Fear and Devotion Part Two

Last week, there was an app guy who got mad at me when I wouldn’t come right over, that I wouldn’t change out of my pajamas and drive across the city to see him,  a stranger I’d just started chatting with that afternoon.

Before I blocked him, he said something like “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I work hard and I want to be loved in my off hours.”

(Dude, don’t we all.)

There was a language barrier, but still. After I deleted the app guy, I didn’t feel like he was gonna come get me or anything, I just felt like—what am I? Am I anything? Can anyone see me here? Disembodied. So small as to slip through the cracks of existence and just dissolve into the ether. This is a pretty regular emotion of online dating, of dating in general.

So, my devotion to The Shy One was a safe place. I wanted to, not pine, exactly, just live cozily in my fake-chaste fake-platonic love for The Shy One. I wanted to be just as unobtrusive as possible, and free as can be, just able to pull my love for TSO up over me like a weighted blanket. Loving someone who loves me, but who I couldn’t have—the safest possible place. I’m tired of putting my body and heart and mind and soul in the path of strangers, I wanted the soft touch of something known. Embodied and of-the-soul, safe, safe, safe.

But then, TSO wasn’t in touch for a few days, normal friend rhythm that left space for that old quest to creep back in—how could I get him to see me? How could I try again to get his unavoidably divided attention? I wanted to send him a sweet-hot picture from last January and say, “I think these two deserve a chance.”

(The young people have a phrase for this: “down bad.” So apt it makes me queasy.)

I wasn’t really gonna send the picture, but looking at it made me surge with sadness. With anger! With abandonment and betrayal. He will always, no matter how much we love each other, no matter how much I empathize with his reasons, be the boyfriend who dumped me right before a trip, Valentines Day, and a minor-but-fraught surgery.

As good as it felt (still feels!) to rest in devotion, it felt terrible to be going backwards. My heart doesn’t know how not to think of him as The One, even though I don’t even really subscribe to the concept of The One. I hope that will change someday, but I don’t think texting the darling every few days is the way there.

So I said goodbye to The Shy One again, trying to be honest and kind but feeling unhinged and toxic. It felt horrible, but I felt better the next day. Reality is scary. Forward motion is scary. Strangers are DEFINITELY scary. It’ll take time and patience and breaks and chocolate and weed gummies and tears, but being at home in myself and in hope-for-love is worth it.

Fear and Devotion, Part One

I still think closure is a thing, just not the whole thing. Not a cure-all. My newfound friendship with The Shy One didn’t stay tenable for long—that probably comes as a surprise to exactly no one. I loved being able to share a little bit of my life with him, to send him a sunrise, a ring around the moon, a short video of my work area looking just so. I loved the glimpses of his life that I got while we were avoiding almost all topics. It was such a lovely respite from missing him. I felt peaceful, hopeful, and complete in a way I hadn’t for such a long time.

But.

There was a moment last fall that I’ve always meant to write about. I was at brunch with Rainbow Pal (Not too long before a 5% difference on Palestine/Israel made Rainbow Pal and me feel unsafe to be around each other—a different heartbreak for a different day.) It was a rough week—I was just back from a family trip and my body was pretzeled with grief. The war had just started and everything felt brutal and mean.

Anhedonic, is the word. But joy prevailed: RP and I were talking about whether we think I’m poly or not (the eternal conundrum) and I said something like “I don’t know, when I was with (The Shy One) I didn’t want anyone else in the whole world, it was all about him.”

Saying that unlocked my heart, and a butterfly swarm of giggles came out. An unlatching, a relief. A bubble of assurance and self-knowledge so profound that I couldn’t stop laughing. RP said later that they loved seeing me come back to life—they helped me come back to life. I miss them so much.

But anyway, devotion.

Back to the present day, dating is just being a little bit scary. Talking to so many people, sometimes rematching by mistake and feeling like I might be stupid or mean, sometimes not matching because the person looks a little familiar, getting a “Hello?” when I hadn’t written back in like ten minutes, it can feel so depersonalizing, so disembodied.

