Making Out in Front of a Romcom and Other Perfect Things: Part Three

 

It took so much thinking about this night to realize that it's a classic body adventure, like way back at the beginning of this blog! I've never had sex all the way high before! Mostly it just gave me an excuse to be more lovey-dovey, more free, more ridiculously myself. And to have way too much fun listening to my two favorite albums.

Before I take us there though, this story will always be incomplete because I don't know ANYTHING about what it was like to be inside The Southern Charmer's head. He told me a few days afterwards that he felt like he'd moved too fast into sex after his breakup, but I don't have any more insight than that. I really really hope that, even though it was emotionally complicated, he had an equal amount of fun. Otherwise it's just not fair!

"Could we go cuddle upstairs?" I asked breathlessly after so SO many kisses. Finding out what happens to Adam Brody and Kristin Bell would have to wait until another day. I asked if it was okay to put on Frank Ocean's Blonde and SC said of course.

I became a puddle of warmth with him. It was the first time in SO LONG that I'd been allowed to take my time, to savor the before-sex things. As we kissed and cuddled and petted and our feet tickled and our legs intertwined, I thought "Wow, Frank Ocean uses the word "love" a lot. While love might not have been the story of this encounter, it was certainly the right name for this state of being.

I don't think love has to look like star-crossed romance. I think it can also be the exquisite joy of holding onto a friend's meticulously sculpted back, tangled up in his pretty arms. Loving the sensations. Loving him in a right now way, and loving myself for letting go of The Quest long enough to enjoy him, and let him enjoy me.

I was alert enough to skip the track where Frank Ocean's mom tells us not to do drugs. I didn't fully lose myself to the lovey-dovey atmosphere. I knew it was brain chemicals being magical and kind and benevolent and giving me a break for like five fucking seconds. This was my version of becoming human lofi, except hungrier for him.

Frank became a little too much and I switched to another favorite album, Childish Gambino's Atavista, which starts out sounding like the Stranger Things theme song but does eventually get dreamy. "Is this Donald Glover?" scoffed The Southern Charmer, but he let not-favorite-of-his record play, a sacrifice I could never make.

I was so happy when it was time to be naked! I'd never met The Southern Charmer's dick the first time around, wasn't even sure he was a penis-having person, until I was. When he stood up to get a condom from my drawer ("I LOVE my drawer so much!" is a thing I said aloud in front of this very cute human being.) his dick stuck straight forward, pointing out from his black briefs like a dowsing rod.

SC and I kept chatting about music, the eternal question of whether Childish Gambino was a bit or not. There were moments when I found him surprisingly like boyfriend material, like before when he'd told me he was reading How the Word is Passed, or when he told me his workout regimen was because he usually dates bigger girls and he wants to be able to help if there's an emergency. (Maybe this was bullshit or MAYBE some of these fit guys who match with me AREN'T trying to take me on a weight-loss journey?!)

Anyway, back to his dolphin/compass of a dick. He was sitting up while I lay back splayed out for him, warm as a day at the beach.

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

Knotty Thursdays: Mr. Adorkable Hits Me with Things, YAY!

 

Is it cheating that I sometimes hand in a nice boy's design as my rope homework? I guess bottoming is rope practice too?

What I should have taken a picture of was Mr. Adorkable's TOY BAG. I'd told him I needed all the spanks after my (mostly self-inflicted) stressful weekend, so he brought everything. Oh MAN I've missed being hit with all the thuddy things. I've missed typing the word thuddy! We were making out and I smelled another nice smell besides us and I was like, "Oh, that's all the things you're gonna hit me with."

I missed the smell of leather, which I've never even really thought about at all!

Before that, though, the ropes. 

I love the way he worked his design around the bra, I felt like it was too pretty to take off. (It flipped right down so nicely when the time came! I should probably get this outfit in all the colors.) My favorite part was the way that little tail at the back tickled--when he was working on that part, I just giggled and squirmed with pure joy. Profound joy! I kinda transcended a little.

It's maybe not advisable to tell someone they feel like a puzzle piece on the second date, huh? But he just does. I like the way we just easily fit together. And I like the way songs come on just at the right moment. This time, a little on the nose, it was "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails. 

