Mr. Adorkable and the Ropes, Part Two

 

He wasn’t in my apartment for long before I had him upstairs. He hadn’t brought his rope kit (I guess that would have seemed like a lot on a first date to anyone who isn’t me!) but I was happy to let him use mine.

I don’t know when the kissing started. Maybe we were always kissing. He picked up the orange rope and twined it around my wrists, making a double column that looked like a pretty bow. He already knew to be careful with my tricky right arm because, bless him, he’d read me.

Next he started winding a harness around my chest, over the bra at first. It felt new and shivery to not being the one doing the tying, to not know what was going to happen next. (Not that I always know what will happen next when I AM tying!) I liked being the canvas and not the artist, or maybe just another kind of artist. As the ropes tightened around me, I felt such soft affection for him, leaned into his warm body and kissed him some more.

He's a little taller than me, with pretty hazel eyes and a perpetual smile. His face and shoulders seem just a little more sculpture-like than one might expect of a regular human. And I don’t know if he’s purposely emulating present-day Wil Wheaton’s look, but it’s working for him anyway. SO CUTE.

After the harness, he went for the thigh. Ahhhhhh…sighhhh. Such a pretty, simple knot with so much possibility and promise. I liked being beneath him as he tied, I felt happy and curious and safe and sooooo wet.

After, with some difficulty, we’d wrangled the bra off from under the ropes, I got to feel one of my VERY favorite feelings in the universe: Naked except the ropes, my arms back, his mouth on my nipple. I looooove the way all my sensitivities brighten, the shiver of safe fear, the helplessness spark through every nerve. I felt his warmth shudder all though me, deep in my bones, electric and alive.

And then, he was kneeling above me, his dick hardening in my mouth, shoved in sideways. It grew and expanded as I got it as far down my throat as I could, gagged and tried again, gagged and tried again. He was big and so beautiful kneeling above me, my head in his hands, his fingers tangled in my hair.

After a while, the vulnerability of this, the whole-body gagging was too much, and I asked for a break.

“Oh, okay, would you like to have sex? He asked so cheerful-politely!

Yes, yes I would. That is an excellent way to take a break!

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.

Good Second Date to Ghost, Part Two

Since Nearby Guy and I had a nice d/s-ish vibe going, I maybe should have done some negotiating before welcoming him (OMG yay!) into my bed. But sometimes, a soft glow of trust feels like enough—that sweet letting-go when bodies take over safety feels easy. I just love those rare moments when humans know exactly what to do.

As we settled into my (unmade-I wasn’t expecting company!) bed together, our bodies felt so well-matched. I don’t often find anyone who can make me feel delicate and protected, but the way his arms encompassed me gave me all the princess feelings.

His kisses were skilled, assured, and leisurely, emphatic but reigning in my tendency to be a tongue-y teen about it. Sweetly and thoughtfully is a very good way to be kissed.

He held my waist with such ownership, then pushed upwards to very decisively whole-hand my boob through my PJs. He claimed it and me, wholeheartedly, nipple squeezed up into his palm. I know none of this seems like it should be a big deal, but it WAS.

As much as I envy my podded-up friends (And Nearby Guy’s cozy situations) this post-quarantine return to touch was a miracle to take in, too much to process or absorb except in heaves. Feeling the grasp I’d daydreamed and nightdreamed so much for so long made me into a full-body groan/yelp, a writhing sea serpent high on giggles and warmth. I was fully enthralled but I was also wondering if I could possibly be touching him enough, worrying I wasn’t doing it right, wondering how my one human body could possibly earn this much pleasure in this or any lifetime.

“I feel so overwhelmed, “ I pant/sighed, and he slowed to a snuggle while I caught my breath, arms circling my waist again and squeezing my shoulders toward him. When his hand wandered to my ass, I said (of course I said) “You know you want to spank it.”

He startled for a quick moment, maybe taken aback like that escalated quickly but then he grinned and his arm tensed for action. I turned over onto my tummy, ready as ready as READY could be.

“Ohmygoodnessit’ssucharelief” I exhaled sharply, my face half in my pillow, after the first hearty THWACK. Ohhhhh boy. The hard slaps, the thigh-tickles, the playful grabs. The perfect gift of him gently easing down the back of my pajama bottoms and my lacy-but-practical soft purple undies.

