Catsitting Was Service and It Felt Good.

 While I care for myself and keep not knocking on his door, some of the things I felt during my near-romance with The Guy Next Door deserve attention. I feel like the memories don't quite belong to me yet, like I'm still waiting for him to sign off on them by liking me back, which he doesn't. But it was still real.

On Christmas leftovers night, when he was "ready to try snuggling," I took his hand and placed it on top of my head. I expected it to feel comforting, of course, but I didn't expect to fall down a very cozy well of subbiness! I felt the switch flip and he became Him.

In Codependents Anonymous, we are definitely not supposed to let other people be our Higher Power. That's supposed to be benevolent but big and all-encompassing and largely unknowable. This feeling might have been that, but it was also the opposite- play! A role I haven't played in such a long time, and suddenly there I was. Little. Cared for. Humble. Chosen.

So when he asked me to watch Cat Next Door while he was away for New Years, it didn't feel like it sometimes feels now, like he was having his to-him-unfuckable friend watch his place while he was out of town seeing Yoga Camp Hottie. That was what was happening, but it didn't feel bad at all! Most of the week!

I said I'd be honored to watch his place, and I meant it.

The first time I went over, Cat Next Door was relaxing on TGNS's bed. The bed was spare and the bedding white, very yoga camp. I sat on the floor next to the bed to pet the cat and felt woozy with love. I wanted to crawl into bed with the cat and cuddle, but that felt like a creepy thing for a catsitting neighbor to do. He later said it would've been fine, but then, he later said a lot of things.

Every moment, crushing Cat Next Door's meds into his tuna breakfast and supper, washing the plates and spoons, just sitting in TGNS's chair keeping the cat company while read my audiobook and inhaled the scent of man and sandalwood, it all felt like I was honored to serve him. I'm sure that was not his intention at all, but that's what happened.

I looked at my art and Tarot cards front and center on his fridge door, and I felt he's mine and I'm his. When I left the porch light on for myself and locked the door for the night, I felt in my place. Where I belonged.

Submissive or no, I don't do neighbor-favors half-assed, so though he'd told me I didn't have to scoop the litterbox, I sure did! Kneeling in front of it doing objectively the worst chore, I felt peaceful, seen. Even though it was SO STINKY! 

He's an old cat who misses a lot and there was a pink towel in front of the litterbox that got soaked with pee by the end of the week. I took it home and washed it with a heart full of love and hope.

I'd told him I was having subby feelings after our first cuddle, but I don't think he ever really got how badly I wanted to serve him.

I'm telling you this to honor my submissive self- it was so lovely to see her. I hope she'll be around again soon, in much happier and healthier circumstances. It just felt so good.

Texts With Mrs. Shy One: A Burst of Uncomplicated Joy

 

The Fourth Date Tears happened last Tuesday night. I woke up the next morning at five, antsy and bereft—of course I called BFF-Formerly-Sweetie. She was kinder than I deserved about having her last hour of sleep stolen. BFFFS said it sounded pretty clear that I wanted to break things off with The Shy One, but she was wrong, I didn’t. I fell back asleep after we talked and woke up with a completely flipped perspective.

Why should I reject him for not being out as poly? Our lives are so vastly different. Yes, outness is a thing I’ve worked and cried and given up social capital for, but it’s also built out of privilege. I have so much more leeway to move around in the world with my (mostly) fuck-off-if-you-don’t-like-it attitude. It seemed mean and against my values to fault a Black, immigrant, religious family for not being as comfortably publicly slutty as I am.

Most importantly, I knew that even though he’d asked me to be untruthful about our relationship, he did care for me very much. He’d been one of the most generous, kind, and loving partners I’ve had, so why should I let this mismatched aspect, however important, decide the whole thing?

So, another few days of good mornings, pretty flower photos, and sweet-if-guarded-on-his-part attention. Another rope design.

And THEN. Oh choir of angels! Oh butterfly swarm of happiness, Mrs. Shy One reached out and we made friends over text! I felt a flood of sure, ecstatic well-being. I copied her and put a crown on my Bitmoji (Hers is fancy and regal, mine is flowers) We bonded about being on Team Bi and about the general difficulty of girlfriends.

I felt so situated and so welcomed into their lives just from that little while of texting. She told me that The Shy One was smitten with me, that I mattered to her because I mattered to him a lot.

I felt so shiny and lucky and tuned-into-the-universe after that. I apologized to both of them for being so defensive on Tuesday night. I felt hopeful and brave, even ready to put on a full Lady Mary amount of reserve if he wanted me to on public dates. The keep him safe. To serve them. To honor these connections that had miraculously appeared out of the cold internet in a harsh world.

(Ummm I wonder how much less fraught this all would’ve been if I hadn’t been so deep in the Downton Abbey the whole time. Or if I would have cut it off sooner without all the Abbey’s fetishization of reserve.)

