This Meaningful Sex, Part Two

 

Before I wade back into the feelings, I’m writing myself a permission slip to put dating life aside until after New Year’s. (Aside from The Lovely Guy, who’s easy to trust and be myself around!) There are plenty of year-end crafts and projects to lean into, and I’m especially excited because I’ve decided that I don’t have to spend time with my unvaccinated brother! Having excused myself from traveling to family, I’m excited to spend the month in my own life, making room for whatever quietly arrives. I may even get to see a gemstone exhibit with The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow, if I’m superlucky!

Anyway, back to the processing at hand. A (mostly in my own head, but still) horny week has given me a little perspective, but I still find it hard to imagine  connecting with anyone as much as I did with This Charming Man. I understand, on some level, that This Charming Man was maybe just really good at sex. But so were Steampunk Guy, Mr. Shiny Eyes, so IS The Lovely Guy. I remember that glimmer-of-love moment when I came with Mr. Sweetheart as Mr. Shiny Eyes held and kissed me. I remember the Mayor of Kittentown’s endlessly welcoming dick.

But this was the first time, with a man, that I felt truly present, safe, and adored. Truly intertwined with him, body and spirit. That feeling could have been solely provided by my ridiculous love-drunk imagination, but I don’t think it was. Not solely.

When I set out on this quest ten years ago (!), this was the thing I was looking for. Not just to be able to step over my decades of barriers and fuck men, but to learn how to fully and unselfconsciously let them in. It was the missing piece I’ve deprived myself of for so long. The longing crashed and burned so many relationships, probably a little bit this one too.

I told him, the last naked night, that no one had ever fucked me so right before. I don’t think that’s grammatically correct, but he said “thank you.” and sighed the most satisfied sigh. I loved the way he held my head up by my hair because he liked to watch me cry out for a while before he let me bury my head in the pillows. (Let us now praise doggie style, now and forever my favorite possible thing.) He would hold me so sweetly and gently after we (“good girl”) came, but his dick stayed hard and I liked just laying there, petting it. Making friends.)

(The time he slept over, in the morning as he was getting dressed, he let his dick stick up through top of his boxers, pointing upwards out the top of his jeans. Such a fucking treasure of an image, that alone makes all these paragraphs worthwhile.)

I don’t really know how to put these pieces together to help me understand how I ended up feeling so deeply, but I guess love doesn’t need an explanation. A few months ago, before I met him, when dating life started to be so exciting and unbalancing again, I told my then-therapist that my goal was to “let the moment live.”

And I did! I put the paragraphs aside for a little while, didn’t ask what the meaning or status was, just let us be. I just let him please me. I let myself have him.  I let down my guard and let us love, and even if he wouldn’t have phrased it that way, I think it was something real and true.

In the context of the five-millionth breakoff of this blog’s life, it’s hard to frame my time with This Charming Man as progress, as a major heart-victory, but it was and is. I wholeheartedly let a man in. I let us adore each other so fully until our time was done. As the heartbreak lifts, little by little, I can feel the truth of him return to my body and soul as the gift that he was. As a strength. As another facet of the love that I am made of.

I don’t want to face the world of men with the hurt and defensiveness I’m feeling now. Yes, I probably should screen better, but I also want to leave room to be open, to push myself, to be surprised. I hope that openness will blossom out of me before too long, but for now there’s the grief that honors this big important thing. For now there are Christmas crafts, and friend-plans, and gentle hope. Putting the swiping aside for a bit, I feel sad and free.

 

 

Good Second Date to Ghost, Part Four

When it came to Nearby Guy’s lovely dick, I found myself frozen with self-consciousness. When, during my moments of touch-drunk subby sleepiness, he took my hand and placed it there, I was relieved to know exactly what I was supposed to be doing, but sort of at a loss about how I was supposed to be doing it. I’ve had such lovely times with such lovely penises all these long and multifaceted Kitten Calendar years, but I haven’t known any man well enough to get used to his dick’s ways, maybe since my early twenties, maybe never. (Possible exception: The Mayor of Kittentown. Pause for nostalgia…)

Nearby Guy lay on his back, basking like a cat in a sunbeam while I played tentatively with him, then worried my heart out that I was being too tentative. His body responded to me the way his personality did: leisurely, friendly, happy to be there and not in a particular rush. There wasn’t any reason for me to worry other than that he was being SO still and my hand sort of felt like it wasn’t my own.

I was sure that his other partners must know exactly what to do, sure that if I didn’t figure this out her would have no reason to ever come back. There wasn’t any reason to jump to such defeatist conclusions, except that I was tired and insecure and so many things had just happened all at once.

“I’m not a penis expert,” I said apologetically, “So feel free to give me directions.”

He did for a while. In my fantasy version of this situation, I’d have put his dick in his own gorgeous hand and let him show me what pressure and motions turned him on the best, playing with myself and looking him in the eye. This braver version of myself would have ended the evening happily rubbing his cum into my pinch-sore nipples.

What really happened was that a not-hot song came on in the middle of his instructions. I climbed out from between his legs to press skip, (My Spotify, my fault!)  (It was “Never Scared” by Bonecrusher, a fine song in less vulnerable situations!) and then I just lost the rest of my steam. I kissed him and then lay down on his belly, sighing “So much just happened!”

I felt overwhelmed, extra-naked, and small. I needed some aftercare, some sleep, some perspective. I have many compassionate thoughts for myself about this moment and those that followed, but let’s leave me there for now: Feeling stupid and wistful and lustful and satisfied, lost but still tangled in warmth.

Perfectly 1993 Guy, Part One

 

 

OMG! I’ve been putting off the brain-treat of writing about requited love all summer! Time to set a timer and start.

 

The day after I graduated, I moved away from my suburban town to go live with Beach Aunt at the shore. She was renting me a room for some insanely cheap price: I think it was 170$ a month. I gave a way lots of my thrift store clothes and most of my high school (sometimes Jane’s Addiction related) art. I kept a lot of the ridiculous tchotchkes I’d looted from a friend’s Thrifty Shopper job: Lots of sincere-looking animal figurines in Seventies colors. It might be my overly poetic memory, but I think I carried a (Little) birdhouse (In My Soul) on my lap in Beach Aunt’s overstuffed-with-everything-I-owned compact car.

 

I left behind Bucky Fellini, the rabbit I’d purchased at the State Fair the summer before and named after a Dead Milkmen album. Don’t worry, we will eventually be reunited! And I think the Dead Milkmen are still together!

 

I had 300$ in graduation money, a dozen white roses from my mom, and a new set of oil paints I would (spoiler alert) never be unlazy enough to learn how to use properly. I had a tape from the coolest girl in the school: Mary’s Danish on one side, mix after the album ran out on the other. Push th’ Little Daisies by Ween. Sensitive Artist by King Missile. Nineties AF. I had candles and incense that had been too stinky to burn in mom’s house. I had a floral vintage suitcase filled with thrift store lingerie. I was ready for nothing.

 

The strongest emotion of living in Beach Aunt’s house was the feeling of WAITING FOR LETTERS TO COME. Come to think of it, that defined part of my California time too, and even now, a little bit.

