Knotty Thursday: Gentle Heart Harness

 

I love the ritual of Wednesday nights. Putting on a little lipstick and blush. Picking out a pretty bra and underpants that don't have to look good under clothes. Putting on the lo-fi and making something new.

I decided to keep it a little simpler this time. I couldn't make it as squeezy as I usually like to because I didn't want to bend or break the heart. But it was perfect for laying around playing phone games and feeling dreamy. 

Fuck this Brunch Epiphany and Fuck These Two.

I don’t know how long The Shy One had been trying to break up with me. Maybe since we tried getting back together in July.

It’s been a while since I’ve written. I wanted some privacy to let the thing with The Shy One grow on its own. What happened was, it didn’t. I’ve tried really really REALLY hard to figure out how to fit into his life, but the space just kept getting smaller. Still, there was so much goodness there too—sex so profound and beautiful I never did learn to get my head around it. Pretty lingerie I’ll take pictures of before I put it away maybe forever. Cuddles in front of Gilmore Girls. He let me drag him through The Fancy Gardens even though it was freezing cold. He came to my Christmas party and met my students, and my mom, and the one aunt who’s not too vocally fascist to talk to.

But the feeling I couldn’t stand anymore was Waiting for Him to Text Back. I wanted to throw my phone in the river because no matter how much he tried to stay in touch, the distance between us would not close. He said he loved me but I couldn’t feel it.

And the feeling of Wondering If He’s Ignoring Me Because it’s Her Time (It’s ALL her time, turns out, I kind of knew that last May.) And I’m Not Allowed to Know When That Is. (Because it’s always.)

Or wanting to send him a picture of the sunrise or sunset or a painting or a cloud but feeling resentful because he’d kinda stopped sending me pictures of anything after he got home from his big trip. Then sending him the picture anyway because he said text whenever but that wasn’t really the rule either. (I still don’t know what the rule was, only that I got snapped at if I got in touch wrong.)

To paraphrase William Carlos Williams, so much SHOULD NOT depend on an emoji. Or a GIF. Or a “good morning.”

Anyway, so brunch:

I was trying for every-other-month brunches with Mrs. Shy One. I really liked hanging out with her and was learning to think of her as a regular non-fictional human and not Nakia from Wakanda Forever. (Mrs. Shy One doesn’t look like Lupita Nyong’o, it’s just a vibe.)

Last Sunday, we went to a place she picked, full of cool people and hustle and bustle and noise. All the menu options had a lot of adjectives. I tried the Deep Fried Bread Pudding French Toast with Candied Bacon and Lingonberry Jam. I thought lingonberries only existed on Portlandia.

It’s not her fault (Probably? ) that I felt ugly and stupid and clownish and poor sitting there with her. But these two things she said, jeez.

When she asked, “Who else are you dating?” I joked like oh, you know, just this one guy. And she was like “Who?” And I was like “Uh, (The Shy One)?”

“But I know you’re always out there, right?”

I mumbled some excuses like having too maybe-misleadingly-slutty of a profile pic, but, no, not really. Just then, just this past while, I wanted to be dating just him. He was a lot. A LOT. And I needed time and space to settle in if I was going to. I was swiping Feeld sometimes, not totally off the market, but like, let me just be in love with this guy for like five seconds. I think it’s a totally valid way to be poly sometimes.

I felt so stupid, like I wasn’t doing this right, like I was too dowdy and dim and simple and needy to keep up with these two FUCKING SUNBEAMS.

(Did I mention that he emigrated for her? Crossed the whole ocean and came HERE of all places?! And I had to clamor for anything other than a few hours on a Tuesday.)

(But actually, we had a trip coming up on the 17^th. The ticket cancellation showed up in my inbox at 4am. At least he couldn’t sleep after the breakup? But why couldn’t I make it til through to the trip. Other than I couldn’t figure out how I was going to eat or poop all weekend and I was scared of ending up stranded in the middle of a pretty-scary part of the state.)

ANYWAY back to brunch. Mrs. Shy One said something like “Oh it doesn’t matter if I don’t see my girlfriend for a couple of weeks, I always have dick at home.”

This pronouncement SUCKS for everyone involved, but it really made me come to terms with all I was left out of, all I was missing. I couldn’t imagine ever being that filled up, that confident, that wanted, that loved. I mean, I had that with Sweetie-Now-BFF, but I couldn’t figure out how to fit in that relationship either.

