The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow, Part Seven

I sometimes wish the other people in the story had just as many paragraphs I could read about their inner lives, but they don’t. The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow is now the Man Who Sewed Me a Pillow, walking around another city being almost a complete mystery.

After the stupid Beatles letter, about twenty-five years went by. (What are we, Twin Peaks?)  Then, you know that feeling where you run into your (probably gay) first love at a family funeral and can’t stop flirting? No? Just me?

That’s how, about five years ago, I decided that the Boy-Now-Man Who Sewed Me a Pillow needed to be my friend. I got his number, took his picture to go with it, texted to apologize for being such a jerk in high school, was forgiven, then proceeded to do almost nothing about really making friends. I’d invite him to my yearly Christmas party, he couldn’t make it, we’d talk about making other plans, then not make other plans. Each year, Favorite Aunt would join facebook in reminding me to wish him a happy birthday. (If she was reminding HIM to wish ME a happy birthday, there’s no evidence.)

Then this year, a year in which I’d resolved to remember how to make new friends, a favorite artist got a retrospective in his city. I invited myself for a visit, set monthly reminders to actually remember to make plans, and then, to my great disbelief, there were plans.

I’d been thinking of this kind of the way I would any other awkward new friendship, but a few nights before our visit, texting him about museum logistics, I felt a surprising tide of warmth. It felt as though we’d always been making plans, ordinary and wonderful as making plans with Sweetie or Favorite Aunt or anyone else I readily and easily love. It startled me a little that I could feel that much closeness with someone I really didn’t know at all, even though I guess that’s what this blog is mostly about.

The warmth that spread through my body over this really very ordinary exchange reminded me of the feeling I sometimes got during trauma work—something was being gently prised loose, except this thing that had been stored in me wasn’t a hurt or a breakage but a treasure, a hope.

***

***Note: I watched The Unicorn Store right before writing the first draft of this part, but it probably would have been pretty glittery anyway.

Boy, The Unicorn Store really had my number.

There had been some doubt about whether we’d get to see the exhibit we’d planned for, the one I’d written into my 2019 goals, but there he was with tickets when I arrived, peering down into his phone looking EXACTLY the same except for a little grey and a cute beard and looking EXACTLY right for his way-cooler-than-I-am city. I called his name, we hugged, and we breezed into the museum, a little awkward but mostly in the care of bright colors, details, textures, and happy banter.

We had never hung out together so far from Favorite Aunt (though in a way it didn’t feel far from her at all…) so I thought it would be weird. Objectively, it IS weird to make plans with someone you knew for six months thirty years ago, or, more accurately kissed and loved but never really knew at all.

But really, as we moved from room to room catching up (in between times of me getting in trouble for taking too many pictures) nervousness and oddness gave over to a silly joy that had its own momentum. The sensation, which I’ve felt a couple of times before, was one of my heart unlatching, of becoming unseparated from him, from art, from myself, from love, from every beautiful thing that has ever been in the world.

(Is all)

It was both the old-friend sensation of no time having passed between visits and the mystical feeling of meeting a muse. It was both picking up where we’d left off (wherever THAT was) and noticing a labyrinth-string that I’d been following all along.

As much as I would have liked to be some imaginary cool, restrained person, I couldn’t really stop myself from becoming a high tide, an effervescently glitter-shining sea of exclaiming, gasping, giggling. It was both a Very Big Deal and the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

Oh, My Urgent Mouth

Yesterday while I was taking a nice bath after personal time I felt a warm, tingly feeling spread across my mouth and the lower right of my face. I ran my hand over it and knew exactly what it was—the urge to be slapped and to try a hand over my mouth, things for which my own hands just won’t do. Sometimes my body is absolutely humming to get along to the next phase, and I honestly don’t know what to tell it.

Adding the new fetishes to my Fet page only fanned the flame of it. I want to push forward and let my body have what it is so hungry for. Maybe there’s a way, but I know what’s in me besides that physical urge—the part of me that wants love so badly that it will imagine love where it isn’t. But holding myself back doesn’t seem natural or right either.

My poor mouth wants so very many things to happen to it, is dying to be kissed and smacked and fucked so hard I can’t breathe. I know there are other things that need to be taken care of right now, but 50 to 75 blow jobs doesn’t seem like too many.