Mr. Adorkable and the Ropes, Part Three

Mr. Adorkable is all pounce. At some point in the proceedings, he went down on me like he was jumping into a pool, or like I was candy! He’s so open and full of glee. All the while, because he’s an extranice match, my goth mix was on shuffle.

(NOT the goth mix I made for The Song Sender. RIP that mix. Or, see you in 2033. That gum you like is going to come back in style. Sorry, Twin Peaks digression.)

ANYWAY, back to the hotness at hand. After I asked for a break and he offered sex, Mr. Adorkable grabbed the thigh rope and spread my legs wide. I warned him that I didn’t remember the last time I’d shaved and he said “Huh. Seems pretty recent.” I don’t think he would’ve cared if it wasn’t.

Once he was between my legs, I hooked my not-tied leg over his hip and it’s almost like we clicked together, satisfying like Legos or puzzle pieces. I settled in underneath him, such a cozy fit.

He fucks with generosity, enthusiasm, and expertise. This is why you should always fuck married guys—they may have less time to play, but while they’re here, they really make it count. I may have said some or all of that thought out loud in the moment.

Another thing I had to say our loud mid-fuck was “Oops, I forgot to ask about aftercare. We can snuggle after, right?”

“Oh, of course,” he said “Though I can’t stay too long, there’s work tomorrow.”

My arms had long since been untied. The thigh rope may have been tied to the headboard. My legs were up around his shoulders and I was coming and coming and coming, ready to invite him to come too, when Cloudbusting came on, of course it did. The perfect way to send off the Kate Bush summer, in ecstasy.

Heck yeah, something good is gonna happen, it almost always does. (“Just saying it can even make it happen…”)

His aftercare was, unsurprisingly, sweet, warm, and cheerful. He told me I had been a good girl, of course, that I’d done a good job. He ran his perfect hand from my hip to my waist to my shoulder and told me that I deserve to feel this good.

I can’t wait, can’t wait, can’t WAIT to see him again. That’s next Monday.

Goth Synchronicity and a Hot First Date

Last weekend, I was lounging on the (regular) beach with Rainbow Pal when they asked, “So did you and (The Song Sender) bond over it being Kate Bush Summer?”

Not really—it’s hard to believe that TSS lives in the same universe with something as sweet and sincere as Stranger Things. I had to admit, too, that for TSS Part Two, (Electric Boogaloo), I was the only one sending songs. Supersigh.

Then, THE NEXT DAY, in just the same shoulda-wished-for-a million-dollars way that The Song Sender had appeared in real life after my subby-nostalgia convo with Rainbow Pal at the beginning of the summer, I found myself sitting beside the river at night making a new playlist on a first date!

I wasn’t even sure I was ready to try someone new. I was still mopey/traumatized about The Song Sender and I’m still processing all the goodness with The Shy One. Still, I was charmed that this nice elder millennial had picked an out-in-the-world date instead of a couch one, and that his username was another word for spiritual joy, so I picked out an outfit and rallied. So glad I did.

He met me at my favorite bridge and was, like most people are, cuter than his profile picture. A little shorter than me, with dark hair and those fluffy eyelashes I can never resist. Columbian, he’d tell me later. He was wearing a shirt that said “Mordor”—you know I can’t resist the grumpy boys.

The walking and talking and playlist-making were PERFECT. I mean, other than having to hear boy-opinions about Captain Marvel. I thought it was so cute when he ruled out The Smiths from our playlist, since Morrissey grew up to be a nightmare.

But the best part was when we sat in my car a moment to say goodnight. This is usually when I would bring a first date home, but I had to get up early Monday morning. I had assumed I was going to dominate him, but he turned out to be a wonderful instigator. He started with a firm former-massage-therapist (!) touch on my arm, asking how to care for my tricky right arm during d/s situations.

Then he was all like “But you want it here, don’t you,” then went for the back of my neck, where the sub switch is!

He kissed me so insistently that I thought I would never get away, never stop, never sleep that night or any night. He was so powerfully in charge that it took me SEVERAL ardent tries to pry myself away and say goodnight. Not sure what happens next, but WHOA what a first date.