He smacked out yelp after yelp, my feet kicking with joy and my hips squirming with anticipation for every impact. He was pressing pain out and magic in at the same time. I curled close to his body like it was a warm cave I lived in now. He held me tight. Lightning bolts of squishy arousal pummeled into the center of me. I wanted everything, forever. I had everything I wanted forever.

Yes, relief, but also a power source flipped on, like when Godzilla’s blue lights glow up over the horizon. I was both kaiju and sea. How can a person do this for someone they hardly know? It seems impossibly generous and highly unlikely that any of this could have happened. It’s hard to believe my own typing hands!

More Nineties! Pagan Boy Part Three

 

This poster was at the top of the stairs to his apartment and is probably why the whole ribbons thing. 

At the Basement Rave Place, there was a long grimy beige couch across from the unisex (that’s Nineties for all-gender) bathroom where we’d go to recover after we danced too much. I remember it as sort of a heap of dance-tired limbs, four to seven people on the couch at any given time. He reminded me way later that once on said couch I handed him my underwear, no doubt soaked with sweat and excitement. (Gotta hand it to nineteen-year old me for the brazenness! Love it so much!) With a deliciously smug nod, he balled them up and put them in his shirt pocket and patted his chest happily. Ohboy that smile.

(Sidenote: Dear Pagan Boy, can you dirty-haunt me ASAP? If anyone can, it’s you. I don’t really believe in an afterlife but you’d be a makeout king there.)

I named him Pagan Boy, but really he was the first one to properly touch me like a MAN. Plus, my love of fat fingers has been well documented. (Are you there, Fireguy? It’s me, nostalgic!) Almost thirty years later, I can feel the warm confidence of his hand as he not-subtle-at-all pushed up my pink polyester dress. (Whenever I wasn’t wearing a black vintage slip, I was wearing something a diner waitress might wear in an indie movie. This dress had such a cute pointy white collar and little pearly buttons.)

I lay toward him across his lap as he slipped his fingers lazily up and down, sometimes thumbing my clit but mostly just meandering, leisurely. Absolutely no one around us cared, if they even noticed. Around us was a blur of fake fur and glitter and hot androgynous hairstyles—sort of a Bladerunner aesthetic except cuddly. The rhythm of his slippery fingers was tuned to the constant pulse of techno, mostly house. I don’t think it ever really left my ears from about ’93 to ’96.

He pushed his fingers inside me and I kissed him to quiet myself, though any sound I would’ve made would have been swallowed up by, I don’t know, the Mortal Kombat theme song.

The kissing was urgent, like we might accidentally devour each other down to the bones, but his hands stayed slow.

The drive from the club to his house was at least an hour long, but he was an expert at driving one-handed. In the 3am dark, I sat in the passenger seat with my legs spread and my sweaty, be-glittered head on his shoulder, breathing in his ears or just breathing in the smell of him—earth, beer, testosterone, cigarettes—a smell you could lay down and cozily die in.

We stumbled up the steps of his apartment, tangled in each other and losing clothes as we went. The sun was coming. As we cuddled into his too-small bed, he held my face, stared into my eyes, and kissed me some more. There wouldn’t be sleep.

The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow, Part Two

The Cool Room in Favorite Aunt’s house is still one of the most comforting rooms in the many-roomed house of my heart. It was where the air conditioning lived in that sweltering, old-fashioned house. It was perfectly Eighties and all the way comforting, wood-paneled walls, small, curtained windows, deep-turquoise-blue couch with some kind of white print, maybe flowers. Pleasantly cavelike, with a glass pocket-door that maybe we slid shut. It was where the TV lived, and where The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow and I somehow found ourselves alone.  (I still don’t quite understand how that happened, can’t decide if it was kind of Favorite Aunt to leave us alone or if it was weird creepy matchmaking—it’s occurring to me that I never experienced non-sneaky, non-naked kids-being-attracted-to-each-other situations so I really have no idea how it’s supposed to go.)

How it went was, chaste, beatific, awkward, sweet. I lay snuggled in his arms for long, quiet stretches of time.

Until him, I had only been kissed by selfish, careless, insistent (and, by 2019 standards, sometimes pretty rapey) men and boys, so there is a very good chance that I was a terrible kisser.