Most app-suitors are kind-if-boring, but the ones that aren’t kinda add up in my body and heart. Accreting.

Closure Is a Thing, Part Three

I think this story is taking me forever to tell because, to use a Jungian word, it’s lost its numinousness. I’m no longer trying to unlock some mystery of universal meaning and self-definition, I’m just celebrating an important and beloved thing that happened. So let’s celebrate.

I had the idea that we could be mail-friends, The Shy One and me, get to know each other literally as slowly as possible, an antidote for the (DELICIOUS) sugar-rush of our first and second go-rounds. But then, the waiting. I’ve never really bought into his assertion that we were toxic, but if we were, that’s where the poison lived—the desperate and disbelieving feeling of Waiting to Hear Back from Him. I wanted no part of that, I felt trapped and stuck in reverse.

There was a Band-Aid to be ripped off, and letters, though SO lovely, were never going to help me do anything but create daydream romance, false hope, and resentment.

Luckily, WhatsApp CURATES your blocked numbers for you. Or maybe there are just way fewer numbers to sift through there. I reached out and asked if we could try a closure conversation, and he very kindly agreed.

As luck would have it, I got out early that Tuesday night, 5pm instead of 8, and I had already decided to watch Good Grief on Netflix. Oh Dan Levy, righter of wrongs, healer of hearts.

Almost as soon as the Shy One and I started texting things through, I felt a profound sensation—heat moving up my body, through my achy shoulder, and out—the hurt and pain and worry that had lived in my body all year just left, just healed and left. The bargaining. The racking my brain to figure out how to make The Thing come back—it was gone.

A major part of the relief was no longer being (or feeling) alone in the love and the loss. All year, friends and even some professionals had stayed skeptical that the Shy One had loved me back. I knew it he had, but having it confirmed made such a big difference. Heartbreaking, yes, I wish neither of us had ever had to hurt, but
I found a new confidence knowing it really was star-crossed, that there really was nothing either of us could have done to hang on.

It was sad, accepting things as they are, accepting that we wouldn’t be a match again, that he’ll never be the right one for me. But at the same time, he debunked some insecurities I’d been carrying. It made me feel at peace and better able to face the realities of dating life—a Wizard of Oz feeling, I’d had what I needed all along.

It was such a loving exchange. I cried good, productive tears all evening and into the night. It felt good to tell him how important he was, what the loss meant, even how begrudgingly grateful I am to have been set free.

The other night, I was texting with a cutie on Feeld who was like “Oh, I travel a lot so I would definitely need something casual.”

AND! Instead of pressing myself to be casual and just see what happens, I said, very kindly, that I’m romantic through and through so that wouldn’t work. Saying goodbye to that nice traveling guy gave me such an epiphany:

It’s an incredible gift and accomplishment to be ready for love! In a sea of “casual but consistent” low expectations, I’ve found so much of what I really want and, though I can’t be sure that Boyfriend Guy will ever come along, I’m proud of my open, adventurous heart. I’m so proud to love what I love, and to have so much room for more.

Closure Is a Thing, Part Two

 

(Last night I sent pretty lingerie pictures to the new person, Artist Boy, and he said I was beautiful. He really is doing such a good job, and definitely deserves all the paragraphs of his own.)

I had Covid over Christmas, so after a few careful hours of celebrating with BFF-Formerly-Sweetie, I was alone with my books and art biopics and gentle weed gummies. It was kind of great. I had to cancel a museum trip midweek, so I ordered some magic mushroom gummies through the mail. A little trip at home, these magical modern times.

The letter from The Shy One came the Friday after Christmas, the same day the mushroom gummies arrived. I put the package aside for the evening, then opened the letter. It was a Thank You card like I’d sent, the flowers on his much more modest than the floofy, sparkly peonies and such on the card I’d sent him. “Best wishes in 2024,” said the card, “I’m always rooting for you.”