He’s Not a Pet, He’s a Bird Who Flew in by Mistake: Part One

 

"He’s not a pet, he’s a bird who flew in by mistake." That’s what I told myself in a dream last Saturday morning. In the dream I was talking about an actual bird, sort of a muted, pastel painted bunting, but I knew right away who dream-me was talking about. In a span of a few days, The Song Sender had gone from an actual-date-offering, text-attentive Sir to barely passing the Turing Test.

There was truly some beautifulness between the aftercare panic-and-flee of our second date, the un-break-off that I initiated, and the true end on Wednesday night, when I probably should have been practicing my knots instead. I’m equal parts irritated to be spilling more paragraphs on him and ecstatic to have so much to say.

I’m even sort of comforted knowing there are a few people out there (Looking at you, Steampunk Guy!) who truly cause me to take leave of my senses. Not in a cute, aw I’m crazy about you sense, but the actual departure of my mind. This time, thankfully, I guess my mind hadn’t gone TOO far away.

I was surprised at how amenable he was to making an aftercare plan. He even signed the paper during our dinner in a nearly-completely-empty pho place. But, he was even harder than usual to talk to, and he said there would be a little more negotiating to do when we got to my car.

He told me that he didn’t have space in his life for something as intense as I wanted, that we could only be really casual, if at all. The reason for the robo-boy texting was at least partly because a lady who’s subbier, easier, and less available (just cheating on her fiancée rather than expecting anything relationshippy or, you know, ethically non-monogamous) had popped back into his life.

I mean, as has been THOROUGHLY documented here, The Song Sender is actually pretty awful, he really is, but I thought, why not? Why not get dominated once a month or so and free myself from endlessly worrying about the tone of his texts, endlessly worrying that he was forgetting me. It seemed fine.

So I took him home and it was..fine. The hair pulling and the “pretty little slut” and worrying about bruises but not too much. He kept “forgetting” that my right arm has been broken and dislocated and can’t deal with quite as much manhandling as the rest of me. That fucker was definitely going to dislocate my wrist someday if we’d kept on.

In between finishing himself off and getting up to pee, he asked me if the song Goodbye Horses was on the makeout mix I’d made us. I listened to a few notes while he was in the loo and deemed it perfect, until he was like “It’s time for a movie moment, I have to show you this clip from Silence of the Lambs.

“UH, maybe AFTER aftercare?”

Sadistic or just stupid? Maybe both. I stayed this-is-fine cool and did my aftercare steps, and they simmered me right down. And then there was the clip, in all its lotion-in-basket, rotten, viciously transphobic horror.

“All these queer kids going around liking this song ironically, or unironically,” he said, “Not realizing this is where it’s from.”

Honestly, fuck you FOREVER. I still stayed cool. I had on my slutty-brave armor and it would NOT be disrupted by this fool. We lay there semi-snuggling and looking at each other’s Feeld profiles. It was kinda fun.

Second First Date with the Song Sender, Part Two

I bought this last summer as good luck for my Candyman date with The Coach. It felt like the perfect metaphor for all the lovely changes The Song Sender initiated me into eleven years ago.

We did catch up over dinner, but it pretty quickly shifted to a friendly negotiation. Did it have to be mean? No. Could he praise? Yes—he said he thought I might like it if he patted my head and called me a good girl and I nearly offered him my head across the dinner table. Did he need to do breath play? No. (Breathing! It’s great!) He talked about spanking and hair-pulling and my smile was as big as the sun.

I took his hand across the table and he let me. Those gorgeous, powerful hands could be so gentle out here in the world, I’d never known. He paid the check and I was glad I’d driven instead of taking a train and a bus.

I’d never driven him anywhere. I was still sharing a car with Sweetie-Now-BFF the first time around, and the car was always away on her long commute. I was very pleased to have The Song Sender in my car. I put on my CD of The National’s High Violet, the perfect sexy/gloomy summer album.

About halfway home, just before we got to the most winding part of the drive, I said:

“I kind of want to take your hand and put it into my hair, but I’m, you know, driving.”

He went ahead and put his hand on the back of my neck, tugging at the hair just hand enough to elicit a gasp/sigh. It didn’t distract me at all, quite the opposite—a clean whoosh though my brain making me all the way centered and calm.

“Oh actually I think this makes me an AMAZING driver,” I said, silly with happiness.

