the first real time in years. The weightless, beatific feeling of being relieved from control, turns out I’d missed it so much. I feel like I’m using the word “blessed” too many times in this story, but it keeps being necessary.

            I asked if I could turn over to face him, and the resulting embrace was one of the most comforting places I’ve ever been. I’m trying superhard not to get carried away here, of course he’s maybe just really good at hugging, but the way he fit with me had a teensy bit of destiny to it.

            At cuddle parties, you’re supposed to look for specific permission every step of the way, and for every request he made, I gave an emphatic “Yes!” especially the “May I kiss you?’ part—the Professor is really, really good at kissing. Just like with the hair pulling, soft and urgent, emphatic and sweet. There’s nothing like being really just thoroughly kissed.

            “Will you put your leg between mine?” He asked and oh yes, I just wanted to find a cuddle party loophole and just give him permission to do every. Single. Thing.

            “May I put my hand of your chest?” He asked, and that meant heart, not boob, and yesyes, it’s time to go ahead and believe in Energy, because this guy has ALL OF IT.

While I was lying there in The Professor’s arms, Mr. Shiny Eyes crawled over and asked for a kiss and I was happy to give it. The three of us chatted until it was time for The Professor to go have a late supper with The Kind Ma’am. I kissed him goodbye and settled into a new cuddle configuration with Mr. Shiny Eyes and the interesting strangers.

Next: More cuddles, more kisses, and saying goodbye lying down.

Supersweet Election Love Story: Part Six

After I said the snuggle-drunk thing about being near him as much as I could, he said:

“Just don’t show up where I’m at. I’ve had that happen before.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t even like coming to find you in the library—it’s so vulnerable! I feel like everyone can see me crushing on you.”

I sat up out of snuggletown to hear the story, just a harmless-seeming ex-girlfriend who showed up a few places wanting to talk.

It was PARTICULARLY annoying for him to be afraid I might stalk him, given that he’d been by my side in my department for months. I mean, I loved all the visiting, but jeez, the entitlement. It reminded me of The Man and his out-of-left-field Fatal Attraction references. Just who do men think they are, that we’d be devastated by their rejection to the point of psychosis?!

Which brings me back to one of the central questions of the election—why are men so afraid of women? Why do they hate us so much? Why did they (along with a huge population of racist/Stockholm Syndrome white women) just throw the entire country under the bus rather than let women have power?

So while I reserve judgement about him being shy or just taken aback, one thing I definitely do not need in my life is a man who’s afraid of women—it’s bad enough that scared men have gotten control of the government.

I didn’t say any of this at the time, I just moved my body a little less near his, listened sympathetically, and moved on to other topics.

When I realized that it was four o’clock and I really did have to go back to work, he walked me to the store and hugged goodbye. He both hugged me tight and let go emphatically, so that felt like that. Why Don’t You Love Me? was being frustratingly apt on the bookstore radio. My coworker was amazing at girl talk, giving me young-people advice and inspiring me with her own self-assurance about men.

Mr. Makeout Music and I had planned to paint watercolors of butterflies with the kids at the library the next day, but I woke up feeling so sad that I texted and asked him for some space. He gave it to me and though I missed him, it felt good to concentrate on the kids and the art and not have to worry about putting on a brave face or being cute.

I meant for the space to last a few weeks, but when the post-Election-Day panic attacks started to roll in, it felt silly to push away someone who’d been such a safe place to me all autumn long (Though, he feels a little less safe now—I don’t know if that’s fair.) I don’t know if that was the right choice but our friendship/flirtship seems almost back to normal, even if the flirting sometimes goes in a learn-all-your-knots direction. (I swear I’m not the only one taking it there. It just sort of happens.)

Mostly, I’m sick of thinking about him so much, and I just want to be ready to move on. The best thing about getting close to Mr. Makeout Music was remembering what it’s like to have my heart opened, to let all of the adorableness and art and happiness flow out. He gave me so much hope and joy and support over the last few months and though I’m sad it didn’t work out the way I wanted it to, I’m glad to remember and celebrate the parts of myself that his complete and utter cuteness brought out in me.