 

There was a bus that carried workers from Beach Aunt’s town to Great Adventure, so she helped me to get a job there. Not ambitious enough to wait for a spot to open up in the old-time photo studio or something else nominally creative, I took the easiest job to get: Maintenance. They gave me Smurf-blue shorts, a bright yellow shirt, and a visor. Not exactly a look to look for love in.

(Serendipity side-note: The Mayor of Kittentown worked there that summer too! We never met, but I think I probably flirted with him on the ride he operated, which, after several enjoyable minutes of Googling, I’ve deduced was just prosaically called the Giant Drop. Love a big drop ride!)

 

Aside from some one-night concert friends I’d made at a Dead Milkmen show when I first got to the beach (“If you don’t have Ween, then we’re gonna raise a scene!” the band sang, paraphrasing an important plot point of Punk Rock Girl.) I was essentially friendless for the first month of the summer. On days off, I would either float on my own in the pretty blue waves or take the bus to the park to rise the roller coasters for free. It never got old!

 

During one particularly tedious shift clearing tables and sweeping up cigarette butts in the 1950’s-themed area of the park (They only had about 10 songs in rotation. One can only take so much “Leader of the Pack.”) I met My First Bitchy Gay Guy, my literal partner -in-crime for the rest of the summer. He would be the one to introduce me to the very most Nineties-dreamy guy in the universe, who would be my first sex-with-love around midnight between our two early-September birthdays. Oh swoon swoon swoon.

 

 

 

 

#TBT: The Mayor of Kittentown and Being Bi for Realsies

As I've mentioned a few times, I'm in the process of turning the first year of The Kitten Calendar into the first book of a memoir trilogy, and that means I've had to fill in parts that were missing from the story the first time around. As much as I STILL sometimes wish I could simplify everything by being a lesbian, it's important to remember what to took to get in the habit of being true to my penis-loving self.

I named him The Mayor of Kittentown because he was the first man I had PIV sex with in seventeen years, (oh, whoops, spoiler alert!) and also because he mentioned on our first date that he’d been named Mayor of White Castle by Four Square. I was attracted to his profile because he mentioned Mystery Science Theatre 3000, had long, silky-looking dark blonde hair, was taller than me, and had a son—I have such a thing for dads. I told him that I had fond \memories of snuggling up with my goth, indoorsy Nineties boyfriend and watching “Manos” The Hands of Fate. I didn’t hear back right away. (Meaning not within a week or so—this was before everybody had the app on their phone and the process sped up.)

It was almost my default emotion in those days to be frustrated. I was in a meeting of my (Unitarian) church group processing irritation at a party-kissing-related near miss when MKT finally texted. He asked if we could get together sometime and a warm feeling wrapped my shoulders like an afghan made of sex-hope.

I was working in the library at the time and my boss noticed that I was ready for a date. She said she’d noticed a glow ever since I started going after guys, like I was coming into myself. I wore more makeup than I usually do (red lipstick=confidence) a red top that showed off my cleavage a little, my cute red girl-about-town raincoat and fake-Chucks sneakers because I had to take the bus.

Ah, riding the 23 bus to dates—45 minutes of feeling pretty and hopeful and texting my various two-person support groups for courage. The night I went to meet MKT it was a miserable, gusty October night—bitter and rainy. I felt awful for the Occupiers as I walked past their encampment and hoped they were bundled up warm in their tents. I made a mental note to mention them to him as a way of gauging whether he was an asshole or not—if he was mean about them, he would be out.

We were meeting at the science museum to watch “Eight Legged Freaks” MST3K style. When I saw him across the cosplay-dotted lobby, he looked snuggly but shy. I was delighted to see that he really was taller than me—I’m 5’ 10” so that’s hard to find! He felt nice to sit next to while we waited for the movie to start. He was a tech-guy early adopter who brought an iPad on a date so we scrolled through his photos, which I deemed sufficiently soulful: leaves, water, an inexplicable pile of decaying stuffed animals by the river.

He didn’t even make fun of me when, after I visited the restroom, the belt of my raincoat was hanging down and had clearly dipped itself in the toilet—a rom-com moment if there ever was one.

We walked through downtown to a diner after, my lifelong favorite way to eat. When we passed Occupy, he told me had a Lego display on his desk (a few blocks away in the tallest building in the city) of Star Wars characters carrying signs like “These are not the spending cuts we’re looking for,” “Occupy Tatooine” and “Tax the Hutts.” Of all the things I’d imagined potential dates saying about Occupy, this was not one of them.

With both of us being all of the awkward, conversation over French silk pie was stilted, but there was this: Both of us has worked at Great Adventure in the summer of 1993. Because I was slackersome and didn’t try for one of the better jobs, I was on the cleanup crew, sweeping up trash and cigarette butts and charming male workers into cleaning up roller coaster barf. He worked on the Demon Drop, which is exactly what it sounds like. You go up really high and it drops you, and you scream with delight. The thing is, though, I’d had a crush on the operator of that ride—I’ve always had a thing for the glasses/ponytail combo, but especially in my grungetastic teen years.

With that little coincidence, he seemed like a good prospect, until, almost to the bus stop, he mentioned that he frequented the nearby nude beach. I saw absolutely nothing wrong withit, but I said “Oh, I’d be way too shy for that!”

“Oh, I have body issues too.”

“Um, why would you assume I have body issues?”

One of the major psychological and actual barriers to me dating men has always been my size.  I’m 5’ 10” and a size 20, so as one former boyfriend remarked, there is nothing little about me. In the context of my own little world I can feel powerful and goddesslike, but it’s hard to avoid feeling fat in the eyes of men—part of me assumed that a man could NEVER find me attractive, so I looked for evidence of that, and almost always found it. Until I didn’t.

In follow-up emails I mentioned his statement and he was horrified to know that’s how I took it, telling me he did in fact find me nice to look at. He was by far the most promising candidate yet, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and invited myself over to his house to watch MST3K.

It took a little bit of juggling, but we found a Friday evening that worked. I had another datelike thing that afternoon, a walk through the local state park with a nice librarian I’d met through friends. It was the perfect picture of a fall day, like an advertisement for being alive. We took the less-trodden trails and found Narnian bridges and falling down stone fences. There’s a fancy inn in the park and we had apple crisp and spiked cider. I didn’t feel a spark with the librarian but it put me just in the right frame of mind for my MKT date.

What scared me the most was driving there. Though Sweetie was agreeable and encouraging about it, I had this idea that I might crash her car on the way and thus become the official worst person ever. She was a terrible backseat driver so it was always hard to find confidence, but I think the driving fear was just a way of feeling anxiety over being disloyal. Even when you’re bi and sorely in need of a penis, it’s very hard to transition to playing outside the marriage.

His newly-trendy neighborhood was very parked up, but I found a spot (pretty far away, it turns out) that I could go frontways into—parallel parking has never been my favorite thing.

From outside, his rowhouse (which he owned!) looked impressively adult—two well--kept arbor vitae framed the door and the window had a lovely beveled glass design—not so different from what I imagine my Grandmom had in the olden-days version of this city.

When he came to the door, I handed him the cupcake-taker (he’d requested lemon) and surveyed my surroundings. Toy-collecting divorced guy can go in many directions, but for him it was a somewhat tasteful one. There were toys on the mantle—a Peewee Herman doll, Gypsy from MST3K. There were Legos that looked decidedly untoylike, as they’d been built into tiny but intricate architectural structures, including (and this was a major selling point in his favor) Fallingwater (which, as I Google it for capitalization check, I notice comes in a kit.) All of his dishes seemed to be plastic, which I thought was endearingly single dadlike.