Because I hadn’t been sure if it was a date, I hadn’t tidied the apartment or shaved any kinds of hairs, but he didn’t show signs of caring about either. I was standing next to the cluttered dining room table, chattering away and offering fizzy water, when he pulled me into a kiss.

It was decisive and forceful, hungry and sweet. It felt so easy and natural to be bent over the couch, dress pulled up, ready for spanks. His caress-to-spank was tender and sure. I felt right at home.

Knotty Thursday: The Hipster and This Pretty Weave Thing

I'm sorry to post another blurry one, but if you saw the face you'd see why I was a little flustered.

OMG Monday night was my first post-Shy-One couch date. I was worried that the heartache would take over, but it didn't. I'm not trying to fish for compliments, but how am I getting these beautiful, beautiful men to come over? If you'd asked me, during the early zeroes, deep in my all-things-indie-rock days, to describe the perfect man, I might have described a bearish version of The Hipster. I can't even. 

His playlist was SO GOOD, almost nothing that took me out of the moment, except to ask how he, at 31, knew about The Cardigans.

He was kind of an antsy rope bottom, excited to get to everything that came after the ropes, which is fair. I really like the woven thing at his heart, I just wish I'd finished the harness off a little neater.

The Hipster made it clear that he's Not For Dating, to the point where I felt like I needed to check if he'd cuddle after sex. (He did, but I felt like he had an internal timer set.) But he was such a lovely treat and I hope we get to play some more, even if it's just for the soundtrack.

 

So There’s This Charming Man, Part One

I’m really struggling to write this even though it’s past time to start processing the wonderfulness that is This Charming Man. OMG I feel superstitious that I will somehow write the connection out of existence. Regular anxious and oh-my-goodness-he-is-so-cute-anxious are conspiring to keep the paragraphs from coming out.

So of course, he is beautiful, a gorgeous black man with supersweet cartoon-deer eyes.  TCM is tall, like, my head fits right next to his neck when we stand next to each other. (Oh my, I really wish it weren’t ALL THE WAY TIL THURSDAY NIGHT until I could do that!) He has the kind of skinny-strong look that up until recently would have made me assume he wouldn’t be into me. (SO glad I changed that perspective!!!) He showed up to our first date looking dapper as heck in a houndstooth jacket and the slightest hint of an artsy fauxhawk. Very low-key goth night. AND YES, he DID used to frequent our local goth night. FUCKING DREAMBOAT.

His vibe reminded me of Poly Friends’ Partner, that not-date poet from summertime. Except that This Charming Man is sillier, more freewheeling, less self-conscious. He chose an Irish dive bar for our lunch date and it was absolutely perfect, even as the bartender gently mocked me (well-deserved) for having coffee instead of beer. We ate voraciously, laughed so much. We talked about Animal Crossing for SO long despite the fact that he isn’t even playing the current iteration. And best, swooniest, we rifled around in each other’s playlists!

When I mentioned that Frank Ocean’s Pink + White is the best makeout song in the universe, he insisted on playing it over the nondescript bar music. I tried to press pause but he (eee!) gently wrestled my hand away every time I tried. I had to let the makeout song play, and we kissed. The feeling of that day is laughing while kissing, bubbling over with silly joy.

I told him about Knotty Thursdays and he was interested. We segued so easily into being knot-tying pals that I don’t even remember how it happened.

As I was settling in for my post-date/pre-work nap, he sent me such a cute picture of him cuddling with a friend’s dog while I was in the middle of ordering (us) some new ropes. At lunch he had expressed some hesitation about being wrapped up in pink ropes (a hesitation that has since evaporated) so I asked him what color he would like, and he said orange, so I ordered orange.

Who orders someone his own ropes after a first date? This moi. It was one of my better choices of ever.

Quarantine Crush Part Seven

Just a few weeks of poems and songs. Writing with QC was amazing, a reunion with him and with California and with myself. I’d given up poetry for all kids of good and bad reasons, and it felt so good for my brain to start working in those patterns again. The joy of taking a heap of disparate images apart and putting them back together again into something that makes, if not sense, then its own version of sense.

