Perfect Emo Night With The King of Carrot Flowers, Part Two

 

We went to Favorite Diner (As opposed to Neutral First Date Diner) to catch our breath and make this extraordinary moment a little more down to earth. It helped that he was in a work text chain putting out work fires as we sat down- somehow that took the pressure off. In between fielding texts, we didn't so much catch up as immediately launch into 20-year-old inside jokes, mostly Simpsons related. Between that an an exceptional turkey club, life was a perfect dream.

I don't think it's giving away the city by saying the sky was full of ashes that night. Sorry to be glib about disaster, but the fire sky really added to the overall emo of the situation. We brought out the KN-95s, with all their attendant grief. Our eyes stung and the coral/pink sun was world-endy, but my heart was full of joy and grace anyway. I don't know what's better in this world than parking on grass and moseying toward the gates with strangers of at least three generations, probably four.

BFF Formerly Sweetie walked slow with her walking stick and this was the first time we had to rent chairs instead of sitting our old butts on the grass, but other than those things, the three of us were the three of us again. We picked up our chairs, cocktails to go with the gummies in our tummies, and three matching T-shirts. (Which we did NOT put on! My symmetry brain really wishes I'd made that photo op happen!) KOCF got the new album on vinyl and I got it on CD- I should put it in the car and let it play all fall.

The opening band was Japanese Breakfast! They were dreamy and vibe-y and I liked how their gong was outlined in blue lights.

One of the first songs Death Cab played was This Is the New Year, which made me sob so openly and productively. Partly because I associate it with The Guy Next Door, but mostly because yes, YES! It's not the past. KOCF isn't lost anymore, and long-suffering Sweetie is now relievedly BFF. And we were at a concert, the home-est home you can get while surrounded by strangers. (Oh, boy, do I love strangers sharing a thing. Collective effervescence!!!!)

I promise I wasn't super intoxicated, except maybe by friend love, when my favorite part happened. They were playing Different Names for the Same Thing, and I looked around and saw it- there wasn't really any separation between any of us. Not between us or the chairs or Ben Gibbard or Japanese Breakfast's gong. OMG the Unified Field braving the smoky sky to visit my head this beautiful night. Everything, even the obscured skyline, even all my bitchy mistakes over the years, became unseparated for a little while. Ahh.

When KOCF came to my place to spend the night, I felt a deep carefulness. I want to never not be friends again, want to make sure I don't slip into stupid limerence any more times. I never want him to be not in my life again. The next day, we did ordinary things like go to my neighborhood cafe. I loved having him here. The cats loved having him here. BFF Formerly Sweetie loved having him here. I would please like this friendship to last and last and last: It might just be the best kind of love.

The Perfect Emo Night With King of Carrot Flowers, Part One

 I was panicking in the car when BFF Formerly Sweetie and I were on the way to the train station to pick up King of Carrot Flowers, our best friend from when we were first married, whom we hadn't seen in about twenty years. The feelings were too much! One of the great loves of my twenties, whom I'd (on brand from way back) alienated with a crush. No, by feeling so much love for him that I went around woozy until he very kindly told me he wasn't a sharer. I couldn't accept it and picked a fight I feel very stupid about. It was in like 2006 or 2007 but I was as embarrassed as though no time had past.

"Why did I think this was a good idea?!" sobbed 2026 me. Seeing Death Cab for Cutie with a long lost friendlove?! It was too much, this was terrible, how was I ever gonna get through this? Twenty years of feelings, Snoqualmie Falls-ing out all at once, in a 7-11 parking lot on the way to the train station.

I got myself together and went in to meet his train. (At this train station, I also dropped off Perfectly 1993 guy, in 1994, after a post-breakup visit, bittersweet in a babydoll dress, longjohns, and thrifted combat boots. And these days, it's where I pick up my niece when she comes into town for a concert! I love this train station so much.)

King of Carrot Flowers, when I finally saw him, was exactly the same. The curly red/blonde hair. The striped white shirt he picked up in his travels, with a fish embroidered on the sleeve. A goofy grin promising all the inside jokes from both 20 years ago and recently--everything was there, not lost at all but strolling into my city a little late for lunch.

Meanwhile, In 2006

Between reading a history of indie rock with The King of Carrot Flowers and getting deep into my Portlandia rewatch, my ears have decided they need to be filled with The Flaming Lips almost all the time. I like the way the bleeps and bloops and bwowwwmps bounce back and forth in my headphones.