He had a beige two-people-can-recline couch, how could we not recline. He selected Red Zone Cuba for our MST3K and we settled in to our marooned astronaut (I think the Joel episodes are the only real ones) and his wisecracking robot pals.

He was easier to warm up to when we were alone than when we were out in public, and I easily snuggled into his lap. Somehow, we two must awkward of people took off our glasses and went from snuggling to making out.

In all of the years (seventeen, all told) that I’d been almost exclusively with women, what I missed most was the decadent teenage sensation of dry-humping, the feeling of straddling someone and finding something there. When I gathered the courage to climb into his lap, that rush came back to me with a surge of joy. He was big and hard beneath me, but what felt even better than that was the vitality of him—his whole body was shot through with pure life, and he smelled like aliveness, too, sweet and clean and strong.

Though our pants stayed on that night, we surged into each other like a waterfall. He took off my shirt and ran his hands over my shiny red bra, pet then gently over my back and through my hair. I wanted his hands in me, wanted more, and there was this completely new feeling of being of being utterly in charge and utterly at home.

But I wasn’t at home, and I never stopped being conscious of the digital clock next to the TV screen. I’d told Sweetie I’d be home around 11, and I counted the hours left in my head the way you do when you can’t sleep. When it was close to time to go, I had a few sips of soda so I would be alert for the drive home.

He grumbled about how far away I’d parked in a way that made me question his chivalry a little, but he walked me there nonetheless. We kissed goodbye and I drove home in a dizzy haze, changed.

After that, MKT and I fell into a routine. With my school stuff and his family obligations, we found time for each other every couple of weeks. I’d park far away, we’d watch part of a bad movie, catch up in kind of a cursory way, and then make out. The night we watched my favorite one, “Manos” Hands of Fate, found me splayed on the couch with his hands inside my favorite pink lacy underpants. The moon was big that night and when it was time for me to go, we couldn’t stop making out at the car, just like that couple at the beginning of the movie.

Ravenous though we both were, he was patient. He knew I hadn’t had PIV sex (or what most of the world simply calls “sex”) since a little after my twenty-first birthday in 1995. It that I’d been abstaining or anything,  I’d just been single for most of my twenties and then met Sweetie, been perfectly satisfied for a few years, then spent a handful of years being dissatisfied but not doing too much about it. I liked the idea of the kind and gentle MKT being my first-in-a-long-time.

Our relationship was somewhere on the friends with benefits spectrum, but I adored his penis. After three years of research and much, um, reflection I’m ready to pronounce it the best one. It’s difficult to believe that someone who’s walking around with something that amazing could be so meek and unassuming—kind of seems like a miracle! He was magnificent: long, thick, cheerily pink and perpetually hard. He apologized that his antidepressants made it difficult for him to climax, but that meant so many hours of good, hard enthusiasm.

The night I planned to go all the way with him (such an old timey term, I know) I was meeting him to see the new Muppet Movie—the one with Amy Adams and my imaginary boyfriend Jason Segel. Because I’d be taking the big step of staying over, I left the car for Sweetie and took the bus all the way across town. It was early December but not too cold so I could wear my red coat again, but with a teal beret and mittens. They were the kind the kind with flap and the the button on the back so that they were both mittens and gloves.

I was excited to see both MKT and the Muppets, but I felt a little bit off. There was someone else on my mind, someone you’ll meet in the next chapter, someone more Domlike, the appraising look he would give me if he saw me dolled up. I liked MKT and he liked me back in a way that (because I am the worst) Made me just a little less turned on by him. He was nudist at heart, wouldn’t care about the lipstick or the pretty shoes I walked 9 blocks from the bus stop in.

MKT did, in fact care about the lipstick. He had a little girls-are-icky moment of worry that is would get on him as we kissed hello. The other guy had no such compunction—our relationship was pretty much based on his ability to demolish lipstick.

Nonetheless, MKT was the perfect person to watch the Muppets with (re-watch, actually—I’d seen it with my family on Thanksgiving) and as we bussed over to his neighborhood, he wove his hands into my mitten/gloved ones. Because of his deadly shyness, there was always something excruciating about being in public with him, but he was fundamentally sweet and I was fundamentally ready for him.

He was radiant with health and life. Even though it was time for his Lego Christmas village to be up and running, he still shined with beach light—every bright smile I would learn to smile naked on a beach was in there and I still can’t think of a more welcome guest, a more welcome friend.

I’d been ravenous for a penis inside me for many years, but I’d also wondered if it was a forbidden fruit situation—did I only want it because I couldn’t have it? Would I get a man inside me and discover I was a true blue lesbian after all? I half hoped for that, it sure would have uncomplicated things.

But as he slipped the condom on and pushed inside me, I felt a great heave of relief and happiness. Joy came out of my lungs in great gasping wails. I loved it so much. I paused my caterwauling long enough to ask if the neighbors would mind, and he said he didn’t care.

We didn’t get to snuggle in the morning, because he had a Lego convention to get to. To catch the train on time, we had to be out of the house by 8:45. I had a having-a-hard time feeling of being claustrophobic in my own skin, but also the sanguine feeling of having an inner suntan. Every memory of him feels a little beachy, even if we never made it to the beach together. There’s rosy cheeks and sand in my hair when I think of him.

We were a little early for the train, so we stopped at Dunkin Donut to get breakfast. As I ate I prattled a way about poly and sex and Sweetie and he started to look worriedly around like he didn’t want anyone to overhear.

“Are you…ashamed of me?” Vexingly, tears came and I lost all semblance of friend-with-benefits-playing-it cool-ness, if I’d had any to begin with.

“What? No! I’m just not used to people talking about this stuff.”

I sniffled and felt myself sink inward, away from him. I spread cream cheese on my bagel and stared down at the table while he reached for my hand.

“I’m not ashamed.”

“Because if you are…” I set my jaw and tried to be brave, but I was sad to be so close to a dealbreaker, sad about everything, ashamed myself. I’d trusted him, it has felt so good, but what if he was someone who couldn’t like me for what I was? I mean, I already knew we weren’t long term, because of the whole he’s-not-poly thing, but I also knew that I wanted something darker, deeper, more permanent. I wanted to be spanked and dominated and owned, but most of all, I wanted the crazy, cracked romance I already felt for another character.

MKT walked me to the train and made sure I was really okay—my warmed-up body felt opposite to my heavy heart, and what I wanted most was to go home and get into bed with Sweetie. It was a long trip from his side of the city to the bus that would take me back home. I felt wistful for all three of the people on my mind and cheered myself by texting updates to my friends. This morning was both an accomplishment and an ending, both a triumph and a betrayal, but I covered the complication with bravado.

When I finally got home and got in bed with Sweetie, she tried to embrace me but I felt her body stiffen and then sigh into sadness. With tears in her voice she said “You smell…different.”

In the rush to get MKT off to the convention, I hadn’t showered. The smell I wanted to keep with me and mull over was hurting the person I loved most. I said I was sorry.