With the poetry and the songs and the chitchat and the Zoom came the LONGING, powerful enough to make me sob, and the grief. The pain of leaving my friends twenty years ago felt fresh  and as I waited for the next text or poem, the missing him, the missing ALL of them but especially him, almost physically hurt. Okay, it did, a little bit, physically hurt.

I wanted us never to have been apart, or to catch up all at once, or for us to keep writing together forever (not just til quarantine ended and we went back to our lives) or to toss all of the metaphors out the window and just say stuff. Like Carly Rae, I wanted to cut to the feeling. I guess that’s what I’m doing now.

I thought, in those dreamy, jangled, waiting-for-the-phone-to-buzz nights (better than thinking about death tolls or presidential gaslighting or maternal gaslighting or the fact that I’m going to gave to canvass for Joe Biden or that there’s always a new how-many-fingers to know…) about dancing with QC at my wedding way back when. It was the only few minutes of my life I can honestly think of as getting “swept off my feet,” a surprise jolt of happiness as clear as any of the best naked adventures. QC was the only man every to truly LEAD me on the dance floor or anyplace, for that matter. The giddy delight of letting his arms guide me. Feeling like…whoa. I mean, WHOA and laughing in glittery delight. (Yep just gonna say delight too many times.)

Truly a moment that made me realize, both in 2003 and in 2020, what I’d missed in not at least having tried to claim him. Most of my Sliding-Doorsiness has worn off by now, but ohboy. I know (partly) missed out on someone so special and super, super hot. All of the Doms and Masters and Tops in this blog so far (Still so much thanks guys!) had a tenuous, theatrical command, just playacting compared to that dance. I wonder if I’ll ever feel led like that again, if I’ll ever let anyone. I hope so.

(The writing side of this being led, the part where my brain tried to make me think I needed his permission to write poems, that part wasn’t so fun. But that’s on me.)

The longing, the time-slip, the time-travel wishes were all too much after a while, but it felt too gorgeously life-affirming to give up. Mixed in with the dreaminess was the covid fear making everything so much more fraught—if he wasn’t writing back, did that mean he was dead? There wasn’t really any way for me to know, and I was sure no one would think to tell me. I wished I could ask for all of his emergency contacts, and all of THEIR emergency contacts, and so on. It wasn’t making the normal serotonin-drop of crushes any easier to navigate.

Sometimes I thought I knew what was going on for a second. Some of the songs that he sent were so explicitly romantic that I would hold out my phone to no one or to the cats and ask “Are you HEARING this?” Where is a slumber party when you need it?

Then, he wrote a very good poem wherein he was in a lot of danger, past and present, and I felt heart-wrenched and helpless toward those dangers. For some reason, that meant it was time to ask if he meant the songs. I told him I DID mean the songs, then tried to sleep while I waited to hear back.

Quarantine Crush (Because of Course) Part Six

By the time QC and I started chatting again, my Big East Coast City had been on lockdown for a month. I’d lost my morning job and (I hope temporarily) lost 2/3 of my client-hours from my own business. I was worried that all the work I’d put in building a life for myself would disappear forever, and like everybody else, I was worried that somebody I loved might die. I had Sweetie to hug, high five, and talk to, but having an ex-wife as a quarantine buddy has its own fears and strains.

My mom, a state away, wasn’t social distancing and my Trumpish Favorite Aunt had no problem trolling me about it. “Who dies, dies.” said Favorite Aunt in a text, presumably meaning herself, her grandkids, my mom, whoever. Meanwhile, mom shifted into full-tilt gaslighting mode, suggesting that I might be causing coronavirus or at least making it worse with my fear.

I wanted to be Helpful Science Person and try to stem the tide of disinformation, but a stop by a semi-estranged cousin’s facebook page convinced me that reaching out to most of my family was futile. I felt hurt and panicked and irresponsible to know that there are some places truth and science just can’t reach.

But, for all of those sad scared feelings, I knew I was safe. The flowering trees in the neighborhood were just going completely bonkers, I had books and funny podcasts and watercolors. In my neighborhood, people had been putting up rainbows everywhere for kids to find on their walks.