He’s still really cute, and semi-always there, so I’ll need some extra help and time to get over him. I’m doing my best to move on, to spread my flirting around to maybe-bolder men, but I still spend my work days mostly waiting for Mr. Makeout Music to show up, even on days I know he isn’t scheduled. Like everyone I’ve ever gotten more-attached-than-I meant-to to, he’s still a big deal.

Though I wouldn’t feed his stalker fears by saying this to him, I did fall in love, I always do. My biggest wish would be to love the love I can’t help feeling, even though it scares people. This is the only person I’m ever going to be, and I’m rededicating myself to accepting and giving love, to accepting my Call Me Maybe heart and finding it many new and snuggly homes.

Supersweet Election Love Story: Part Five

After Mr. Makeout Music realized he was unavailable, I told him a little bit about my poly background, about why it hadn’t felt weird to have to schedule time or to have another woman in the picture. I wasn’t telling him this as a way to argue his decision but just to share my perspective and think aloud about where the heck I am in relation to poly, anyway.

            “If it were just you and me, it might be different, but I get really jealous…” Etc, the standard straight monogamous guy speech, I know it well and respect it, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him it’ll never be just him and somebody, it so very rarely is.

And I’ll pause here to realize that whether it’s a poly situation or just a family already in progress, “just you and me” is not what I want. Good to acknowledge.

We sat on stone steps on a secluded corner of campus, talking through a brisk and bright afternoon. I had to interrupt the very important conversation to Instagram a tree with sunshine lighting up every leaf.

We sat there for three hours, getting progressively more chilly and talking about all the things you can’t really get into at work—our families, his military history, my teacher/divorce meltdown, our imperfect and sometimes-intersecting paths to relative social awakeness.

But the topic that made him lose almost all of his nervous and relax into a curious smile, was confessing to him my various forms of sluttiness. His eyes lit up in a decidedly not-vanilla way as he asked me about Nude Years Eve and what BDSM relationships are like. I got his porn search terms out of him and told him my own. (Still lots-of-guys-one-girl; my time on lesbian island still hangs heavy.) He really wants to read my book, and he’s really not going to until we work in separate places. (It should come as no surprise to longtime readers that he’s got his firefighter’s exam coming up this weekend. Then he’ll know how to restrain AND carry people.)

There’s something about him that makes me lose all my filters (he has suggested that it’s my open heart) so I even told him that I’d had fantasies of dominating him that I’d already been sort of dominating him without meaning to. He said “I guess I’m so good at following directions that I didn’t notice.”

“Yes. You. Are.” I said in my best bossy/slutty voice.

Though he was still very clear about not being ready for things, he was sweetly curious and didn’t seem at all horrified. When I told him that the man for me would have to learn all his knots, he said “Oh, so it’s like scouts?” and I giggled for a long silly time.

Friends, it WAS chilly. After a little while of freezing and wishing I had socks on, I asked if I could sit closer just for warmth, and he said “I know what you really want.” And pulled my into one of my top ten favorite snuggles of all time. He put his arms around me and I lay my head on his knee.

“What are we going to do to make the world better, Ms. _________?”

I sighed a deep dreamy sigh and said “This is a good start.”

I felt as sunny and golden as the pretty fall trees. The horror and fraughtness and drama of the election fell away and I felt as warm and cared for as I ever have by a man.

            I asked where his nervousness was on a scale of one to ten (I was at zero.) He said he was at a four, but that was the world, not me. Then I confessed something I’d been thinking about hard for weeks, especially as I’d fretted about voter suppression dangers on Election Day:

“You know you have a permanent human shield now, right?”

“Thanks,” he said, and I know it was a weird and maybe wrong thing to say, but I’m glad I told him. The world had just gotten so much scarier for both of us and I wanted to fight and scrape and elbow to keep him safe. I wanted to give him my whole body, my life. I wanted to be the sacrifice, to bleed in the dirt in hopes that things might be healed so that he and his family could walk around safe.

That’s love, I guess, and hopefully it isn’t too colonizing, but whatever it was it was way too much to be thinking about a thing that wasn’t even going to be a thing. Our not-date was almost over, the glow was about to leave us, and I never wanted to move from that spot. He traced his fingers over my shoulder, I felt his beard graze my hair, and I felt at once strong and all the way broken open.