“Nono, I don’t want to make you feel dirty, like you HAVE to shower, it’s just…”

The wind went out of my sails and I felt so trapped and frustrated. It had felt so good. the shirt he’d lent me, a bit of tech conference swag that said “Heck yeah!” on the front was expressing how part of me felt, how all of me wanted to feel. Here in my own bed, I was so far away from the joyous shouts of the night before. I was a tangle of warring sensations as I lay there and dozed with Sweetie.

Overtaking it all was the unassailable physical well-being that went all the way to my core—if it had had a voice, it would have sounded like this: “I’m bi! I’m bi! I’m bi! I’m really DOING this, can you believe it?”

My limbs were soft and warm and my belly felt full, full in a way I’d craved for so long—it wasn’t that I’d been empty without him, but I was empty without that part of me finding expression.

Then there was the guilt—as much as I wanted to love what I was, to find a way to fully inhabit myself and really bi up a storm, it was heartbreaking to know that I’d hurt her, that this was one in a series of so many disloyalties. I’d already hurt her so much by not being gay, and I would hurt her so much more (and only sometimes in a fun way.) It would be years before our relationship would be at peace, and even then only after monumental changes.

And then there was the loss. I loved my life with Sweetie so much, it was so full of snuggles and birdwatching and Sundays in bed, and I knew what I’d done, what I’d admitted I WAS would change our relationship forever.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part 6: Hot Sex, Hot Hand-Holding

As I’ve been writing my way through this story, I’m conscious of being the least experienced person in the tent, at least when it comes to this kind of sex, and trying to keep things in perspective. I’m thinking about oxytocin and other bonding chemicals and how they might be the source of these lovely deep feelings of connection. When I write about it, I’m agnostic about energies and such, but in the moment, none of those thoughts or doubts were relevant at all. I was, for those few hours, a true believer in magic, men, myself, and everything else, like a horny mystic on ecstasy.

So back to where I was, snuggled between two radiantly warm guys, one-in-each-hand, hands in my hair, on my back, everywhere. Legs intertwined. Kissing, kissing, kissing. I was enveloped in the smell of them—one smelled fresh, the other, more dark and musky. Both smells made me ravenous for them.

We paused for a moment to go over our testing situations, of course. The guys geeked out for a while about STI science facts, and then it was back to the snuggles.

Mr. Shiny Eyes put on a condom and a glove. He slid his hand in and I was as wet as I’ve ever been. His fingers jolted my inside awake and alert and every nerve ending lit up like Christmas. I wanted so badly for him to fuck me. There was a little fuss about positions (remember, we’re on an air mattress, and one that could use some inflating at that) and he ended up deciding to lay back and have me climb on.

“But I’m a bottom…” I complained only a tiny bit.

“Okay, then I’m making you be on top.”

Friends, it had been since last August. I’ve had plenty of adventures, as you know, but for whatever reason it’s been much easier to get a guy to spank me, flog me, tie me up, set me on fire, drag a knife over my (pajamaed) clit, etc—for some reason this part of things has been elusive.

I was so, so happy to have Mr. Shiny Eyes inside me. All of him is so smooth and assured—his arms, his kisses, his penis. As soon as I straddled him and pushed him in, waves of delight sparked up inside me and I started making ridiculous sounds. As the Mayor of Kittentown’s neighbors would attest, I can never contain my joy when a man is inside me. I am super, super loud, and since I’m a showoff, I was glad to feel like the whole festival could hear me.

Since up until this point, I’d only Googled two-(or ten, or a hundred) guys-one-girl, and so even though everybody knows life isn’t like porn I feel compelled to talk about the contrast. In videos, the men always talk around the girl, either egging on the other men or talking about practical things like which way to bend her. Sometimes they might as well be moving a couch, for all the interaction they have with the lady. Of course, that objectification is fun to watch, but would never be fun to do.

This was the complete opposite of that in every way. Even as I was being bent into ways I didn’t know I could bend, (thank goodness for yoga) I felt like they were both so there for me, like they were being so generous, that we were all working as a team to get what we needed.

As Mr. Shiny Eyes fucked me, Mr. Sweetheart was kindly there to help, kissing me, pulling my hair, giving my ass the occasional helpful smack. But my favorite, the part of the day that I revisit the most, is when I reached out and he just took my hand. That hand-holding was so tender that it might have been a friendship oath. That support is a magic thing to walk through my days with.

But back to Mr. Shiny Eyes. After I first met him, back at that conference, I asked around and folks told me his dance card is really full—and no wonder! He moved in me like an expert. I kept saying/panting “Oh, you’re so perfect, no wonder you’re so popular.” He kept going until I exploded into fireworks, and we all piled up again for snuggles.

Next time: Pillow talk and being held down a lot.

A Dream, a Song

I was just thinking last night about how I was in a pretty unsentimental place right now when it comes to male partners, and then I had a dream wherein:

1. I was getting to be real friends with Bill.
and
2. I said the following to MKT's son: "Say hi to your dad for me, and tell him I'm sorry I missed the movie."

My waking life may be focused on other things, but my dreamlife is still emo.

Love Letter for This Time Last Year

Student teaching is really taking it out of me, friends. To the point where I don’t know how to find myself at all some days.

Loneliness, fatigue, and a way-too-early Christmas commercial have been making me a little pine-y for this time last year, when I met both the Mayor of Kittentown and Bill within the span of a few weeks. Though I really value everything that’s happened since then, they were something really special and I miss them every day. There’s a little piece of me always whispering come back to them. Not out loud, that would be creepy, just around the edges of my consciousness when I’m falling asleep at night or hitting the snooze in the morning. It’s a dusky feeling, a curl-up-by-the-door-and-wait.

For those few months that I had them, it was my first glimpse of what a real bisexual life could be like. It was what I told myself my whole life that I couldn’t have. I was getting along mostly with Sweetie, getting excellent vanilla satisfaction from MKT, and collecting consensual bruises from Bill.

After all those years without the welcome weight of a man on me, I finally had it, and though the transition was sometimes terrible between me and Sweetie (There were a series of couch-themed fights, and the phrase “go suck some dicks” often came into play…) (Don’t mind if I DO, btw.) but for the most part my mood and our sex life improved.

They were never going to be long term—besides being monogamous, they both had a deep lack of chivalry—but I still wishwishwish I could have kept them. It feels unlikely that I’ll ever settle into a man again the way that I settled into them. I would love to jump in the sex-TARDIS and go back to being curled up with MKT and his cats watching Mystery Science Theater, or underneath Bill as his eyes bored into me, as he marked me too much with his teeth. As MKT kissed the bruises without asking why they were there.

Of course, I’ve moved forward, had adventures that neither one of them was equipped for, but together, they showed me what it could be like, all the different things to want, how to be a woman who is wanted by men.

It all seems so far away now. I have plenty of offers for friendly and no doubt expert floggings, but the dream of romance (or even the approximation of romance) seems so far away.

I don’t know if I’ll find love like that again, if I’ll ever check my inbox again to find the perfect song. Sometimes this year has an air of finality, a midlife crisis I made the most of and now have to leave. Those two might not have been right, might not have been mine, but they were close, and I let them be close. So, even if I can’t really mean it, come back.