One Sunday afternoon, I’d just finished doing some melancholy/cheering work errands while driving around singing George Michael’s Faith at the top of my lungs, and I decided to take a nice fast walk. When guess what!! The friend who was soon to be QC texted and said he wanted to be writing more. I’d wanted to be in touch with him better for a good long while, and I wanted to keep writing too, so I suggested writing something together. By the time I got home from my walk, I had a poem!

Writing to/for/with him was easy and fun at first! It gave me such a joyful feeling of completeness, an oasis of oh! This makes sense! In a life that felt like helplessness and chaos a lot of the time, what a pleasure to just let something new sprout and exist! The first one I wrote wasn’t even really a poem so much as it was just listing off a series of things that made me feel grumpy, but he took it and ran with it, someplace good.

There was no reason this had to be about falling for him. Maybe if I hadn’t included a link to a (completely uncute, unflirty) song in one of the poem emails, (It was William Shatner covering “Common People,” seriously the un-woo-ing-est song) and he hadn’t mentioned that he was listening to an album with the most wildly sentimental first song (see above), then maybe I’d still be all cool and friendly and writing all the poems.

(But probably not.) (And not that I’ve ever been cool in any way.)

Nevertheless, songs were exchanged, and the time difference between us meant that he might have been offhandedly sending links between work tasks or palling around with other folks while I was in bed all swoony and cozy and susceptible. Not everything was sincere and moony, but he’s much more folky/songwritery than I am. It was easy, with his song choices, to slip into  mostly-chaste twenty-years-ago-love without (all-the-way) meaning to, but also not really minding.

It was only a few nights, really, of waiting for the buzz of my phone, listening a couple times, knowing exactly what to send next, then dozing with a warm, briefly untroubled heart. I forgot, I guess, that that kind of thing is like a nine-millionth-date to my emo self. I got my heart into a little bit of a tangle.

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Part Four)

After a break and more episodes, I got attracted to him for another while. I put the makeout mix back on and went all in. I feel guilty about that since I think I knew it wasn’t going to work out, but it felt good to give in to my body’s leadership. I took him to bed for a bit, but after we both came, I just wanted him to be gone. (If a man wrote that sentence I’d think he was garbage. Sometimes I am a toxic bachelor.)

Not knowing how I would get him out of my apartment in the triggered early part of the visit, I’d offered him a ride home, 38 minutes according to Maps. (Okay, look. Cars are destructive and selfish and apocalyptic, but I really want my next guy to have a car. Or just live a few blocks away like Gilmore Guy did.) I was exhausted, not in the blissful, fizzy, satisfied way. I wished I was alone in the car, felt like it was falling apart under the weight of my sad heart.

(A big change since this blog first started: I used to not mind driving to the suburbs! I even kind of enjoyed it because it was always easy to park! Now I just get the sick, soul-rotten feeling of driving a car with ALL of the liberal bumper stickers through Trump territory. Another Twilight Zone-but-not-in-the-fun-way sensation.)

Outwardly, I stayed cheerfully in reference mode with him—reciting the opening disclaimers from My Brother, My Brother and Me for no reason, singing beautifully along with Wonderwall on my Oasis-heavy Happy Spring Mix.

“Said maybaaaaaaaay…you’re gonna be the one that saves maaaaaaaay…”

I’m not sure why it was such a heartbreaking moment, but the beauty of our singing voices together juxtaposed with the ugly sadness in my heart just made me wonder how anybody dates anyone ever.

After I dropped him off on an ominous, anonymous, winding street, my heart felt lighter. I thought maybe (maybaaaaaaaay) I should wait until morning to see if I still felt bad about him. But I knew what I knew, and as I drove along I composed in my head a break-off text and listed all the ways I needed to block him. At a stoplight, even thought it was almost midnight, I texted Sweetie to see if it was too late to call. I’m so, so grateful to have a loyal and very-judgmental-of-men best friend to call in the middle of the night.

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Part Three)

He just looked so beautiful sitting there on my couch. His eyes were radiant with sadness, sincerity, mischief. He wrapped me up in his arms, and when we kissed, it was easy and soft. I turned off Bob’s Burgers and put on my Dreamy Music mix, which has far, FAR too much Radiohead—must remember to fix that!

I had been literally soaking wet for him for days, my body just gushing affection before we ever met in person. That, in addition to the pretty new pink underpants, was why it wasn’t too long before I sprawled myself across his lap.