“I’m just gonna be near you as much as I can.” I said, and I think maybe that’s what broke the spell.

Poly Conference as Benchmark: Very Good Progress

When I first attended the Big Poly Conference the year before last, it was almost like research as an outsider. I found many different kinds of comfort and acceptance (especially in my first nudist experience) but by the end of the day I was hurting and crying in the cuddle party, being comforted by the facilitator (who is, incidentally, now Showtime famous) and feeling like I should never be near such nice people, like I was just to rotten inside for all this togetherness. I cried my heart out all the way home that night, consoled by Sweetie in that toxic way we had, half-knowing that my relationship was part of where the rottenness was coming from.

Then last year I attended with much more experience and a few more good connections, spent the day mostly catching up with friends and being proud to find out where the big party was being held. That was the night I first really connected with the Sweethearts, Mr. Shiny Eyes, and the Recurring Character. Because Sweetie was staying in the hotel with me (though not attending the conference) I still felt separate from the poly folks and strangely protective of her, like I couldn’t give all the way in to everything that was going on around me.

This year, I shared a room with my favorite snuggle-couple, the Sweethearts, whom I’m still learning, of course, but thoroughly and emphatically enjoyed in both pants-off and pants-on ways. They feel like home to me, a physical and spiritual comfort to be near whether we were mid-scene or not.

As with last year, I spent a good amount of time catching up with the Lady of the House, who decided that wherever we are together talking is actually the nude beach--it’s exactly that sunny, embracing, and free.

I got to devour Mr. Shiny Eyes for lunch and have some emotional breakthroughs with him during postsex cuddles. (I’ll elaborate on all this as the week goes on…)

And yes, I did know where the party was, but I chose instead to curl up in a comforter and enjoy the warmth of my own company.

For all of the happiness, there was grief, too. I miss having someone to whom I could confess everything and be (until the next condemning fight, at least) absolved. And since last year’s party was all about Sweetie’s ropes, I missed the heck out of those too: I love that we were able to create such beautiful rope-magic even as we were falling apart. I miss the home of her even as I rejoice in finding and founding new person-homes.

This was also the weekend in which I finally admitted to myself that I believe in Tantric energy—I’ve experienced it enough times, I might as well. The first time I tried Tantric breath (at that same sobby conference cuddle party) I experienced it as stabby, almost debilitating pain, a grief-cramp that didn’t go away until I cried it out. This time, just after I left the Sacred Sex Puja, I felt such a warm, sunshiny glow move through me, and keep moving. Though I’m still facing some roadblocks and daunting obstacles, on some fundamental level I’ve come unstuck. There’s so much more work to be done, but sometimes I feel my body, mind, and heart giving me time and space to relax into the flow of whatever comes next.

Huzzah! A Good Date

Sometimes, I’ll hit on someone on OK Cupid just because they remind me of my ex-boyfriend-from-the-techno-years/current pal Pagan Boy. This was one of those. The other thing that made me attracted to him was that in response to the “Did you have a goth phase?” question, he said “It’s wasn’t a phase.” I got a feeling in my belly that he’d be fun to hug, just from his emails, and boy was I right. He looked sweet and game in his picture, with big soulful hazel eyes and fluffy eyelashes. How could I resist?

Getting ready for our date, I debated with myself about whether a spiked collar was first-date appropriate. I went for it, just to have the excuse to wear it. Also I can proudly say I was leading with my boobs—there they were right in front of me…He found me a bar that serves mojitos, which isn’t always easy because not every bar stocks fresh mint. It was a good mojito, it felt like a reward for a whole bunch of things. We fell into Moonlighting-level banter right away, is there anything more fun? Sometimes I turn into this really brassy, candid version of myself and just yammer a whole bunch about my various adventures—he looked happier and happier as we went along. He looked into my eyes a lot while we talked—boy are those pretty eyes.

We decided to take a walk to the river, joking as we went about the really intense snuggling and hand-holding we both enjoy from time to time. I revealed my quest for my inner Bettie Page, and he told me he has a tattoo of her on his leg—I’m sure that isn’t uncommon among guys who also have Black Flag tattoos, but I like the coincidence and I’ll consider it a good sign. I could feel my inner Bettie while I was next to this guy, that’s for sure.