I can take care of my hoo-ha and ass. I can feel myself up all night and day if I want to. (That’s one of the benefits of being out of work, I guess.) But what can I do for my poor, pining mouth, friends, while I wait for this break to be over?

Oh, mouth, I’m sorry. I wish I could give you everything.

My Ass Is Smitten With Mister Hazel Eyes, Part One: Spanked in a Stairwell

I feel really vulnerable writing this. Though it may not seem so from the title, last night was the first non-Sweetie date of my poly career that was truly romantic. I bonded with him. I felt cathexis. I got attached, and with that attachment comes a terrible, sad fear that he’ll go away now. (Which, okay, is made worse because I just watched the Gilmore Girls episode where Luke and Lorelai break up.) Liking him makes me feel like I’ve got to be ready to let him go, which is one of my central issues to overcome. So here goes.

Mister Hazel Eyes surprised me with tickets to see Jane’s Addiction and Die Antwoord. He bought the tickets before I’d even said I would go, which really knocked my socks off. Also, because he is sweet in a rather odd way, he asked if I would rather take the tickets and go with Sweetie: awww. But of course I was over the moon to go with him. Jane’s Addiction was my favorite band when I was a teenager, and I’d never gotten to see them. So it was a pretty big deal.

He wanted to meet him at his work, in one of the skyscrapers downtown. I stood in the fancy grey-marble lobby looking decidedly unbusinesslike in my black dress and sneakers, pigtails and spiked collar. I felt a little hookerish waiting there for him, but not unpleasantly so. When he came down, he said I looked great, and so did he, in the standard rock-boy bowling shirt and boots. He presented me with the tickets and I said “That right there? That’s some second base for you.” and he smiled.

He said he had to grab something from his car before we went to dinner, but I’m pretty sure he just wanted to spend some quality makeout time with me in the parking garage elevator. As soon as the doors closed, he crushed me against the wall and kissed me, yanking my pigtails and running his hands lightly over the front of my dress. I was more than happy to let him. I was so ready for him to be there. I’d been fantasizing pretty much non-stop about him feeling me up. (Also about bearing myself to him, ohboy, but we haven’t made it there yet…) I wish there’d have been hands inside my bra, but what can you do. Eventually he had to stop pushing buttons and get out.

On the way back down there were people in the elevator, so we took the stairs. In the stairwell, he kissed me some more, and when I was sure no one was coming I said “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.” and bent over. My feet were on the landing, my ass was stuck out towards him, my arms draped up the metal railing. If it hadn’t been that-time-of-the-month, I would have pulled the back of my skirt up, too.

He hesitated for a moment but then started stroking my ass gently and thoughtfully. Then he pulled his hand back and smacked, full and strong, pushing the breath out of my lungs and into a laugh that echoed up and down the stairs. I looked down at the stairs spiraling down four levels and ooof, oh my goodness, he spanked me a few more times, and I laughed and blushed and signed.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have been spanked by some experts, but boy does his guy have a talent.

I stood to face him again and he pulled my face into a kiss. With no warning, he grabbed both my nipples and squeezed, just like he owned the place. I have already revisited that moment a few times during personal time. Fucking swoon, sheesh. Nonetheless, I pulled his hands down to my waist and said “Um, tickets…”

We dawdled around making out and getting dinner. Over Chinese, we made some more plans. (He likes eluding to the fact that plan-making turns me on. He gets the Good Listener badge.) We’re going to go to the next rope party, and he assures me he’ll take a crack at learning the knots. (!) The only part of the conversation that worried me is that he says that he doesn’t feel jealous of me being with Sweetie, he would feel jealous of another guy. Seems like there might have to be a little negotiation there. Jealousy won’t bother me, unless it translates to him going away like it did with Bill.

For someone to be close to me, they have to be good at concerts, and MHE totally is. He was even thoughtful enough to pick up some pastries and water in case we got hungry after the show. I think this was the first time I’ve had actual seats to a show, so that I didn’t have to get there early and jockey for general admission space. Which is a good thing, because there were certainly some car-shenanigans to be had.

If you’re thinking that I have a strange definition of romance, you’re right, but it’s coming, I promise.

Next: Getting spanked in another parking lot.