The rooting for me is sweet, but I don’t love it. Instead of hoping I find true love, I’d always rather he were claiming me, then shouting it to the rooftops, exactly the thing he knew he wasn’t capable of.

The Shy One’s letter was both ordinary and profound. I won’t quote it, it’s just mine, but it said enough that I knew he missed me, I knew I’d been important to him. I cried and then put it in The God Box (Doesn’t everyone have one of these, a Box of Things to Be Worked Out Later by Unseen Forces? It’s an Artist’s Way thing.) so its presence wouldn’t be too overwhelming.

He mentioned texting in the letter, but I wasn’t ready to unblock—too close to those haunted, hunted “good mornings.”  The next day, I wrote back a very pretty New Years card, with fancy blue butterflies, even on the envelope.

Closure Is a Thing, I Think, Part One

I’ve read so many Dear Prudence columns downplaying the idea of closure, and I totally get that! Talking things through can feel like a cigarette after having been quit for years, a grim sense of starting all over. Or, it can feel like a liberating sensation and a fresh start. I might be leaning optimistic because I had a really good first date Saturday night (We snuggled up on the couch and actually WATCHED A movie! So cute!) but that is an adorable post for another day.

Sometimes, a letter at the end of the year can be a lovely way of letting things go, a last thanks/sorry/good wishes before joining a new year as strangers. That worked for me with Gilmore Guy, with This Charming Man—the letters were probably very self-indulgent but they helped me with the process of letting go.

This adventure started with a spell at Angel Face’s Solstice party—his spouse handed me a slip of paper and asked what I would like to let go. I clutched my fist and said “NOTHING.” But I wrote The Shy One’s name on there anyway and put it in the fire as instructed.

Shortly after, The Shy One visited in a dream. He was standing outside my classroom (In real life, I do not have a classroom) looking dapper and fatherly in a winter coat. We hugged hello/goodbye and his spirit felt…lighter. It made me so happy to think of him not full of worry or stress, just peaceful. Of course, I looked for him for the rest of the dream, but he was gone.

So, partly because I forever live in a romcom, I sent him a thank you card, right before Christmas. His reply came SO QUICK.

A Veto and a Happy Accident, Part Three: All the Closure

What I felt when I saw Steampunk Guy come up the stairs was what I always suspected I would: pure joy and the hope that he was as happy to see me. He looked at me like I was up to no good and then we both smiled big. I kinda flung myself into his arms and oh sweet halleluiah, he hugged me ass-first, one check in each big strong hand, squeezing hard. He was, in the traditional sense, happy to see me, huge and hard against my front. My arms around him tight, I buried my face in his neck and breathed him in, felt a kiss on the back of my head, on my neck, hands in my hair and ohpalthisisdefinitelyhappening looked into his face, grabbed the back of his hair and kissed him hard, two months worth of kiss, all the things we didn’t get to do yet in a moment of forgetting my friends were there, that the party was there and we were in fact blocking the only way in.

I pulled away laughing and said “That’s not how I thought that would go…”

I got his rope out of my purse and explained that I’d sort of seen it as a gesture of closure. He ran his hand over my bra, pressing my nipple and squeezing hard like he owned the place. I closed my eyes and felt happy and dizzy and wet and then we made out some more.

“So much closure…” he said in a faux-wistful voice.

“Oh, I know, I’m totally moving on,” I said, while basically devouring his face.

“Should we do some stuff?” I asked.

“…Maybe…” He has this romance-novel-character way of being charmingly noncommittal, even when he’s clearly excited.

There’s a half-walled area near the bar where the fireplay usually takes place- spectators can lean on the wall and look in. He went over there, found an empty spot behind a suspension rig, and casually watched the fire while I made my way over.