Two Songs for a Good Beach Re-do

It might have just been the beach endorphins, but I was really glad to run into the Mayor of Kittentown and Monogamous Girl at the beach yesterday. You wouldn’t think so, after last time, but it was really illuminating.

They were coming down the path as I was leaving, which meant that we helpfully all had clothes on. He looked so handsome and she looked beautiful—they were glowing with health and happiness. In my version of reality, I would have happily pounced on both of them, but what really happened was, I felt a teensy little glimmer of compersion.

MG and I shook hands bravely. MKT told me about a baby horseshoe crab they’d seen. It reminded me of my nature-y endeavors with Sweetie, so how could I not be charmed? A few moments of chitchat and it was over, and I felt a great sense of accomplishment on getting past that initial awkward. (Though, knowing both of us, I’m sure there’s more awkward to come.) I texted him a *high five* when I got back to cell phone range.

I have to begrudgingly admit that my little jealous breakdown on the beach a few weeks ago is probably a good thing in the long run. It was another (like the millionth) reminder that he was a bigger deal to me than I thought, that I have to stop trying to be casual girl when what I really want is long term relationships. (Just like Rory Gilmore!) More importantly, it pushed me past Mister Hazel Eyes a little faster than I might have gone, and I’m starting to see that as a good thing.

Being ready for (or at least preferring) someone with the possibility for a long term relationship is a healthy and honest thing for me. I am grateful that MHE is behind me if it makes me more open to what comes next. It is time to start believing in love and doing what it takes to get there.

Here are some nicely bittersweet songs from the drive home:

Mr. Popular Gets Lucky, Part Two

There’s a lot to celebrate about my visit to Mr. Popular’s house on Monday. 

His home is beautiful. I guess four incomes (his, his wife’s, his ex-wife’s and his ex-wife’s husband’s) can buy a lot of house. It’s perfectly decorated and meticulously cared for, to the last detail. They are surrounded by a lush, beautiful garden. You’ve got to be impressed by a man who grows his own pears. He picked one for me and it was very juicy. The juice ran all down my arm.

When we walked into the house, his pregnant ex-wife was chopping up eggplant for dinner with her husband and us. Un-oh, eggplants, this caused me some anxiety—I’m a picky eater and dinners in people’s homes can be a little fraught. I vowed to myself that I would be a big girl and eat whatever was put in front of me.

Mr. Popular and I sat on his bed singing approximately one million Beatles songs—it was ridiculously fun. I was a little self-conscious that the rest of the family could hear my caterwauling, but mostly I just sang with my whole body and heart. We hadn’t even kissed yet so it was exciting and adorable when he’s put his hand on my knee or his head on my shoulder. Like any good date, there was a fair amount of high-fiving. He was singing the harmony, but when the melody was too low for me, we’d switch and he’d sing my part. We made a good team. He put waaaaaay too much feeling into “Fixing a Hole” and I laughed until tears came down my face. We both got a possessive, cathartic thrill out of belting out “Run For Your Life,” probably the least poly song ever:

We got called down to dinner and there was plenty for my picky self to eat. I felt shy around the rest of the family, but he says I did okay. They went on a Whole Foods run after dinner and left us to do the dishes. I’d rather wash than dry, so this marks the first time I’ve washed a guys dishes before I’d even kissed him. We had a nice time bickering about his terrible taste in music (He only learned about the Beatles from Rock Band, can you imagine?!) and gently brushing up against each other.

After dishes and quite the grueling Abbey Road medley, it was time to snuggle. I got under the covers and right into his arms. He kissed me and made little yummy noises that took some getting used to. He is skinnier than my usual type and definitely bottomy, so he felt a little fragile, but warm, safe, deft. He ran his hands over my breasts and I sighed and cooed. Things were going fast so I said “Okay, just so you know, we’re not going past third base.”

This lead to a lengthy, silly discussion of what the bases are. I think I’m the only adult who still refers to the base system. It’s not like I think there’s only four things to do, I just keep adding more bases. Knowing where this blog is, for example, is 29^th base.

Anyway, he felt so sweet and comforting, and was kind and matter-of-fact about my “I had HPV six months ago” revelation, that I quickly revised my third-base-only assertion.

He felt sooooo good inside me. I may or may not have alienated the rest of the household with my vociferousness. I had to hold back my yelps because the ex-wife is not a fan of overhearing—it was really hard to hold back, I reeeeeaaaaaly missed this kind of sex; I really wanted to loudly celebrate. (A little nostalgia here for the Mayor of Kittentown, who lives in a rowhouse but never minded how much carrying on the neighbors might overhear--thanks for that, pal.) It may be a little fast for me to be all the way underneath someone on the second date, but the connection between us felt real. I’m not sure how deep it was, but it was genuine. I felt him gasp and surrender and come inside me (in the condom, of course). I told him that was the first time that’s happened since the Nineties, so thanks.

We chatted for a good long while after that—Mr. Popular is very easy to talk to. His soft orange kitty joined us on the bed, oh, the joy of getting to know new cats. I may have gone on a little too much about Mister Hazel Eyes, but he didn’t seem to mind—he’s in favor of me cutting MHE some slack and letting more things happen. Who knows.

We fell asleep in cozy friendship, my arm around him and petting the cat.

There’s a lot to be said for being let into someone’s life, even if it’s just for an evening. I appreciate his sweetness and generosity and warmth so much. His calendar is very full but I hope he fits me in, even if it’s just as a sometimes treat.

Ohno Jealousy at the Beach

There are so many things I love about this new life I’m creating, but I’m kinda feeling nostalgic for the days when exes probably wouldn’t see me naked again. Yesterday I ran into my ex-FWB, the Mayor of Kittentown, at the nude beach. I just flat-out ran out of knowing what to do. I saw him bobbing around in the waves and was just going to avoid him since I was having a fragile day, but he came over, wearing nothing but sea-salt and a pained expression. I’m sure mine was equally pained.

I gave him a lean-way-over-so-our-hips-don’t touch hug, it was all I could think of to do, and he kind of acted like I was hitting on him. He was all “Well, (Monogamous Girl) is here, so…”

And I said “Okay, we’re going this way now.” and dragged Sweetie off down the beach. We were only a little way down when I just started to cry. I stood there with my feet in the waves, naked in the cloudy sun but feeling as far away as I’ve ever felt from my inner Bettie Page, crying so hard that I worried I was ruining the beach for everyone. Sweetie felt so good and soft, holding me and trying not to cry herself.

And then the jealousy rolled in, angry, ugly, rip-her-face-off jealousy, which made no sense, because what had she ever done to me? She’s just a better match! But I seriously wanted to pee on their picnic blanket. I wanted to tell her that he’d told me they had no spark together. Of course I didn’t do those things, just left them alone. I know that you all know this, but this jealousy stuff is AWFUL, how does anybody every get through it?

The worst part was how UGLY I felt. I even had that high school feeling of “Better not let them see me eating, it’ll just remind them how fat I am.” I took deep breaths and asked my body for help coming back into myself, and I eventually did, mostly.

I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN DO THIS. I don’t know if I can keep letting guys into my life, knowing how quickly and easily they can just be gone. Mister Hazel Eyes isn’t poly (yet) and it’s hard not to imagine him ending up in the arms of some more available sweetheart some day soon. The dumped-for monogamy thing just kills me, just seems insurmountable.