I could never measure up.

I could never have what she has, especially if I kept pining after a guy who erases my existence to every single other person in his life. Who lies to his kids about his love life and would only let me drop him off at home once.

“It’s my street,” he once said angrily, while of course being cuddled and feted on my street.

Their life is perfect without me, without ANYONE else. The rest of the world is a threat to what he really wants. (I mean, the rest of the world IS a threat, but that’s seventeen other conversations.)

Not with a bang, or a sweet-but-resolved text. With a “good morning” that got lost in the ether yesterday. I called to check in later in the morning, and he offered to send me a screenshot as proof. She’d done the same thing when my phone dropped her text confirming brunch. These two are scared to fucking DEATH of me. It’s so awful that they felt like they needed receipts.

I didn’t want to be scary. I tried to ask for as little as possible, to be self-contained, to self-date my way to satisfaction, to just be quiet and leave him be as much as I could stand to in hopes that I would stop being an irritation. That he might miss me and be kind and want to be near me.

I feel dirty, and broken, and ashamed. I’m literally surrounded by pretty presents that couldn’t bridge the gap.

I wanted to be part of his life. Of their lives. I didn’t want to be a secret. I wanted to meet the kids, or at the VERY LEAST for The Shy Ones to learn what a babysitter is.

He wrote it as a starcrossed kind of story, just circumstances. But I wanted him to see me. To choose me, not instead of them, but alongside.

He said he “prays that I find my person,” but my mind doesn’t work that way. I don’t want The One, I’ve loved many Ones and will (I GUESS) love many more. I think they’re all valid, they all count. I wish this one had counted more to him. I wish he could see me without the threat that haloed me in his mind no matter what I tried to do. I wish he could see me.

It really pisses me off that in like six months I’ll be like oh, poor us, just a bad match. I hate magnanimous. I hate how small I tried to be in his life, and I hate how I’m an ogre in his mind anyway. I hate this.

Knotty Thursday: Heart Harness and Princess of the Orgy

After! Blurry again sorry, I have no discipline.

The Song Sender is SO much fun to show off for. The pictures I've taken for him show me a different version of myself, prettier, more brazen, more bold. I have no idea how he does that but I've LOVED IT.

Monday night, I was supposed to have a date with The Chef but he rescheduled, so all of that energy had to go somewhere! I decided to get ahead on the week's ropework, and asked The Song Sender if he was available for praise. He was running the projector for the local weird movie club, but he could manage both.

I love the before picture I sent him so, SO much. His version has my face, 

After I sent him the after picture, I asked what should I do now that I was all tied up.

He typed back, "You should cum for me. And tell me what you were thinking about when you did."

I don't always hang on to text threads, but friends, I might have to keep the transcript on this one. Oh it was BEAUTIFUL. I'll keep most of it for myself, but there was this:

"I tell them you are a good little slut. and that you are mine.

And because you are such a good girl you get to pick two to play with you.

...

While I hold you down and tell you how pretty and good you are."

And THEN:

"I can be meaner with you later. (kiss emoji)

You get to be the princess of the orgy."

There are still some kinks (ha) to iron out, but so far The Song Sender is an absolute treasure. I am the luckiest slut/princess/whore/good girl in the universe.

 

Postscript to the Shy One

My heart has no sense of perspective about kind touch or attention to detail. It’s why I asked-out-then-befriended my massage therapist. It’s why I have had a crush on Cute Guy at the Car Place for SEVEN YEARS, ever since the first time he put my keys back on the key ring for me.

Kind touch and attention to detail are where all the swirly/woozy/glittery emotions about the Shy One came from, what makes him so hard to move past. Warm affection, carefulness, specificity. The first night with him, after the pretty ropes and lovely sex, in the cozy glow of peace and satisfaction, I leaned back onto him and he said “I love your body,” running his hands over my shoulders, my arms, my waist, my hips. Firm, warm touch, easily given—I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gotten a hundred girlfriends since we broke up in mid-May.

That first night, it was so easy to learn the Heart Link harness because A. He didn’t mind me rewinding a YouTube video a bunch of times trying to figure out the hearts! And B. He was so still! Excited and engaged, not impatient or judgey. Encouraging. Sweet. I don’t think too much about dad energy, but maybe that’s what it was.