He kissed me by the water, as little waves lapped up around the bottom of the walkway, in full view of the swan boats and tourists. He pulled my hair a little, because I’d told him I like that, and I’m sure later I can convince him to pull it harder.

We talked on and on and on about sex, I’m sure we might get to other topics some other time. If this were considered an assessment, I think I’ve made a lot of progress since Bill said to me “You keep telling me what you don’t like, tell me what you do like!” When I feel comfortable with someone, I just keep talking, and we went over likes and dislikes in great detail. I feel confident that he’s up to the challenge of LOTS of bare-handed spanking, and he assures me it wouldn’t have occurred to him to make me ask permission before I come. I even told him about the love affair I’ve been having with my ass, though I didn’t go into detail. (Oh, yeah, I should write that soon, too.)

He reminds me of the good parts of Bill; he’s strong, soft in places, swaggery, about the same height as me, with reaaaaaaaaly nice arms and good hands. But unlike Bill, he’s got his own house (I liked the way he said it, “My house.”) a cute car, a good job, a basement full of records from when he was a DJ in the Nineties.

There was a kiss in the parking garage elevator that made me want to press the Emergency Stop button like they would in the movies. In the car, he said I was evil for making him so turned on and I said “No, I’m a good girl.” And he said “You’re a very good girl.” and put his hand on the top and kissed me some more. Swoontown.

When he dropped me off, he said “Tell (Sweetie) good things about me. Tell her I was respectful and not gropey.” When I got inside, Sweetie (Whose pre-date advice to me was “Don’t flee.”) was on the couch, glowing with love and support. We watched an episode of Queer as Folk and went to bed. I love her even more when my face is all stingy from beard-burn.

This morning I have that what-if-he-forgets-to-make-more-plans-with me feeling. I’m happy and daydreamy, even if I should be studying.

Revisiting the Dream Guy

When I first started dating guys again last fall, I had a very clear idea of the kind of relationship I wanted. While I’m glad to be considering other kinds of connections, it’s worth remembering that this project is about learning to love myself so that I take care of myself in a real relationship with a man. If I’m honest, the dream is one guy.

In many ways, Bill and Fireguy could not have been more opposite, but they had this in common: they were emotionally unavailable and I knew that. I am horrified at how much I deluded myself into thinking that if I just said exactly the right thing and did exactly what they wanted me to do, I could matter to them, they would love me and keep me safe. They both wanted me for primarily physical reasons and they both rejected me as soon as I had any negative feedback at all.

Attaching myself to guys who are not in a position to get attached to me is a way of telling myself that I don’t deserve the attachment, that I don’t deserve a real relationship with a guy. With anybody, really.

As a way to refocus myself on what I really want and take stock of what I’ve learned so far, here’s my new list of what I’m looking for in a guy. Some of these qualities are not things that I myself possess, but that I aspire to.

My Dream Guy:

1. Has an innate sense of empathy, social and environmental justice, and respect for the human body.  He may not always know what to do about those things, but he feels them. This seems like a lot to ask for.  We’re living in harsh and callous times—even the Mayor of Kittentown has been known to tweet a rape joke! (I know. I’m trying to figure it out about him, too.)
2. Is an amazing kisser. Before I kiss someone, I should feel like these is at least some potential of a romantic relationship—I’m going to do my best to be honest with myself about this.
3. Has great taste in music. I’d given up on this one after things with Bill (still the best song sender) got so hurty, but it really is an important part of attraction for me.
4. Is a top who likes rough sex, but in an affectionate, affirming, and humanized way. He should be open and willing to discuss the emotions that go along with sex, even if it’s sometimes awkward and not-hot.
5. Is patient, kind, and emotionally available. When I’m around him, I should feel safe, happy, and free, fully able to be myself and get to know him. He is happy to let me run and play—he always trusts me to return.
6. Is willing and able to share himself, to let me into his everyday life. If he’s in a relationship, there should be room for me to negotiate and ask for what I need.
7. Is not in a couple with a lot of set-in-stone rules. That doesn’t give a secondary any room to help create the culture of the constellation—it makes it inherently unequal. To paraphrase Cunning Minx: “You got all those rules? You don’t get this.”
8. Is interested in me (and I’m interested in him) for lots of different reasons, not just kink or my hot boobs. We should be able to be whole people together.
9. He is big, strong, and tall, loving and affectionate but also capable of throwing me around like a little fucking ragdoll.
10. Lets me love him as ridiculously much as I want to. Lets me cry if I’m sad. Gets excited with me.