“Okay, let’s see what you can do!”

It had been SUCH a while and they were good spanks, firm and kind, assured in a way I didn’t expect—I was surprised and delighted. I love, love, LOVED the feeling of him pulling up the back of my dress, smoothing my undies just so before striking. “You have an amazing ass,” he said and I fully, fully believed him. With his left arm, he held me down in a wholehearted way that brought immediate and near-existential relief.

But then, after just a few minutes, something in my brain shifted and I felt darkness descend, felt myself freeze up with fear. I climbed off, asked for a break, gave myself plenty of space, turned off the Dreamy Music and put Hulu back on.

In addition to warmth and hope and general horniness, Comedy Guy gave me a heartache I couldn’t quite place. It came and went throughout the evening and would eventually become an insurmountable force. But first, I wanted to try and surmount it.

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Three: I Didn’t Think I Was Feeling that Subby, But…

I wouldn’t have called it subspace at the time, but the way the order of things has slipped out of my brain suggests some kind of altered state. So, Steampunk Guy, if I’ve messed up the timeline, feel free to punish me.

“Whatever happened to this date being clothing optional?’ he asked and I hopped up and got naked. In the time it took me to cue up the new National album, (Pure moody summer makeout music, see above.) he was not just naked but ready to go, complete with condom and safety gloves. (We’d already done the when-were-you-tested conversation, after which we high-fived.)You wouldn’t think someone could look beautiful wearing green plastic gloves, but you’d be wrong.

Last year when Sweetie and I got our new couch, we optimistically chose a fold-down one. Steampunk Guy’s the first guy I’ve folded it down for. (Because my life is awesome, Mr. Shiny Eyes became the second one last night.) After I’d figured out how to work the mechanism and got the bed all situated, he had me lay down on my stomach. I felt all cozy and happy, like I was at the beach.

He went from spanking (He’d mentioned that his tools were in the car, but I didn’t think he’d need them, and I was right.) to probing—pulling me open, pressing me apart. I’m starting to get a little fetish for the feeling of gloved fingers in me. (See the previous post’s hand-rhapsodizing.)

He left my legs together and lay on top of me, entering not-all-the way but from such a lovely angle. I’d never been in that position before. I let out a moan/sigh and said “Aaaaaahhhh, nowonderyouhavelikeninegirlfriends…oh, oh, oooohhhhh..” (and so on) He felt so perfect—I’d been needing it so badly and now I was getting all filled up.

He turned me over and fucked me so hard that it hurt. I screamed and cried and took it for as long as I could, just kissing him and yowling and carrying on. (It’s possible that the neighbors might hate me.) This is being thoroughly fucked, stripped all the way down to my primal animal whatever. I wailed, I balled up my fists. It felt like I was lighting up and tearing apart, like I was everything and nothing but light and warmth and pain, and he doesn’t stop when he comes, just keeps pushing in and in until I’m breathless and “Oh, wait, okay, I have to stop, sorry…”

As we moved from fucking to snuggling, I was somewhere between ecstasy and trauma, panting and dizzy. “I’ve never felt anything quite like that before.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Eyeroll then, eyeroll now.

My scalp was warm from my hair being pulled so much. My cheeks were blushy with exertion and beard burn. My ass was lightly bruised and my pussy was throbbingly, gushingly wet, trying to figure out what hurricane just hit it. He held me and his fuzzy chest hair felt all nice and soft against my chest.

We got to know each other a little. It turns out he’s military, just got back not long ago. Why do I keep feeling drawn to guys who fought in wars I’ve protested? (Well, I have protested every war since I was in ninth grade.) It could be some urge to connect and humanize the Other. Or it could just be that I like guys who are really strong and tend to be on time. I don’t know, and I never know what to say when someone tells me he’s been in a war, other than “I’m glad you didn’t die.” which is actually what I said.

We talked some more about our respective kinks. He says he’s good with ropes, so I hope I might get to test out his knotsmanship sometime, should we make it to the magical land of the second date.

He looked so happy, and I was too. It was snuggling with a pal. A very smiley pal who keeps laughing to himself for whatever reason.

Next Time: Waves of warmth, sex-tears, then pie.