My new friend may have had less experience at kissing than I did, but I think he had much more experience treating others like human beings. If my kisses were terrible, hungry, aggressive things, he took it in stride. I can hope that he eventually mellowed me to a more loving and thoughtful pace. Or maybe we were just teenagers doing our best.

After what seemed like hours of making out but probably wasn’t, he said “No thank you” and backed his face away. That hurt and felt like a mystery, but I think (I hope) I just put my head on his heart and gave it a rest. There were eventually more snuggles and more kisses, but I’ve always wondered if I or society or Favorite Aunt or all three of those things pressured him into continuing to kiss me. I didn’t think about any of that at the time. My heart was floating and selfish and somehow also generous with joy. I was a blooming little flower of love.

I forget where we were going or coming home from, but I have a powerful image of laying in his lap in the backseat of Favorite Aunt’s van, in another highway sunset. Pink sky, low-flying airport planes, lots of toll booths. I gazed up at his face feeling both blissful and disjointed—was this the face I would love forever? The answer, as with most faces I’ve been that close to, is both absolutely yes and not at all.

Dating in the Upside-Down: A Like-Story (Part Two)

This isn’t one of those stories where I ignore a red flag and then everything goes awry—everything went PERFECTLY.

For our second date, I asked if he wanted to come over and watch a few episodes of Stranger Things, Season 2. The perfect, spooky, romantic, music-y date, I was proud of myself for thinking of it. I stocked the freezer with toaster waffles and he volunteered to bring wine. Again with the giddy.

When he arrived, (SO big and tall, dressed nicely all in black, looking like he was just custom-made for me…) I mentioned that I’d found our local radio station’s Halloween special “Too Bauhaus-y” and he said there’s no such thing. He showed me his Halloween Spotify playlist and it was indeed very Bauhaus-y, and also full of The Cure, and The Smiths, as well as a little Marilyn Manson I could mock him for: PERFECT. So perfect as to seem fictional. Maybe I was just really, REALLY happy to have a guy on my couch.

Even though it was a Netflix date, I’d worn my favorite red lace dress, and as soon as he sat down next to me, I started to suspect that the dress was coming off before too long. He had a warm, open energy, and draped his arm invitingly over the back of the couch. I think it took me about one episode to snuggle in, and when I did, it felt like it such a natural, easy fit. His hands (I’d spent all week thinking about them, tempted to text and ask if he liked spanking people) were big, soft, and warm, gently but insistently affectionate. As he stroked my arms, my hands, my hair, it became harder to concentrate on the Hawkins goings-on, though nothing could distract me from the terribleness of Bob’s taste in music (Team Bob 4life though) and the awesomeness of the rest of the soundtrack.

I finally turned my head and kissed him (is there anything better than that moment?) during episode three—it was easy, delicate, soft. I pulled away after a little bit (“Wait I really want to see what’s on that video tape!”) and made intermittent attempts to stay focused on the plot points, but after a while, it was time to switch to music, my mix called “Dreamy music” which has an inexplicable and not-super-helpful amount of Radiohead on it, definitely time to edit.

I knelt next to him on the couch and wrapped myself around him, pulled into a soft quilt of man-smell and comforting warmth. His hands went to my boobs in my favorite insistent-but reverent teenage-feeling-up way, and I growl-groaned, relieved and hungry, safe and ecstatic, just like that. He moved to the floor and spread me out over the couch like I was prey, but in the very good way.

“I’m in a place…” I said, and I was. I hadn’t been to a submissive place in my heart or head in a long time, certainly not since my ill-fated date with Mr. Makeout Music, and I was very happy to be back there.

I was wearing thick black tights, but when he ran his hand over my crotch I could feel the wetness soaking all the way through. I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or thrilled, but I’d been this way since I met him, and it felt like very, VERY good news.

Next: I DO have a bed…

A Conference with Myself, Part Two: Mr. Shiny Eyes! Cuddle Practice! Hair Pulling!

Before I float back into all the awesomeness, I should backtrack a little bit to say that Mr. Shiny Eyes was one of the guy pals I reached out to after my New Years resolution to remember how to have guy friends. In the thick of divorce grief a couple of years ago, I’d broken things off with him for no good reason, and I was superworried that I’d hurt him—and I had. I’m sad to say that I haven’t always been fully conscious of the fact that I can affect men’s feelings, and I was glad I asked him about it. We had a really nice call a few weeks before the conference, so it only took us a few minutes of being in the same building to get in kiss/cuddle/flirt mode that day. A day where I kiss three worthy men is a good one.