I wondered all day on the beach if I should break it off with Mister Hazel Eyes because the pain of MKT is so acute. Sweetie, wise person that she is, says it doesn’t make sense to break it off with someone I like just because he might break up with me someday. I know she’s right. I know that there are all kinds of combinations of people who stay together in all sorts of circumstances. There’s no reason not to keep giving him a chance. I have to somehow find the other side of my abandonment fears and stop putting them where they don’t belong. Somehow.

But I really don’t know if I am cut out for this. I’m scared and I don’t know what to do. The Mayor of Kittentown sent apologetic texts all last evening; he says he hopes we can all be friends someday. Maybe next summer, who knows?

Sweetie couldn’t have been more supportive, of course, but right now it feels like everybody’s disappearing, and I just have to let it feel like that for a while.

Unsurprisingly, I Love the Clothing-Optional Beach, Part Three

We did get to bob around in the water with the poly meetup group, though they eventually got pulled away by the current. I don’t always know quite what to say, but I was glad to float and smile with them. I asked The Lady of the House if the beach is always this queer-friendly, and she explained that we were currently in the gay section, (the other side was the family section) so yeah. I oohed and aaaaaaaahed about getting to hug Sweetie in the water. did I really wait all this time to feel this way? What’s the MATTER with me?

The whole day was such a joy, and my worries about nipple-sunburn never materialized, staved off by lots of spray. (Big big thanks to the reader pal who suggested spray-on sunscreen how can I ever thank you?)

When we weren’t swimming, I lay on the blanket delighting in being exposed or sat up and people watched. It was similar to my first BDSM event because it gave me a chance to revel in the abundant variations of the human body. Sometimes we can get trapped in a simple schema of what a body should look like, a cookie-cutter frame built from TV and dumb fashion magazines, but the real diversity of bodies is so wonderful to behold. Every single person there, clothed or not, looked flushed, sun-kissed, relaxed. I am so grateful that people were generous enough to share their bodies with my happy eyeballs.

And then, of course, there’s being seen. After a while it dawned on me that I was surrounded by penises, that there were hundreds of men there, gay, straight, bi, poly, pan, omni, everything, and they could all look at me if they wanted to. YAY!  The point of this beach isn’t to get turned on, I don’t think (Guys, can you tell me how you avoid it? If I had a thingie it would have been sticking straight up for seven hours. I would have had to consult a physician.) but I got turned on. I struck a pose and when I noticed a guy looking, I’d meet his gaze and soak it up. I can’t believe I felt so free and safe. What a gift.

Of course I had to have some personal time in the car on the way home.

The next day, I cried a lot. I cried happy tears over how beautiful and generous everyone was, I cried sad tears for how long we’d waited to try it, for the sensations we’d missed until then. I cried lucky tears for feeling so accepted, and I cried wistful heartbroken tears for not getting to share the place with the Mayor of Kittentown. Sweetie held and patted me and told me I’m good. She assured me that we could go back soon and of course we’ve got it on the calendar.

As much of a revelation as it was to be there with Sweetie, I really want to find the right guy to go with, too. Well, I don’t want to find a new one, I want to go with MKT, but since that’s not possible, I put up a personal on the beach’s FetLife group under the heading of “Seeking a Nice Naked Guy.” Lo and behold, plenty of dudes would be glad to go with me. Their naked selves are more intimidating on the screen than they are in person (Maybe it’s the screen’s proximity to my face?) but once I take a few days to get over being overwhelmed by their responses, I look forward to making some new friends.

Rejection is Not an Assessment or a Humiliation…Right?

As a poet, I should be better-prepared to be rejected. Over the years, I have received hundreds of rejection slips for hundreds of poems, manuscripts, etc, and only very rarely did I feel that they had any bearing on the quality of my work. If only I could have that same confidence about myself!

Though it’s been mostly a very happy week over here, I’ve been laying awake with very jealous, hurty feelings about the Mayor of Kittentown. It’s isn’t so much that he belongs to her now; it’s that he officially no longer belongs to me. I’m bothered by the difference between being able to belong to multiple people and only belonging to one—instead of just having a different heart, I worry that I might have a deficient one. I think childlike thoughts like “How could he just throw me away?” in spite of the fact that I broke up with him about two and a half times. I knew we weren’t going to fall in love, I always encouraged him to keep looking (which looks, in retrospect, like its own kind of cruelty…) but the loss of our physical friendship is hitting me hard, it’s breaking my heart, making me feel a little bit dismantled.

Rejection bogs me down. For whatever reason, his rejection seems to negate everything good that he made me believe about myself: that I could trust a man, that I could have a happy bisexual life, that I’m can be beautiful and sexy to men. Somehow it feels like he took those things away just by not wanting me anymore, that I need him (and Bill, and Fireguy) just to have those hot feeling back, but I understand intellectually that that’s just not true.

These men so far, things have gone so wrong with them that I feel as if I have failed a series of entrance exams, that I failed to qualify for their gender. Losing each of them has been so exquisitely painful that it’s hard to feel connected to the good things that have happened, to all the real progress that I’ve made.

I tend to mistake rejection for facts: Bill said he couldn’t have a serious relationship with a poly woman, so I felt unlovable. Fireguy didn’t like being written about, so I thought the project itself made me unlovable. MKT’s simpler (?) idea of love makes me feel like I’m too hopelessly, messily complicated for men.

And I AM complicated, but that doesn’t mean that there won’t be a guy who’ll love me for it—I believe those are called, uh,  polyamorous guys—who’ll be willing to share his life with me. Two of the men in the previous paragraph identified as monogamous, and the other was a heartbroken mess, so I don’t think I can make any generalizations about them, other than 1. Duh, date poly guys and 2. Don’t be a rebound redhead.

I would love to have back all of the good physical lessons I got from them, to not have the hot self-discoveries cancelled out by the fact that they’re gone. Not too long ago, in a Poly Weekly episode about minimizing scene drama, either Minx or her guest said something like “Just because someone disagrees with you doesn’t make you less awesome.” I would LIKE to think that just because someone doesn’t want to fuck me and/or fall in love with me doesn’t make me any less lovable and/or hot.” No one can turn back time and take away those experiences—no one can take any of it away.

Of course this goes back to the heart of this project—learning to approve of myself so that I don’t have to wear myself down trying to gain approval from others, except in fun ways, of course. I started this quest for my inner Bettie Page because I wanted her confidence, the way the looks boldly into the camera, the way she returns the gaze. She is not going to shrink timidly into nothingness when the lens turns away from her, and neither am I.

Dear Divine Whatever,

Please help me to collect and feel whatever good they’ve all given me so far, to take it in as fuel to bravely move forward, believing in every glance and touch and step, having faith in whatever radiates out of me at my proudest, most joyful moments.

(To which I can imagine the Divine Whatever saying: “Good girl. So pretty.”)

Unsurprisingly, I Love the Clothing-Optional Beach! Part One

Last Saturday was one of my top three favorite adventures so far (along with public fireplay and Sweetie’s knack for ropes.) I love the feeling that I get sometimes that this was what I was made to do. I’ve liked all the time I’ve spent at regular beaches, having a nice time but sometimes feeling self-conscious, not getting to show Sweetie the (mostly-chaste) affection that straight couples always feel free to show in the ocean. I honestly didn’t know how much I was missing.