So now it's time to write about one of the most beautiful and sad and gorgeous nights of my life so far: a birthday-weekend Flaming Lips show!!! The openers were The Magic Numbers, Sonic Youth (!!!) and (I can't believe I forgot this until the King of Carrot Flowers reminded me!) Ween. I don't think it was too long before my crush/our friend-breakup, but that night, it all worked together perfectly somehow. I felt everything all the way. I was overwhelmed with love and wanting-to-be-loyal about Sweetie-Now-BFF and I was frustrated as heck that I couldn't heap love upon The King of Carrot Flowers as well.

The longing was such a presence at that show that I feel like I should've bought her a ticket. Two wives, one best friend, one longing please! I think that's who I'm always buying a just-in-case extra concert ticket for.

The longing is what the music is for. Like edibles or good speakers, it makes the songs more vivid.

There was a loooong time of sitting in the bleachers and being low-key, listening to Sonic Youth sing "What a waste...you're so chaste.." (They do that one on Gilmore Girls, too! I love the way Kim Gordon bounces and shakes when she sings. I try to imitate it every time I'm singing loud/doing dishes.) The Magic Numbers played Mornings Eleven: "Call me if you're on your own, maybe you can meet me in the morning."

I WANTED to meet The King of Carrot Flowers in the morning, then return to my cozy home with Then-Sweetie come evening time. Sometimes that DID happen, but not for illicit snuggles! We would go for a swim or for ice cream or one time, with a bunch of his grad-student friends, the zoo.

By the time The Flaming Lips came on, we'd migrated higher up the bleachers and a few of our poet friends and work friends joined us. I felt elated, but also urgent, like WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING TO CELEBRATE THIS! How did we all get to be here, together?! How did we get loves and friends and friend-loves to all be in these bleachers with us!? As happy as I was, I was also a little mad--how could I possibly express this tsunami of affection? How could I be present hard enough to honor this unearned miracle?

Luckily, we were at a Flaming Lips show! Sparkles and confetti and martian girls and lifting up the sun and battling the pink robots (I strongly suspect that the Flaming Lips are Phish for hipsters. I'm trying to banish this thought but cannot! Now you have it too!) and singing along to Do You Realize?? under the stars in my hometown with my arms around my dear ones, it was a rare moment of being sure I was giving life the honor it deserves. A rare moment of loving exactly as hard as I wanted to.

Perfect Friday Night With Dreamy Playlist Angel, Part Three

I would really like to bite this butt next time I see it!
And also spank it! Possibly also spoon up next to it and go to sleep.

Despite the name, I've totally been forgetting to tell you about his playlist! In Such Great Heights, A Complete Cultural History of the Indie Rock Explosion, (The book I'm still reading and which The King of Carrot Flowers finished weeks ago!) Chris Deville says it's a typical male fantasy that some girl (Or in my case, some Manic Pixie Dream Mature) is gonna come along and tell a guy he has great taste in music. I guess I fulfill that fantasy pretty regularly! When I was younger and (even) sillier, I thought new music could only come via a cute boy, even if that's never really how I collected it.

ANYWAY, since Dreamy Playlist Angel introduced himself by way of complimenting my Sleater Kinney t-shirt and mentioning a Portlandia rewatch (What would the Gen-X equivalent of this be? Complimenting a Strawberry Alarm Clock tee and mentioning a Monkees marathon? Either way, I'm in.) I had no qualms about asking him to choose the music for our rope time--and that was the correct choice.

Off the couch and upstairs with the candles lit and the cat crated, I felt a jolt of joy as we found the bight and square-knotted the ropes. Dreamy Playlist Angel, with his sculpture-y shoulders and sweet-but-not-too-sweet demeanor, was such a warm and beautiful and inviting canvas.

I hadn't practiced on anyone besides me in the longest time! The ropes felt easy on him, flowy and smooth. I reached around his waist to loop the ropes around, rested my cheek in the crook of his neck for a moment. Kissed his sweet neck and his soft, politely-eager mouth. Good Boy. He's so good.

I wish he'd wanted a picture of the front of him, the harness came out so nice! He looked so pretty and sexy with the loops and knots over his chest, swooping up between his legs and squeezing his butt crack all snug.