Also, I can’t overstate how much of a difference my extra introvert time made. It had been such a long time since I’d felt like I was on a magical adventure with my cute, slutty self—this was a reunion within a reunion.

Anyway, back to being excited/nervous/fluttery to meet up with The Professor at the Cuddle Party. I got into my PJs and nice warm socks and brought pillows and blankets downstairs to the party room. I was one of the first to arrive, so I made a little nest within the bigger nest of pillows and blankets and I stretched and breathed. The Cuddle Facilitator stamped my hand with a red heart that meant I could come and go as needed.

When The Professor showed up with The Kind Ma’am, I felt surprisingly shy for someone who’d spent the day raising my hand emphatically like a smutty Hermione in the workshops and smooching old and new pals. It was both like a first date and not a like first date at all. If all first dates involved wearing soft pants, (and like an hour of consent practice) the world would truly be a magical place.

Once The Professor was in his plaid flannel pajama pants, he sat down between me and The Kind Ma’am, his arms around both of us. They talked and I snuggled up against his shoulder, feeling the warmth that radiated from him all over. And who should sit down next to me on the other side but Mr. Shiny Eyes! Without much preamble, we started making out gleefully, and I got to feel the glow of being between two beautiful men, of being in a chain, no, a net of soft, snuggly vibes and comfy touch. The perfect mix of kissing and friendship, safety and adventure.

For technical stuff about Cuddle Parties this is a good post:  but basically the first loooooong time of the party was consent practice, practicing asking specifically for what we wanted and saying and getting nos and yesses. (Not doing the things yet, just the asking and answering.) We even had to say no to things that we really, really wanted and yes to things we hated—that way you can really feel what a no or a yes feels like in the body, the Cuddle Facilitator said, and I think it was true. I LOVE consent practice and often wish the world were more Cuddle Party-esque.

When the cuddles finally started in earnest, The Professor was occupied in a sort of two-person-seeming snuggle so I sat down on one of the chairs at the side of the room, breathed and waited to see what would happen next. I felt hesitant, but warm and hopeful. I was so pleased when The Kind Ma’am sat down next to me and asked “Can I put my arm around you?” Yes! I felt protected and friended, taken under her wing. I wondered aloud if she might be willing to pull my hair and guess what! She said yes!

Having been spinstering it for a couple of years, I hadn’t been too sure where I stood with my kinks, though I suspected they were still there. With her, it was as if no time had passed since my last adventures, like I always have been and always will be getting my hair pulled, forever and ever, amen. When she grabbed the hair near the nape of my neck, I let out a fairly un-Cuddle-Party-like groan/purr/wail. I tried really hard (and fairly unsuccessfully) not to disrupt the proceedings with my caterwauling, but no one seemed to mind.

I wound up sitting at her feet, feeling little and adored and silly. She arranged my hair into pigtails, played, pulled, and (after I asked very nicely) called me “Good girl.” Swoon. The Kind Ma’am was perfect and careful and sweet, but I got a little overwhelmed from the burgeoning energy of the room and the new/old/hurty/lovely sensations, so I thanked her and said I needed a little time. I curled up on my own for a bit, letting the relief and happiness and complicated homecoming emotions swirl around me and within me.

Next: Cuddling heartbreak a little, cuddling joy A LOT.

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years, Part Two

The more we walked through the fountains and gardens and woods lit in hypnotizing and artful ways, the more playful we became. He dared me to push him up against a tree and I giggled at first and then shoved him with all my strength. He exhaled sharply, pulled my arms up so they were around his shoulders, and gave me a kiss that made me feel as if I was flying and falling at once.

We made out on many benches in that garden, but the last and best was on an unlit path behind the trees where a lightshow of birds taking flight was being projected. (I have to be awesome at life to have lived that sentence.)

He kept trying to feel me up, even though I pushed his hands away over and over—we may have been in a secluded spot, but it was still a family park. I may have been ridiculously, dizzily turned on, but I still wanted respect. I told him about wanting to be valued for my whole self, and he said, don’t you notice me enjoying every inch of you? Charming and clueless at once.