But before I get into the Edenic delightfulness of the day, I have to confess a few sad things about it:

At the moment, Sweetie and I are unsure of the future of our relationship. For all the progress we’ve made, we still argue badly and cause each other a great deal of pain. She worries a lot that I’m not really hers, that all of our co-adventures and connections don’t mean anything, that everything wonderful between us can be taken away, and that causes her to lash out sometimes, which scares me, which leads to stupid marathon fights. For all of my work this year, I still feel ashamed of liking men and wanting to submit to them, and I often feel like she is judging me  about them. I spend a lot of time feeling lonely, and so does she. We’re isolated and it’s not good. We’re together for the time being, being as kind and loving as we know how, but we don’t know if we can make it. One way or another, I would like an end, or even a reduction, of the sadness and tension between us.

The other sad thing is that the clothing-optional beach made me really, really miss the Mayor of Kittentown. Though he wasn’t there that day, he frequents the same beach and I’d always thought we’d go there together, I always thought that would be our adventure.  The feeling of my body being warm and bare and loved and accepted reminded me of what it sometimes felt like to be next to him. I feel like a failure for not figuring out a way to be with him, for not being enough to convince him to be more flexible about monogamy. When he told me he’s going there next weekend with Monogamous Girl, I felt the first deep, dark stabs of jealousy that I’ve ever felt about him—I guess it’s good that I don’t usually feel jealousy about someone until he is totally lost to me.

I wish that I could have shared a day at the beach with him, could have felt his bare body there, happy next to mine. I’m sure that I can find another naked guy, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling regretful. It has, however, spurred me into action—it’s time to somehow find a way to start dating/playing with guys again. I can’t keep looking back.

That being said, let’s start the story of our happy beach day. Sweetie and I got up early, ate our customary strawberry waffles in front of a Gilmore Girls episode, and were packed up and on the road by 6:30. I drove the first leg, bleary-eyed and shuffling through folk songs. I didn’t know what to expect from the day, just knew I needed a wide horizon and a change of scenery.  Sweetie worked on the same page of crossword puzzles that she has been working on all summer, an activity that makes me bubble up with love for her.

As we neared the beach, it really was like driving into an Eden. It felt magical as we turned down deep green and sandy beach roads, spotting egrets, cat birds, butterflies. The place felt redemptive—I doubted whether I could deserve something as beautiful as this, yet here it was. Despite warnings that the parking lot fills up quickly, we found a space and parked.

My body felt the relief of the place well before we were in the nude sunbathing area. As soon as I changed into my bathing suit, I felt myself become soft and sweet, free. My thighs, my shoulders, my feet felt loved. I felt Sweetie’s body relax as well. Free of the shame and tension inside us and between us, we could spend the day being our best/real selves, what a relief. We followed the happy crowd down to the beach.

Next: Self-Conscious for about Ten Seconds.

Some Fears I Would Like to Grow Out Of

Yesterday I was having breakfast with a friend who is in the process of transitioning from female to male. I was telling him about my recent dating adventures and subsequent fears. He told me that a lot of the fears I have about men, he has about being a man—they’re things he was worried about turning into. That really made it hit home that my fears are prejudices—no one should have to be scared to become a man because of stereotypes, and I shouldn’t be afraid to date them, either.

I work in an afterschool program with elementary students who are very dogmatic about gender. At least once a week, I give them a rousing speech about how limiting gender generalizations are. I’m a social justice-y egalitarian-minded girl and I’m ashamed to be walking around with my own terrible generalizations. Part of the reason I started this project was to learn my way out of my terrible ideas about men, so maybe listing and debunking some of those fears will help.

1. Doll-phobia.  Most of the fears are me-specific. For example, I don’t think that guys want every woman to be a sex-doll, I’m just afraid that my emotions are so ugly and crazy that men will only want to enjoy my body as separate from my personality. As with all of these fears, I’m not sure why I don’t apply them to women—Sweetie seems perfectly fine with my mess of a personality, just as I adore hers. Also, I have lots of platonic guy friends, so I guess that this fear only applies to men who are attracted to me. Which brings me to:

2. Attraction feels like aggression. Whenever a guy is attracted to me, especially in the toppish way that I crave, it feels very dangerous. I guess I have a hard time thinking that guys are capable of feeling genuine affection towards me, so the pursuit I’m craving feel scary and I worry that it is just a way to hurt me. This is a terrible thing to think about people. I always wished I could have gotten to know Bill separate from this idea, but maybe I sought him out because he proved the fear—I’ll never know, because I never really knew him.

3. I’ve always worried that I’m missing some essential quality that would make me appealing to men. I’ve always felt like other women just had some secret that I wasn’t let in on.

As much as I enjoy being a bottom, one of the qualities that I worry about being without is compliance. I’ve been really shocked and hurt by the way that men have tried to control me outside of scene situations. Not ALL of them, of course—the Mayor of Kittentown was a loyal reader and was super supportive of all of my other endeavors as well. He never displayed jealousy, but instead, like Sweetie, seemed to genuinely root for my other adventures to be fruitful. He never made me feel like I had to change or hold anything back. I also have so many wonderful and generous guy friends who have supported me every step of the way. I guess this fear is also top-specific, but I know that the right top would not expect me to be compliant outside of scenes.

4. I’m-Not-the-Pretty-Sister Syndrome: I am afraid that there will always be a woman that he loves better, and that means that I’m afraid that I can’t ever have a relationship with a guy who truly belongs to me. That is a dangerous fear for a polyamorous woman to have—feeling like I’m always going to be less-than is going to be a nightmare if I end up in a constellation. I think the key to this is to make myself start dating only guys who are emotionally available, whether they are in other relationships are not. When I feel loved, validated, and free, I don’t feel competitive.

5. I’m afraid that my size makes me unlovable and untoppable (again, by men). When I first started thinking about dating men, I had strong fantasies about being taken, especially just being shoved into a wall and kissed. But I had this idea that because I am so big and bossy I could never feel what it’s like to be pursued, for someone to want me enough to take the initiative and the lead.

When I was in middle school, my drama teacher told me I was too tall to ever be the leading lady, and I certainly have watched men respond more positively to smaller women.

When I first joined FetLife and started going to play parties, I started to see the reality that men like all different shapes and sizes of women, and that every woman can be a hot showoff sex goddess the way that I want to be. I started to feel that for myself.

Yet somehow, I still get the idea, that guys see me as less than other women because of my size, maybe not les fuckable, but less datable. I was convinced that Bill wouldn’t go out in public with me because he thought I was too fat, and I never had the courage to ask him.

Society does seem to teach us to value fat people less than skinny people, big women less than little. Being not-skinny does come with all kind of stereotypes and assumptions.

One of the worst of these, and one I have to fight myself from thinking, is that a fat girl better fuck anybody who asks, because we’re lucky to be asked at all. That’s part of what makes it difficult for me to wait for the right person/people to come along, even though I want to feel like I deserve the right connections.

6. The other night at the poetry reading, a guy read a story that suggested that the plain woman had to give up the idea of finding a guy she’s attracted to, or she would deserve whatever heartbreak she gets. I’ve felt guilty these past months because physical attraction is important to me, not the only thing that’s important, but still.