The night of all the presents, our third date, after our month of sunsets, was one of the most powerful instances I’ve felt of arousal being intertwined with joy. He had the condom on and was ready to go in, but I told him to stop. Just stay there. Wellbeing fizzed up through me as he paused, hard dick resting on my vulva. I put my arms around him tight, kissed him, and felt the full force of whatever bond that month of mostly-chaste flirting had built.

It was a feeling of wholeness that, somewhat vexingly, still occupies my entire body. Any time I’m quiet and calm, I can feel it in my toes.

To paraphrase Lady Mary (spoiler alert!) when her suitors were closing in and she was still deep in grief over Matthew Crawley, I’m still full of The Shy One. It’s true that The Hipster jangled loose a lot of stuck desire and made me want to start a summer sex rampage like the hot kaiju that I am, but even as I move into this new stage of why-doesn’t-so-and-so-text-me flirtation/vexation, The Shy One is still with me. He’s not just in the limbo of my Feeld inbox, being all “This human has deactivated their account,” he’s in my soul’s inbox, in my whole heart. Both of those places are very crowded, but still.

That third date was the only time he slept over, and in the long process of saying goodbye, he sat on the floor next to the bed to hold me and kiss me while I was still under the covers. That morning was THE WHOLE DREAM, a distillation of why I started this blog in the first place, the CLOSENESS, the ROMANCE, the being adored. There was another time, on our second date, we were all wrapped up in each other, when he looked me in the face (I’m sorry but NO ONE was better at looking at me than he was.) and got still.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“Nothing. Well, I am thinking something. I like you.”

It’s hard to imagine any new feelings ever coming close to that, though there’s never any need to compare feelings. I know every connection is its own universe, every new match a fresh start, a new mystery.

Two days ago, I wished long-absent Mr. Sweetheart a happy birthday on facebook, the most low-stakes interaction possible, and to my delight, he reached out to say hello! We’re planning a catch-up Zoom! He was excited that I remembered his blog nickname, and I said “Of course I do! Once in the story, always in the story.”

So, dear Shy One, who is probably not reading this, same thing. Once in the story, always in the story. You’ll snuggle and read about history and watch your true crime shows and love and work and hopefully see flowers and think of me every once in a while. I’ll learn to let you go, to forgive myself for not finding a way to fit, but you’ll still always be with me. Your generous touch, your giggle, your expert tongue, your supercute butt; always a little bit mine. And my heart, slutty though it will surely be, will always belong a little to you. I’ll love you. Forever. That’s all.

Heart and Hoo-Ha Check-In

The other day in a tricky facebook argument about the porn industry, a twenty-something woman who was mistaking my anti-rape stance for being anti-sex helpfully explained to me that “Sex is good and people like having it.” She was on the defensive and making a mistake about what my values are, but she got under my skin.

Being mistaken for a Puritan got me thinking, where DO I stand with sex these days? This blog wouldn’t be here if I didn’t find sex a difficult thing to wrap my head around, and lately I’ve been wondering if I might be something like demi-sexual. I almost typed demi-romantic but then I remembered what really sweeps me up and carries me away.

One thing I’m sure of is that sex is not presently the central force of my life. My wrongheaded friend inadvertently shamed me for that, but most of the time, my life is a happy and calm one, punctuated by marches and letters to congress. When I’m not working or activist-ing, I prefer to be by myself, reading novels, drawing, singing random songs to the cats. Sex is still with me, just quietly, a gentle tide that buoys me up sometimes, but not the emergency it used to be. Sometimes I miss it, but mostly I’m just relieved.

But also, there’s this: I let my heart run away with itself for Mr. Makeout Music, and, to a more sense-making extent, for The Professor. The pain of those two failures-to-connect is still so much that it’s hard to see the good in those attractions, hard to see what was gained. The sense of loss I feel around those two guys has turned into a barrier against even the most modest fantasies. I’ve dated since them, sometimes to great enjoyment, but those two still loom large in my heart.

There’s no risk of running into Mr. Makeout Music—I haven’t even been to the library where we used to work together since I left. I didn’t go to the Big Poly Conference this year, partly because of some misogyny in the organization’s leadership but partly because the pain of seeing The Professor and not hugging him would have been too much.