I already found all of these things in Sweetie, so they must be possible in a guy too. I’ll keep my eye out for him.

Beginning Rope Class FTW Part Three: Aftercare Is the Scary Part, Maybe

Once he had the harness on, the Gentleman said he wanted to tie my arms back. “To accentuate that gorgeous chest of yours.” While he worked back there, my hands were against his crotch, I could feel him big under my jeans. Friendly. I felt so warm under his hands as he rubbed them up the ropes on my arms, my shoulders, my neck. It didn’t seem like a place for spanking, but he said “Now I really do want to spank you.”  I said

“A little hair-pulling wouldn’t be out of line.” and so he did, gathered up my hair so gently and pulled it slooooowly to the side. Then he brushed it aside gently and kissed the back of my neck, making me all tingly. He ran his hands up to my belly and pressed, pulling me back against him. It was hot in that conference room. A drop of sweat landed on my ear.

“I just want to enjoy you for a few more minutes.”

“Take your time! I’m not in a rush!”

I really enjoyed being enjoyed, except when he said things like “Your tits look amazing.” I even enjoyed that, with a little twist of shame and worry. I don’t want to fall prey to anyone else, don’t want to be anyone else’s vacation-fantasy-doll. This guy isn’t that, I told myself, but sometimes I feel hopeless, like they’re all like that. It’s terrible.

He unwound the ropes from me and I admired the pattern of red marks they made on my chest and wrists, a little pinch-mark on my right arm, where the rope got stuck and stung…

He played some more, in the front this time, making thick rows of loops up my arm. He put his hand on my neck and I felt a swoony falling sensation, but when I opened my eyes he said “I’m practicing completing a circuit.” Apparently you are supposed to touch in two places to make a circuit—it worked, oh boy.

When it got so there was only a half hour left, I suggested we get in some hugging. We sat down and he wiped his brow, got to work winding up the rope, but I said I thought he should attend to his girl first. He agreed, tossed them down and gathered me up. Even though my head had a few worries, my body was totally relaxed, and I completely relaxed into him. I snuggled under his big arm, into his chest and just breathed with him. He ran his hands over me, gently but firmly. It’s amazing to me how things can feel this intimate, this safe, with someone who was so recently a stranger. It’s such a beautiful exercise in trust. It’s a miracle. It’s irresistible to me.

And it’s dangerous. Whenever I’m in that vulnerable position, I wonder if he’ll ever come back. I always try to make plans during that time. Bill resisted it like crazy, said mean things during aftercare either because he was an oaf or to deliberately set me off balance—it drove me nuts and made me feel desperate.

But this wasn’t that. This was just sweet hugging. I invited him to an upcoming play party but he said he was busy and encouraged me to go with Sweetie. (I am! Yay!) He said I shouldn’t let fears and heartbreak stand in the way. I like that he was rooting for me and Sweetie to get some good experimenting in, too.

Saying goodbye was hard, even though he’s brand new. I wanted him to kiss me, and said so, but he said he was feeling shy. I’m not sure what that means, if he likes me that way or not. I’m always a little afraid that a guy will forget me, but he didn’t.  He asked me out again and we are making plans that don’t involve ropes or fetishy things, just getting to know each other. That seems like progress.

I’m trying to get out of the habit of seeing each character as a solution to the last. Instead, I’d like to experience him as a nice new friend. A very snuggly one. 

Thanks and Good Luck, Mayor of Kittentown!

I am having a hard time this week and feeling very discouraged. Unfortunately one of the side-effects of whatever heartbreaky thing I'm going through is anhedonia. So last night when I got to MKT's house, instead of climbing all over him like I usually do, I curled up with him and talked, then fell asleep on him during our Mystery Science Theater episode. (Serves him right, though, for choosing a Mike episode and not a Joel one.)

It felt really nice last night and this morning to just be held by him. I appreciate his kindness and gentleness so much.