We wrestled a little, and he caught my wrists behind my back with one hand, bent me forward by the hair with the other hand, and had his rough way with my nipples though my pretty satin floral dress. I let out a groan and a “Huh!”—it was spot-on and not-okay at once. After just a moment, a deep “Stop.” came up from my belly and he let me gather myself. “Good boy,” I said, and patted him on the head.

As we walked out of the woods, chemistry-drunk and holding hands, the lights, the music, the flowers, it all became too much. I couldn’t take any more sensations. I was hungry and in need of coffee, so we got directions to a nearby diner and I agreed to follow him.

I put on The National’s High Violet and was prepared for more dreaminess, but also was headachey and having trouble concentrating. We got lost on the way to the diner and I ended up following him down dark country roads. The sky was full of stars and it was the week of the Perseid Meteor Shower, and I hoped to see one, but didn’t. We did see some leaping deer. We were lost for a long while, a good forty-five minutes. My headache got worse and I had the sensation that I was following someone who did not know where he was going. I found out later it was a while before he even checked his GPS—why didn’t I check mine?

When we made it to the main road, the only thing we could find open was a Hooters. I had the thought that if we ever became a thing, this would be a funny part of the story of how we got together. I am utterly amazed by my brain’s ability to hope, to let romance bloom, and I hope that doesn’t change.

I ordered cake as an appetizer and he had Key Lime pie. We fed each other and I drank weak coffee and we both felt sad that the waitress felt compelled to address us in a baby voice.

He asked me out for a fortnight from then (He has the kids every other weekend and had apparently not yet discovered the existence of babysitters…) and I agreed that that should be when I come to his house and jump in his pool. And then, alas, we got onto the subject of our exes. His divorce was fresher than mine and he talked about her in such a demeaning way. He told me she was depressed and I immediately suspected that he had made her that way. He even called her “dense.” I said, “I don’t like this. You can’t talk about her this way.” I kind of accused him of gaslighting her, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t wrong.

We left the restaurant and sat in my car to talk. “I really like you, but you’re scaring me.” I said, and he kept talking, about money and housework and the ins and outs of insurance. I’m not a small talk person so I do tend to learn all kinds of things about people, but I laid down the law and said this was by no means second-date talk. I said that I could just see her, trying so hard to please him and never getting it right, I said I could see the same thing happening to me and I never wanted to be in that position again. We kissed gently and hugged for a long time. I was horrified and put off but I also didn’t want to let go. He was very hard to let go of.

He got in his car and we headed toward our respective homes. There was no reason for me to follow him anymore. I turned Mumford and Sons’ “I Will Wait” the way up, sped up in as tough a way as a Yaris can manage, and passed him. I was pretty sure that was it.

Next time: And yet.

In Which I Realize How Lucky I Am to Have Had My Adventure Years: Part One

Well, friends, after a quiet and mostly happy-to-be-single year, I recently dipped my toe back into the treacherous waters of sexy times, and though I didn’t find a lasting connection, what I did find couldn’t be more illuminating.

Back in June, I got a crush on one of my coworkers at the college bookstore where I was part-timing. He talked to me about music. He recommended Radiohead’s “In Rainbows” and I found it excellent to type to. After all that time of not getting ridiculous over anybody, I could not stop flirting with him as we alphabetized the textbooks that got bought back at the end of the semester. Then I realized he was 23 and I could reasonably be his mom, so I went back to OKC to hit on guys my own age.

The one I found was tall and dorky-cute and of course beardy, and was especially attractive to me because he’s Unitarian and I have this dream of going to church with a boyfriend someday. On TOP of that, he’s a single dad (nothing hotter) with a SWIMMING POOL in his back yard. I’m too heartachey to make up a nickname, so I’ll just call him J.

He sent me his blog address before our first date and I found some red-flaggy things on there (Like a MILLION paragraphs about how the Cold Stone Creamery once accidentally put nuts in his sundae.) but thought it was best to give him a chance and get to know him in person. I’m so glad I did.