There’s one more tearful installment to come, but I’m glad I spent even a little time with that perspective flip. I’m glad to have lived that shining hopeful day of home and welcome. Even though the connection still came undone, I’m glad I pushed myself to change and let them in.

Quarantine Crush (Because of Course) Part Three

So while I was drinking in all the poet love, feeling obnoxiously invincible as a writer, and surrounding myself with art and beautiful vistas, I was also, like anyone who moves across the country without a plan might, struggling to survive. I’d come to art school with way to pay for it, bad credit, and (Still so shocking!) no driver’s license. I was getting by on a narrow-to-no-margin, always hungry, sometimes rationing the groceries out to the tiniest detail. For most of my time in California, I slept on the floor in a pile of blankets rather than in a bed.

The Saturday night before I decided to leave, I was scheduled to work at the dress shop past the time the busses stopped running and I didn’t want to take a cab all the way from Fancy Beach Town to the suburbs where my third-apartment-in-two-years was, so I walked. It took three or four hours. It was so beautiful, following an emphatic moon and smelling the eucalyptus in the gentle night air.

I walked so much back then, and with no Spotify, no podcasts, and no audiobooks, I entertained myself by singing. Tori Amos’s “Leather,” Ani DiFranco’s “Little Plastic Castle” (The Russian Doll of its time.) “Amazing Grace,” “The Rainbow Connection” and Jeff-Buckley-Style “Halleluiah” before it became a cliché.

(I’d forgotten about the singing to myself until I read Lane Moore’s How to Be Alone if You Want to, and Even if You Don’t (SO GOOD! READ IT!) where she describes singing herself out of despair. In my case, I was singing myself out of boredom, and in these quarantine weeks, the urge to belt stuff out on the sidewalk has come back. I usually can keep it to just whistling through my mask, but sometimes I can’t help but sing along with my headphones, even though I know it must sound terrible.)

I had a poetry gig the next day and I’d hoped to sell some books so I could get some groceries. That almost always worked, but this time it didn’t. It felt like my synchronicity was broken, maybe it was. QC’s Adorable Cohost took me to Ralphs on the way home and bought me enough food to get me through until payday. I remember picking out one perfect green apple—produce seemed like an incredible luxury at the time!

I’d been having trouble with my roommate, an art student a little younger than me, and when her dad informed me that they were moving her terrible boyfriend in, he offered me 300$ to help me relocate. It would have taken at least a couple thousand to get my own place, and even though I was making pretty good commissions at the dress shop, first/last/security might as well have been a million dollars.

By the end of July 2001, I’d decided the only thing I could do was head back east. I boxed up everything I wanted to keep and mailed it c/o my mom. By the eighteenth of August, I landed on QC’s doorstep, bags packed, to stay a couple days before leaving home/going home.

A Conference with Myself, Part Four: Saying Goodbye Lying Down

            After The Professor and The Kind Ma’am left the Cuddle Party, I asked a nice woman I’d met at one of the workshops earlier (She was the one to whom I’d exclaimed “I just got a goooood phone number!” About The Professor.) if she would like to snuggle in behind me. I’ll call her Soulful Lady, because who knows, she may be in future stories.

           

            She spooned up to my back and I held onto Mr. Shiny Eyes from the other side. I missed The Professor but also felt lucky to be so deeply ensconced in the lovey-dovey vibes of the room. I’d talked with Mr. Shiny Eyes about meeting up at The Recurring Character’s room party later on (Just being invited made me feel like I was home.) but I was pretty sure I’d end up happily on my own instead. Everyone was soft, warm, lovely, and I felt full. I untangled myself from the pile and said softly that it was time to go.

            As I hugged Soulful Lady goodbye, she said “Remember, you are not too much. You are exactly enough.”

            “Thank you so, so much,” I gushed. “I’ll really try to remember.”

            Saying goodbye to Mr. Shiny Eyes, I put my cheek against his like a happy kitten, overjoyed to have reunited. After we kissed goodbye, his face was flushed with playful vitality, a sunbeam of a person, a natural resource. We both glowed with belonging and peace.

            I hugged the Cuddle Facilitator and thanked her for her help—she is really, really good at her job. On the way to my room, I ran into The Professor and The Kind Ma’am and told them I was in blissed-out solo mode for the night, and they said be sure to let them know if I changed my mind.

            One important thing about the Kind Ma’am: She has ropes. That just makes me feel optimistic about life in general.

            I was getting off the elevator to my room when I heard a “psst” and looked down a floor to see The Professor holding the pink water bottle that I’d left in the Cuddle Party. I motioned for him to toss it up, but he said “Just come down.” in a way that was just Dommy enough for me to do what he said.

            I was SO GLAD that I’d left my bottle, because as soon as I walked back off the elevator onto the first floor, he wrapped me up in his arms and we made out like teenagers, which you may know is my favorite thing in the universe. The chemistry/Energy between us made me dizzy, as if I’d been struck by warm, fuzzy, pink lightning. I think we might’ve been a little more affectionate than some not-with-the-conference passersby may have been expecting, and I loved that—I’m still a showoff at heart.