The thing with Mr. Makeout Music ended in such misery and heartbreak that he is a lost cause, and probably The Professor is too, but there was something so real about my connection with the latter, something so sweet and easy about the physical spark between us—I am still having a hard time convincing myself that there wasn’t a potential there for love, a potential that I ruined in a flurry of panic and, okay, both of us being jerks. I ended up feeling thoroughly embarrassed, and because The Professor is so connected to the higher-ups of that particular poly community, the embarrassment feels public and hard to get past.

Oops, I set out to write about sex and ended up writing about love. These are attachments built on a workplace flirtation and a few days of glorious hotel-kissing, followed by an almost-relationship where we talked on the phone while I colored in a coloring book called “Secret Paris.”

Objectively I don’t see what’s wrong with being a fool for love, I would never judge a friend for it, but I am angry with myself still for the shame, loss, and trapped feeling that went along with Mr. Makeout Music, for the miscommunication and can’t-keep-up feelings of that connection with The Professor.

When I sat down to write this, I imagined that it would be a post about being a little scared of sex right now because of “metoo, because Trump is president (PLEASE WATCH THE BROAD CITY EPISODE “WITCHES” ON THAT THEME) because activism is demanding and news cycles keep bringing new waves of fight or flight, because it’s hard to relax and be vulnerable in the midst of so much fear.

But it isn’t bodily harm I’m afraid of, it’s love. I fall. I fall and it so seldom works out well. I feel like I can’t keep up because I CAN’T KEEP UP—people can fall into physical affection without worrying what it means, meanwhile my heart is sprouting flowers and building monuments. I’m afraid of the addictiveness of those flowers and monuments, and I’m afraid of the way everything else pales in comparison. I LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE, I don’t WANT it to pale.

So, the times when sex and love are put aside are just as important to me, just as vibrant, just as shiny with life-force. Love and sex are overwhelming to me and sometimes I like to be overwhelmed by other things. I don’t want to be ashamed of the times of solitude or of the romance that sometimes spreads rampantly from me like morning glory vines. I want to accept that it happens at inconvenient times, with the wrong men, or the right men when I’m unready for them. I’d like to think that none of it was a failure at all, just awkward, messy collisions that were just as important as the loves that make more sense, just as beautiful and necessary.

Friday night at yoga, I was stunned to notice that a beautiful man seemed to be flirting me, maybe seeing through the veil of good vibes and invisibility I tend to bring with me to self-care occasions. He was covered in tattoos that were clearly from a younger part of his life. On one hand it said “fear” and the other it said “less.” It was from when he used to think he was tough, he said, and I recognize a good new mantra when I see one. So that’s the goal: while I work to accept my solitary self, I can probably make a little more room for magic, I can probably manage to fear love less.

Year End Heart Inventory 2013: Melancholy and Gratitude

Before I settle in to paint and plan and make my goals for the new year, I’m giving a little time to melancholy. My heart hurts for everything that’s gone past. Even though most of the people in these stories are still around, I miss discovering them, feeling all the hope and imagination I had when we first met. Though I wouldn’t change many things, I still grieve for lost possibilities.

I named 2013 my Year of Connection, and at times that felt like a terrible joke, a colossal failure—indeed, there’s still a fortress of bitterness inside me toward The Man and the Scary Party, and relatedly my inability to resist Steampunk Guy made a nice thing turn into a gaping, unresolved loss that it just shouldn’t have been. I wonder sometimes, if I’d said no after the third or fourth text, in which he said “friendship isn’t required” for sex, if I’d just has the faith to admit to myself he’d never be what I wanted, would we have ended up friends, or would we at least be able to share a dungeon  with him? We’ll never know. Curiosity and lust pulled me toward him and I can never regret where it took me, to some of the most amazing scenes, to emotions I may never have experienced otherwise—he pushed me out of my comfy not-enough existence, whether he liked me at all or not, which I suspect he kind of did. I think he tried to fit just like I did. I think he’s gone because he didn’t like hurting me.

I can’t let the haywire things take away from the fact that it really WAS a Year of Connection. None of the connections except The Man really feel quite lost, and there were so many relationships that blossomed and grew all year, in spite of my up-and-down-ness, there are people who keep getting closer.