Rather than doing the supersensible thing and just meeting for gelato on our first date, he asked me out for the art museum AND dinner AND a movie—Trainwreck, which I’d been superexcited to see. He! Brought Me! A Mix CD! On! A! First! Date! A little heavy on the ethereal-voiced women, but still. After about an hour in the museum, I felt so powerfully drawn to him that I wanted to push him against the wall right there in the Dadaists.

He was the first guy to take me to see a rom-com on a date, and that was a snugglesome experience. We ended up making out by the river while a wedding down the way provided the cheesiest of accompaniment: “Aaaal of me, aaaaal of you.” It was beautiful and dreamy, but he was one of those guys who steals second base, and I kind of let him. I found myself in the back of his car in the art museum parking lot with my panties down before I remembered I mostly prefer privacy these days. We talked about our fantasies and his were a couple of more red flags: erotic hypnosis and being taken advantage of in his sleep. Not really boding well on the enthusiastic consent front, but that isn’t where this story is going.

Our second date was even more of a romance-bomb: A night time light show in a fancy flower garden. We kissed under a tree and I felt like I was one of the Impressionist paintings from our first date. As we walked down a magically-lit garden path, he sang “All I ever wanted, all I ever needed is here, in my arms…” As we approached a woodsy treehouse structure, we sang together: “Blue canary in the alley by the light switch, who watches over you…”  So what hope did I have of making rational decisions?

Next time: BDSM in the Flowers, Bitterness and Cake

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness Part Three: Two Kisses, One Cake Flower

After the nature walk, I was feeling oddly standoffish—I was sitting on the side of the hill overlooking the afternoon ritual. Some folk nearby promised some “Ritual Science Theater 3000” and that’s kinda where I was at: ironic, detached. I’d had a lot of fun but I wasn’t sure what else I could get out of the day. Plus, I was sad that all of the guys had sarongs on. I was not seeing anywhere near a nude beach number of penises, and that made me grumpy.

But! After the ritual, which took place in sort of a picnic-pavilion thing, they had a feast where you weren’t allowed to feed anything to yourself—foodstuffs could only be put in your mouth by others. This seemed like enough of an icebreaker to get me over my wallflowerness. And then! I saw Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart! (Not married, but I’ve paired their nicknames for the sake of simplicity and also because they happen to both be sweethearts. Also it should be mentioned that she looks like a beautiful kickass goddess. Freya maybe.) I hadn’t even known they’d be there!

Mr. Sweetheart and I had been in touch a little bit since the hotel party. He even tried to matchmake me with the cute ex-fireman guy, but that didn’t go anywhere. Recently, Mr. Sweetheart had started following my blog, so he was really really on my good side. Any guy who can read those heartbreak-laden posts I’ve been writing lately and still want to hang out with me—that is a man.

Aside from the collared human platters who ringed the pavilion covered in fruit, I was the only one at the feast completely naked. I worried that it might be bad etiquette, but no one seemed to mind. Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart wrapped me up in a big hug and said they’d keep me from being a wallflower, and I was so grateful for that. With them there, I felt a nice homey healing feeling, like I could really open up and join the party.

My friends Sheandhim arrived, looking flushed and sleepy from whatever Tantric magic they’d been getting up to. We all took turns feeding each other apples slices, strawberries, and other yummy things.

And hooray! Mr. Shiny Eyes was there, chatting with a pretty lady on the ersatz dance floor. I interrupted their conversation to ask if he remembered me and tell him I DEFINITELY remembered his rope-pulling skills. It didn’t take us long to get to a kiss and ohboy was he good at it. Some kisses are just like a key finding the right lock, and this was one of those. “Hmmm, maybe we should spend some time together,” I think he said, and I was inclined to agree.

He went back to his pretty lady and I went back to my friends. After I ended up with an entire mocha mini-cupcake in my mouth at once, one of the dolled-up hostesses kindly explained that I could touch the food after it’d been fed to me, so as to take smaller bites. Predictable but enjoyable things were said about my mouth’s capacity.

Sheandhim looked into licking honey off of one of the human platters, but I’ve never gotten that licking-sticky-stuff-off-of-people thing.  However, I spotted a fancy white cake on one of the (nonhuman) side tables. I thought it was a birthday cake but it occurs to me that it might have been some magic couple’s (or triad’s or whatever’s) wedding cake. It had one flower left on it, a big white blossom that I absolutely had to have, but he fed me the cake part first. (I know, life is hard sometimes, isn’t it?) “Ahem,” I said, “That cake flower isn’t going to feed itself to me…”

I was sheepish for being such a brat, but he seemed impressed. “Not only have you been working on you no, you’re getting really good at making your desires clear.”