7. And I am very worried that I am too ugly for a man. I don’t have a pretty little face; it’s very pronounced and expressive. Remember MySpace profile pics? I never could master the slack, dreamy, passive look we were all supposed to have in those, any more than I can stop myself from smiling in photos where I’m being submissive—nor should I ever have to!

I know that men are not shallow automatons who choose whatever face and body type they are told to. I see all different looks and bodies on women who are in happy relationships with guys. Again, these fears are mostly me-specific.

I hope that by naming some of the fears, I can start to move past them. They seem pretty stupid when I write them all down. I would love to let guys in to prove the fears wrong and start moving towards real connections. I want to stop selling guys so short, give them time to get to know me, and let myself get to know them. Like Sweetie always says, I have a lot of dreams.

Goodbye (Again), Mayor of Kittentown

“She wasn’t just cleaning out her locker, she was cleaning out her life.” (Kevin Arnold on The Wonder Years as Winnie Cooper got ready to leave town.)

This week, I broke things off with the Mayor of Kittentown. For the third time. I’ve never been quite able to figure out what doesn’t work between us, only that something doesn’t. I’ve known almost the whole time that he wasn’t a romantic match, and maybe I’m just not an FWB kind of girl.

Remember last week when I was feeling fretful about guys only liking me for my boobs? Here’s part of why: I was texting with MKT, just catching up because we hadn’t seen each other in a while. When I asked how things were going with the other woman he’s dating, he said she wasn’t really exciting him too much and

“Besides, she needs bigger boobs. ;)”

I sent him back an “Eeeeeeew” for talking about a woman’s body that way, it really got under my skin. Yes, I’ve heard and enjoyed guys saying much filthier things, but in dirty-talk context and therefore consensual—how would she feel if she knew he was saying that about her? He isn’t poly so I can’t expect him to know he shouldn’t compare us, but the fact that that’s the first way he could think of to say he liked me better, not my heart, my face, my general enthusiasm for B-movies and pancakes, just my boobs, of course.

The trouble with being new to sex with guys is that I don’t always notice when I don’t like something until it is kind of way too late to do anything about it. Like I’ve said before, I like for my boobs to get lots of attention, but the way he fixated on them was kind of childish. “Boobies!” He would say often, even on days where I was feeling objecty from other jackasses. And the fact that I was feeling objecty from other jackasses always made me want to give MKT a pass.

Is worrying about being an object old-fashioned or prude? It certainly does seem to be getting in the way of my fun.

He said insensitive things in other ways, too. On out first date he said something demeaning about a homeless person, he made jokes about them regularly. I think that’s a mainstream thing to do, but I thought it showed a lack of empathy—a lot of my dealbreakers just seem like guidelines for being a decent human being, but I still feel obligated to compromise them sometimes. I am a perfectionist and I don’t want to be, but I guess limits are limits. Close to the end of our relationship, he told me he’d once tweeted that the woman being loud on the bus behind him “Should choke on a bucket of cocks.” That’s hard for a girl like me to get past, even though, again, comments like that are part of everyday culture. I’m sure plenty of decent guys say things like that every day nowadays, it sucks.

Anyway, those seemed like small things compared to the fact that he was being so sweet to me almost always. I wanted to like him because he liked me. He has the prettiest green eyes and (when it isn’t leering) an angelic smile. He called me beautiful and held me when I was sad. Sex was always fun between us, even if we both wanted to be on the bottom. He’d usually take the top and make me a very loud, happy girl. His neighbors probably got woken up more than once.

But I can’t quite get away from the idea that being together when we aren’t/won’t be in love is a kind of using each other. It feels objectifying to both of us. I wish that I didn’t feel that way—I am very, very frustrated that sex is such a big deal to me, it’s really gunking up my experiments. Maybe it isn’t a matter of rejecting the whole idea of FWBs, maybe just this particular situation didn’t work?

All in all, I’m grateful to him. He was such a good first-in-a-long-time—I appreciate that so much. It’s hard to let him go and scary to have an almost-empty dance card, guywise. Aside from my date with the Gentleman this weekend, I’m turning my attention back to my friends for a while. I’d love to be a little more healed before the next guy comes along.

I wish the Mayor of Kittentown all the luck. I think the lessons here are: treat people like whole people as much as I can. Get better at saying (kindly and directly) what bothers me. Get better at listening to my body and heart, and don’t cling to things that don’t work. Those are good lessons.

I’ll miss him, his cats, his episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Thank you, pal.

Revisiting the Dream Guy

When I first started dating guys again last fall, I had a very clear idea of the kind of relationship I wanted. While I’m glad to be considering other kinds of connections, it’s worth remembering that this project is about learning to love myself so that I take care of myself in a real relationship with a man. If I’m honest, the dream is one guy.

In many ways, Bill and Fireguy could not have been more opposite, but they had this in common: they were emotionally unavailable and I knew that. I am horrified at how much I deluded myself into thinking that if I just said exactly the right thing and did exactly what they wanted me to do, I could matter to them, they would love me and keep me safe. They both wanted me for primarily physical reasons and they both rejected me as soon as I had any negative feedback at all.

Attaching myself to guys who are not in a position to get attached to me is a way of telling myself that I don’t deserve the attachment, that I don’t deserve a real relationship with a guy. With anybody, really.

As a way to refocus myself on what I really want and take stock of what I’ve learned so far, here’s my new list of what I’m looking for in a guy. Some of these qualities are not things that I myself possess, but that I aspire to.

My Dream Guy:

1. Has an innate sense of empathy, social and environmental justice, and respect for the human body.  He may not always know what to do about those things, but he feels them. This seems like a lot to ask for.  We’re living in harsh and callous times—even the Mayor of Kittentown has been known to tweet a rape joke! (I know. I’m trying to figure it out about him, too.)
2. Is an amazing kisser. Before I kiss someone, I should feel like these is at least some potential of a romantic relationship—I’m going to do my best to be honest with myself about this.
3. Has great taste in music. I’d given up on this one after things with Bill (still the best song sender) got so hurty, but it really is an important part of attraction for me.
4. Is a top who likes rough sex, but in an affectionate, affirming, and humanized way. He should be open and willing to discuss the emotions that go along with sex, even if it’s sometimes awkward and not-hot.
5. Is patient, kind, and emotionally available. When I’m around him, I should feel safe, happy, and free, fully able to be myself and get to know him. He is happy to let me run and play—he always trusts me to return.
6. Is willing and able to share himself, to let me into his everyday life. If he’s in a relationship, there should be room for me to negotiate and ask for what I need.
7. Is not in a couple with a lot of set-in-stone rules. That doesn’t give a secondary any room to help create the culture of the constellation—it makes it inherently unequal. To paraphrase Cunning Minx: “You got all those rules? You don’t get this.”
8. Is interested in me (and I’m interested in him) for lots of different reasons, not just kink or my hot boobs. We should be able to be whole people together.
9. He is big, strong, and tall, loving and affectionate but also capable of throwing me around like a little fucking ragdoll.
10. Lets me love him as ridiculously much as I want to. Lets me cry if I’m sad. Gets excited with me.

I already found all of these things in Sweetie, so they must be possible in a guy too. I’ll keep my eye out for him.