Though things didn’t work out romantically with Mr. Sweetheart, he has remained a loyal friend. I can still plan to call him, gather up my markers and draw as we catch up on our lives. He’s even one of the people I can call if I’m a tearful mess. (Dear Everything, Please let me spend much less time this year as a tearful mess!) I’ll see the Sweethearts in a few nights at New Years Eve, and there may even be some shenanigans, but even if there aren’t, it’s comforting knowing that spontaneous sexytimes at a festival can lead to real and lasting bonds. Which is good, because I aspire to many more festival sexytimes.

Speaking of the Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Mr. Shiny Eyes stayed a good friend too. He is always willing to share his life with me, to listen and lend me strength.

Cute Master and Pretty Slave have given me so, so much. They gave me the truest expression of bisexuality that I’ve experienced so far. That assured me that I do have a place in this world, that what I want and prefer really matters. She convinced me to treat myself like I’m worth something, and I often do. They both have given me so much joy and happiness, such an unexpected warm, safe place to be naked and sing Beatles songs. I’m so grateful for that, and as friends I love them very, very much, and I don’t think that will ever change.

Did you ever wonder what happened to the Huge Handed Fireman? I only saw him once after our Labor Day encounter: He was at a munch, scrolling through pictures in his phone, laughing to a friend. When I asked to see what they were laughing about, he showed me a picture of an obese patient he’d rescued sprawled and naked on a gurney, almost certainly unaware that he was being photographed. HHF may have been trying to reform the Scary Party, but it seems he’s one of their blackhearted ilk. I think I’ll try to stop being surprised when sadists are mean.

The other September crush fared much better. Cutest Boy sent me a heartfelt Christmas note, letting me know he still reads me and offering support and encouragement. We struck up a conversation and though he is still beyond off-limits, (Please let 2014 be a year without unmanageably jealous girlfriends!) it was good to feel that the friendship is still there and know that the whatever-it-was back in the fall actually meant something. I still have warm feelings for him and I hope they find a way to be happy, that he finds a way to be who he is.

Speaking of the warm feelings, I haven’t heard from Mr. Sweetface since we exchanged Merry Christmases, but I hope I do before too long. He feels genuine and makes me happy and it felt really nice of Mrs. Sweetface to share him with me last weekend. Whatever else happens, that Christmassy playdate will always be a favorite.

And then, of course, there’s Sweetie. I miss her very much. We spent Christmas day together and it was such a mix of comforting and sad. We watched a movie about a couples’ brunch that coincided with the end of the world, that seemed about right.  Some days, I feel so glad to be free and be her friend, and other days I feel completely devastated that she’s not here to bring a cup of coffee to. I think that New Years may be a challenge because last year it was so much about her and our ropes. Before we finally gave up, we had some wonderful times, and those are what sticks with me now that the fighting is over.

Last week I was out at the local erotic reading with Winggirl One and a gentleman came up to us to say he liked the story I’d read, the one about my date night with Pretty Slave and Cute Master. In the ensuing conversation, it emerged that she and I had both played with CM, and that we’d spanked each other etc. The gentleman said “Wow, I have to get out more.”

That made me realize just how lucky I am to be in this particular story. I’ve gotten to do things that many people only read about, only do in their fantasies. It’s been a year of the most beautiful, sexy, strange connections and I get to keep every single memory, in my heart and in my hoo-ha. So I’m ending the year with sadness, yes, but also with gratitude—for everyone who shared him- or herself with me, who gave me pleasure and friendship and support, I love you. I love you no matter where you are now, no matter what happened. Thank you for touching me, for helping me grow, for turning me on, for being in this magic year with me. Thank you for being in my life. I wish you every single wonderful thing.

Quiet Kittentown but Last Year, This Happened

No kink to report in kittentown this week--life's been about rest and  lots of really great talking.

This time last year, though, the winner and still champion for best date happened. It still makes me feel really happy to think about.

Important Heart Updates!

1. Sweetie and I are divorcing. It's sad and hard but the prevailing emotions for me are relief and hope. We called our families and they were very kind and understanding.

***If you're a close friend of ours and this is how you're finding out, I'm sorry. Give me a call if you want.***

2. Mr. Sweetheart (with the help of Ms. Sweetheart's insistence that he talk to me) said he was sorry until I listened. He's one of the few people to make it past one of my breakup letters! We talked for a long time and our official status is now "Friends Who Will See What Happens."

3. I have a date tonight with Steampunk Guy and that makes me happy. I'm grateful to him for being such a treat. And for getting me out of the house! Yay.