He fed me the flower and it was delicious—crunchy, vanilla, crystalline. And then he held me and we kissed. It was sweet and not just because of the cake flower. It was an old-friends kiss, even though we haven’t known each other for long. The kiss of an ally.

He held me tight and pressed himself forward, the front of his kilt all happy to see me—I lovelovelove that feeling.

(Sidenote: The whole kilt-as-pagan-boy-uniform thing? AWESOME. I mean, if they HAVE to wear something on the bottom.)

I feel a little nervous about the romance I’m maybe writing into these kisses, but I really like being in a world where kissing is this easy, where people are just so generous with themselves.

Next time: The hair-pulling contest: Best. Idea. Ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next: Getting spanked in another parking lot.

Huzzah! A Good Date

Sometimes, I’ll hit on someone on OK Cupid just because they remind me of my ex-boyfriend-from-the-techno-years/current pal Pagan Boy. This was one of those. The other thing that made me attracted to him was that in response to the “Did you have a goth phase?” question, he said “It’s wasn’t a phase.” I got a feeling in my belly that he’d be fun to hug, just from his emails, and boy was I right. He looked sweet and game in his picture, with big soulful hazel eyes and fluffy eyelashes. How could I resist?

Getting ready for our date, I debated with myself about whether a spiked collar was first-date appropriate. I went for it, just to have the excuse to wear it. Also I can proudly say I was leading with my boobs—there they were right in front of me…He found me a bar that serves mojitos, which isn’t always easy because not every bar stocks fresh mint. It was a good mojito, it felt like a reward for a whole bunch of things. We fell into Moonlighting-level banter right away, is there anything more fun? Sometimes I turn into this really brassy, candid version of myself and just yammer a whole bunch about my various adventures—he looked happier and happier as we went along. He looked into my eyes a lot while we talked—boy are those pretty eyes.

We decided to take a walk to the river, joking as we went about the really intense snuggling and hand-holding we both enjoy from time to time. I revealed my quest for my inner Bettie Page, and he told me he has a tattoo of her on his leg—I’m sure that isn’t uncommon among guys who also have Black Flag tattoos, but I like the coincidence and I’ll consider it a good sign. I could feel my inner Bettie while I was next to this guy, that’s for sure.

He kissed me by the water, as little waves lapped up around the bottom of the walkway, in full view of the swan boats and tourists. He pulled my hair a little, because I’d told him I like that, and I’m sure later I can convince him to pull it harder.

We talked on and on and on about sex, I’m sure we might get to other topics some other time. If this were considered an assessment, I think I’ve made a lot of progress since Bill said to me “You keep telling me what you don’t like, tell me what you do like!” When I feel comfortable with someone, I just keep talking, and we went over likes and dislikes in great detail. I feel confident that he’s up to the challenge of LOTS of bare-handed spanking, and he assures me it wouldn’t have occurred to him to make me ask permission before I come. I even told him about the love affair I’ve been having with my ass, though I didn’t go into detail. (Oh, yeah, I should write that soon, too.)

He reminds me of the good parts of Bill; he’s strong, soft in places, swaggery, about the same height as me, with reaaaaaaaaly nice arms and good hands. But unlike Bill, he’s got his own house (I liked the way he said it, “My house.”) a cute car, a good job, a basement full of records from when he was a DJ in the Nineties.

There was a kiss in the parking garage elevator that made me want to press the Emergency Stop button like they would in the movies. In the car, he said I was evil for making him so turned on and I said “No, I’m a good girl.” And he said “You’re a very good girl.” and put his hand on the top and kissed me some more. Swoontown.

When he dropped me off, he said “Tell (Sweetie) good things about me. Tell her I was respectful and not gropey.” When I got inside, Sweetie (Whose pre-date advice to me was “Don’t flee.”) was on the couch, glowing with love and support. We watched an episode of Queer as Folk and went to bed. I love her even more when my face is all stingy from beard-burn.

This morning I have that what-if-he-forgets-to-make-more-plans-with me feeling. I’m happy and daydreamy, even if I should be studying.