“Just hanging out, mingling…”

I looked around and said “Eh, I know enough of these people,” and turned to face him, stepping up onto the base of the rig so that I was taller than him in my heels (The pretty shoes are the real heroes of this story, I think. I just love them so.) and kissed him some more. I felt like a sex goddess movie star, all gorgeous and happy (I keep saying happy) and climbing all over this beautiful friend who was for some reason letting me have my way with him. I felt like I’d won the play-party lottery.

We joked (Well, I was joking) about the possibility of fucking:

“I do have a car, I’m just sayin…’”

“You suuuure do!”

“And we never got to that whole anal thing…”

“I know! That is the part that needs the most closure!”

But this isn’t that kind of story.

He said some incorrigible thing and I smacked him across the face, inspiring him to grab one of my pigtails hard and yank my head all the way to the side, then grab hold of the other one and kiss me while my head couldn’t move. Did I already use the word happy too many times? It just felt so good. He yanked me toward the floor until I was crouched at his feet. His hand went up my neck and over my mouth and he left it there, soft and warm and where I’d wanted it to be since July.

There’s never been a lot of subspace going on when I play with him—it’s always been more of a sex-friendship than a power exchange—but there at his feet with his hand over my mouth I felt a deep calm, a quiet descended over me. It was an oasis, a break from every single thing. I felt safe and adored and adorable and childlike, at peace. I kissed his hand and rested there, content.

He yanked me back up, losing a button from his jeans in the process—“Must be all the closure!” I said.

I turned around and stuck my ass out for him, leaned my hands against the rig. He smacked and squeezed, smacked and squeezed, and of course I wished his fingers could go all the way in everywhere. So little of this was about pain, it was the opposite of my last awesome trip to the dungeon. He plays more like a lover than like a Dom, it’s about pleasure much more than sadism (except for always wanting to be rough on the boobs, grrr) so I was cooing rather than screaming, and there would be absolutely no emotional hangover the next day.

Next: Ropes! And the girl with the “Awesome” tattoo.

What Giving the Ropes Away Means to Me

This morning as I was packing up the ropes to give away, a warm glow came over my heart. I called Sweetie to see if she wanted to keep one as a souvenir and I kept one of the pink ones too, along with the one SG left back in June. It might seem corny to say this, but I could feel the magic in all the ropes. I could feel myself reconnecting with the warm memories they held, reconnecting with that part of myself.

The warm magic feeling stayed with me the whole bus ride to where I was meeting the first person (and also best choice) who responded to the post I put on Fet yesterday. One dude responded with “I’ve never seen your at (Regular Dungeon) before.” Given that all the groups he’s joined were things like “Older Men Looking for Younger Women (Under 39)” I told him I was probably too old for him to have noticed. He wasn’t getting my grown-ass woman ropes, that’s for sure.

Anyway, the girl I gave the ropes to is new and town and looking for a wing girl, so I think I made a new friend in the process. That makes me feel like I’m awesome at life.

I’ve been enjoying having little closures lately. Since I can’t change our living situation, I’ve been doing my best to make small symbolic changes, parsing out the letting-go so it seems manageable.

I loved my rope experiences with Sweetie, though the last few were a little sad. I’m so proud of her talent and all of the sensations and emotions and hot sex the ropes helped us share.

I can see a time some day down the line when I might want to be all wrapped up in my own pastel ropes, but for now they’re tied up (ha.) with trying to soften what I wanted so that she could fit into it and be comfortable. Like my original shiny Christmas ribbons fantasy, it was a niced-up version of what I really wanted, a way of sanitizing the deeper and more problematic kinks. (I still want to do the Christmas ribbons someday, though.) They also feel like they were part of my whole trying-to-be-gay thing, trying to make myself acceptable by accepting the muted emotions that came from playing with her. Those ropes were such a marriage of repression and release, and it was a relief to let them go.

I’d considered keeping them in case I wanted to learn the knots someday (The Lady of the House may be disappointed that they’re gone…) but I really don’t have any desire to top anybody that way, not even myself. The next ropes to squeeze me don’t have to be pretty; they can be rough or plain, as long as they belong to a Him.