I'm wishing him luck because he's got a date tonight. It might not mean the end for us; he actually said he might like to have a primary relationship and me as the secondary one. He didn't use those poly words, but still, there's a little hope.

Nearly-Naked and Fire-Kissed, Part Three

I’ve never been very good at casual kissing, but I want to learn to enjoy sensations for their own sake, and plus I just wanted to kiss him, so when Fireguy offered me an upside-down kiss, I said sure. And of course was a good kiss, of course it was. I’m not supposed to get attached to him, so I was holding back, but it was definitely good enough to make me wonder what it would be like if I didn’t hold back.

I’d like to stop for a second and acknowledge that even though this is a friend who belongs to two other ladies, and there were people are lined up to be next, this scene still seems wildly romantic to me. Even the idea that H and E (They need nicknames. How about Varga Girl and Firewife?) were letting me and the rest of the world borrow him for the evening makes my heart go all mushy because it makes me feel close to them. To The Ladies and to the world. So we’ve established that I am a sentimental poly mushball.

And not a moment too soon because then he asked “Can I give you a fire kiss?”

Um, yeah.

He told me to close my eyes, then lit the fire on his hand. He snuffed the blue flames and then put his hand at the bottom of my neck, just above my heart. I gasped as he kissed me. It was a swoon, there’s no other way to describe it. A falling sensation.

He asked how I’d gotten so good at kissing and I laughed and said, “Well, I’ve been married to a lady for a long time.”

The woman who was next in line makes me rethink my idea of myself as needy. At one point, I opened my eyes and saw her just staring down at me, the flames reflected in her wide eyes. It was creepy, and I don’t know why I didn’t ask her to back off. I guess I just felt like I was safe. I smiled at her and turned my head like I was going back to sleep.

He had me turn back over for “fire spanks.” (Is that not the happiest phrase ever?) I would gladly have submitted to that for seven or eight more hours, but there were other people waiting and he was also supposed to be taking pictures. I sat up all blissed out and glowy and he said, “Now normally, if there were more time, I would wrap you up in a blanket and do aftercare” and I just sort of leaned into him and he said “Aaaand I’m going to do it anyway. Wrapped up and in his arms, I felt special and famous and chosen. Being seen getting treated in this way filled something up in me, gave me a bright feeling of being recognized.

He asked for a few more kisses and I joked that now he would have to kiss all of the girls in line. He said that no, he wouldn’t.

I was planning to stay and do more things with him if he got time, but when I called home Sweetie was already on her way to pick me up. (I really have to stop being a baby about driving myself to things.) It was kind of a good thing I had to go, because I was starting to feel like I didn’t have enough energy left to navigate the place. After I said goodbye to Fireguy, the self-consciousness I’d bypassed earlier kicked in, I felt awkward and threatened, and I was ready to just be home. When I went to the dressing room to change into my comforting flannel PJs, one of the couples I’d watched earlier was in there on the couch snuggled up. They seemed so beautiful and sad and sweet, I was worried that I would disturb them.

Walking out of the place, you know what? Young fetishy people really look at you funny if you are in flannel pajamas with cupcakes on them. Who knew?

I was at a loss for words (Rare for me, obviously) in the car on the way home. I kept trying to explain how I felt but could only come up with phrases. When we got home, Sweetie and I curled up and watched sitcoms. After a good night’s sleep, the fears wore off and the sex-goddess feeling came back, turning Sunday into a blankety daydream.

Typing this story just makes me want more. More him, of course, I hope it turns out that that’s possible. But also just MORE. I’m not sure what my next adventure is, but I am SO ready for it.

Might Be a Very Good Weekend!

Fetishes and experiments aside, sometimes all I want in this world is to watch a (Joel-hosted!) episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000 and then have a whole bunch of really emphatic snuggling with a friend who knows my body well and makes me feel safe and pretty.

So watch out, Mayor of Kittentown! I’m coming at you tonight like a herd of puppies!

Then tomorrow, a whole day in bed with Sweetie and and whole night of recreational writing.

How did my life get so awesome?

Wish me luck for my first date with Mr. 93% on Sunday. He was nice enough to schedule brunch after (Unitarian) church, so at least I’ll show up all transcendified.