            I got to my room (still somehow by myself), cranked up the heat, took off everything but my socks, got into the big fluffy white hotel bed, and felt myself in every sense of the word. I loved the Energy, light, and lust sparking through me—very similar to the sensation of having had ropes on, except that I hadn’t. My skin was hot and tingling, my nipples hard—I felt like I’d spent the day being naked and admired in the sun. I ravished myself and slept an angel’s sleep, forgetting to even set an alarm.

            I woke up later than I’d meant to, almost missing a chance at breakfast. The Professor had texted to see what I was doing, so I set out to find him and it was easy. He and The Kind Ma’am were having breakfast with a bunch of friends and there was a spare seat for me. I dreamily ate french toast and bacon, leaned my head against his strong, warm shoulder, and got to know the two of them a little better.

After breakfast, The Professor asked if we could go up to my room for a bit and yesyesyes. When he told The Kind Ma’am “We’re just gonna go say goodbye for a bit.” she smiled big and teased us-- “Yep, just going to say goodbye, alone, in a room, lying down…”

Checkout time was looming, so we set a timer for ten minutes. I’d forgotten the joy of setting a timer for snuggles at The Big Poly Conference, but then I pretty much love setting a timer about anything.

            Those few minutes alone with him, in bed, being held, were the sweetest and best. He put his hand on my heart and it felt like a direct line to the divine. He caressed my breast and it became the moment I refer back to the most during personal time.

When the timer went off, I reluctantly went to turn it off, but he had other ideas. While my phone merrily chimed away, he not-quite roughly pushed me into the wall, took my face in his hands and kissed me deeply. I could feel him hard against me and I wished that we had hours. Days.

            All riled up and goddessy, I regained control and pushed him onto the bed, climbed on top, and pushed myself against him, enjoying his startled pleasure.

Eventually, we did have to heed the silly timer. Saying goodbye took a lot of time, a lot of lap-sitting, a lot of kissing with one sneaker on because it was very hard to finish getting dressed.

As he stood in the doorway almost leaving, he said: “Just know this: you are loved.” It was the perfect thing to say, and it felt both from him and not from him, like love was radiating from the whole building, from the whole universe of interconnected souls, is all. It was something I really needed to hear, a sentiment I want to take good care of.

When I returned to the default world, I found the contrast too great. I resolved to make my everyday life more loving, more gentle, more hospitable to my sparkly heart and hungry spirit. I’m not sure what that looks like yet, but I like the changes I’ve made so far.

The Professor has been in touch every day since. He is just as good in the everyday as he was in the land of magic, and I appreciate him more and more with every text, call, and picture. He feels steadying to me, and I feel hopeful.

Single Life, Week One

That janky dungeon night was just a sliver of what the first week of single life was like—although at the moment I’m still feeling dark and soul-separated, most of the week was fine-to-lovely. Sweetie finally moved out the Sunday before last, and that was such a wistful, sad, nostalgic night. That night I took the opportunity to finally watch Blue Valentine (I’d always joked that if we watched it, we’d have no choice but to get divorced…) and feel all the sad things, but I also felt like we were much more awesome than that couple—that bar’s not superhigh, but still. After that, I cleaned my apartment and listened to Minx and Lusty Guy’s handfasting ceremony on Poly Weekly and that gave me something to hope for.

The week was stressful because I’m going through a series of evaluations at work, but that gave me something to focus on besides heartache, and the evaluation went okay. The woman whose maternity leave I was covering came back and moved all of her stuff into her new classroom, so it was a week of making myself at home and gaining closet space.

I love the feeling of getting the apartment arranged just for me. I’ve been settling in, decorating, and moving furniture around, putting away reminders of the relationship and getting ready for the new. By the way, artsy types, if you have any artwork to lend or donate, I’d be much obliged!

And then there’s the new bed. All I want to do is be in it, and sometimes I fantasize about getting somebody (or somebodies) to come over and break it in, but I think that might be a while. I’ve spent many a content hour wrapped up in my new comforter reading library books—that’s actually what Saturday was about, before that other stuff: home. Nesting and snuggling in here, I get a deep and true sense of well-being. Maybe the key to surviving the bad parts is to draw inward for a while, let it be about just me, not worry where I’ll fit in in the world, try not to be scared that it’s all gone. I think that’ll help. I’m almost certain that the world and its parties will still be there when and if I can heal.

How much should I be allowed to hang out with Sweetie? Yesterday it was so snowy, and I was so tired, and I had to get the groceries and go to the laundromat so I called her for help. We had a very pleasant afternoon slip-sliding to the Target and reading magazines while the clothes dried. I don’t know if this is allowed but it made me feel better. Maybe I don’t have to be all the independent at once? I don’t know, but I know I’m doing my best.

Happy Move-In Day, Ms. and Mr. Sweetheart!

Two of my favorite pals are making their lives more merged today. Just wanted to send them all the blessings and love!