Quarantine Crush (Because of Course) Part Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unicorn Practice Is Easy, Part Three: Spanks, Snuggles, a Little Melancholy

I’ve noticed that the amount I need to negotiate and be oriented in a scene is proportional to how serious my feelings are for the top involved. In the right party situations, I feel perfectly safe throwing caution to the wind and bending over for near-strangers-I guess that’s because I’m starting to have faith in my friends and in my yesses and nos.

At some point in the party, of course I managed to do something punishable, possibly related to trying to get my underpants back, and Cute Master commanded me to kneel on a chair and stick my ass out. Don’tmindifIdo! He’s a good, hard spanker—I wiggled and laughed and squealed and even let somebody (I’m not even sure who) tickle my feet. I love how things are so easy sometimes, how once in a while life just throws things in my lap. I’d like to let that be the case more often.

Speaking of which, he made me laugh harder than I’ve laughed in a long time when he next decided to express his flirtation through the medium of ironic lap dance. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to laugh so hard…

Anyway, I hated to leave when it was time to go. I pulled my underpants out from where he’s stashed them—in between the string s of Pretty Slave’s corset. Knowing where else they’d been, I didn’t put them on, but pulled on my leggings, had someone hook my bra, and put on my dress. Cute Master and Pretty Slave were snuggled up on a couch when I went to say goodbye.

“No, come here first,” he said. “I want to see if you’re wet.”

And I totally was gonna say no, except that Die Antwoord’s “Baby’s On Fire” came on and I really can’t resist having hijinx to that song. It feels like (*high five*) one of the sluttiest things I’ve ever done, but I went ahead and straddled him, let him find out that of course I was wet. He rubbed my clit and I felt a sense of calm come over me, kind of like when you’re little and you’re half-asleep and being carried up the stairs. I relaxed into him and held on.

He pulled his hand out and put it in Pretty Slave’s mouth, and she happily sucked, looking at me in a hungry/sweet way.

It’s time to stop pretending I don’t like some pretty porny stuff. That’s the part I’ve thought of the most during personal time since then.

I reached over and petted her, running my hand down her neck, playing with her hair, holding her lovely hand. She ran her hand very gently over chest, finding my nipple and giving me a perfect shiver. Her face was so close to mine and her expression was blissful.

And then the song ended. I hugged them both and gave her a teensy bit of a goodbye kiss. Cute Master grumbled about blue balls but! The beach!

Any party I leave with my underpants in my hand is a good one and I drove home super turned on and excited to get handsy with myself, and I was proud and happy to have made new friends, but there was a melancholy to it, too. I passed the diner where I first met the Steampunks and wondered how things would’ve turned out if I’d been more ready for them, more confident and self-aware. I think things happened exactly the way they were supposed to, but I still miss them a lot and feel hurty for the experiences I may have missed out on. I can’t quite let go of the fantasy of them, of snuggling into their bed. I wanted them to be my first a lot of things.

But! I’m glad I still feel like high-fiving Steampunk Guy whenever I’m being awesomely slutty, and they’re both keeping in touch. And I’m starting to see how I can keep myself entertained until I’m healed and ready to resume the quest for love--that is a very, very good thing.