His music was dreamy but not overwhelmingly feelings-y! Sweet and swoony at times (Thinkin' Bout You by Frank Ocean! My favorite thing to sing!) but leavened by silliness. Plus! Surprising amounts of saxophone!

Dancing around to indie-rock sax while putting the finishing touches on a beautiful man's hishi karada seems like a very wise way to spend a few moments of my one wild and precious life. 

 

Second First Date with The Song Sender, Part Three

I’ve already written about the ropes part (https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2022/06/knotty-thursday-teachable-moment-with.html?zx=9c690ff8ebd71852) so let’s talk about the being held down. The consensual violence of him, with its new give and take. His hands ventured to my throat where they weren’t supposed to be and I swatted him away and cursed and dug in my nails. The smell of him. The softness of his fuzzy chest whenever he relented a moment and just snuggled me close.

In the years since the first time around with The Song Sender, I’ve been dominated of course, spanked and restrained and so many different (I almost typed every, but no) flavors of rope and shackles and fire and hurt, but none had this special something. His dominance brings a sweet, reverent feeling, the soft release of being wholly and willingly overtaken.

“No one else can dominate like you.” I sighed. “They all say they’re doms but they come over here and they’re just mine.”

“Ah. That’s because you’re a bossy little bitch, aren’t you?” He wrapped me up in a hug as he said it. I wriggled and cackled with joy.

I laughed when the Downton Abbey theme came on my summer playlist, but The Song Sender did not laugh. He put his heavy arm around my shoulder and held me down, pushing open my legs to manhandle my clit. He pressed so hard that it hurt but it was also a perfect dream. I yowled and sighed and he made me/let me come exactly in time with the last notes of the song. Silly and perfect. Just-friends romantic. A new kind of home.

(Talking about Downton in this context makes me feel both slightly disloyal to the Shy One and like I want to tell him all about it. We’re in the bittersweet process of building a platonic friendship, but that’s a whole different post.)

When it was time to drive him home, I remembered a cup of coffee (It was pretty late.) but forgot my whole phone. I’d have to find my way back without GPS, but I was fairly sure I could figure it out.

I petted his hand as I drove, and he made happy animal sighing sounds. We listened to Nirvana’s Nevermind so I wouldn’t get sleepy.

I found my way home easily. When I woke up in the morning, I was sad and a little bruised, but was more sure of everything than I’d been in a while. I felt like a person who knows how to run her life.

Whatever happens with The Song Sender, and who knows, I want to keep a place in my calendar for submission, for basking in the beachy softness of knowing I’m not in charge for a little while. That feeling has been such a stranger to me, and I’m happy to welcome it back.

How I Found Out I'm Kinky Part Two: A Mixtape

Writing about my ol' song sender has me going back to some of the songs he sent. I've been avoiding them for a while, feels good to be back.

Knotty Thursday: The Hipster and This Pretty Weave Thing

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

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

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

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

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

 

Crushtown Mix Tape!

 

Crushtown Mixtape!

Since I’m still missing pool season, I decided to doll up my morning walks by leaning into my heart/mind/body’s ridiculousness. I especially like the absurd transitions between songs, they make me feel loopy in the best way. Like crushes do!

 

1.     Worship (Lizzo)

2.     Tear You Apart (She Wants Revenge)

3.     Wrapped Up (Olly Murs feat. Travie McCoy

4.     Drain You (Nirvana)

5.     What Difference Does It Make? (The Smiths)

6.     Right Round (Flo Rida)

7.     Oops!...I Did It Again (Britney Spears)

8.     I Really Like You (Carly Rae Jepsen)

9.     Bubble Pop! (HyunA)

10. About A Girl (Nirvana)

11.  Rumors (Lizzo feat. Cardi B)

12.  Run Away With Me (Carly Rae Jepsen)

13.  How Soon Is Now? (The Smiths)

14.  I Wanna Be Adored (The Stone Roses)

15. Work Bitch (Britney Spears)

16.  Evil Boy (Die Antwoord)

17.  Pink + White (Frank Ocean)

Perfectly 1993 Guy Part Ten: The Long Goodbye

 

After I put him on that birthday afterglow bus, I lived in the glow for a few days or a few weeks. I sat in my post-high-school job at Burger King (I would pretty much do anything to avoid a challenging job interview. Plus I’ve always loved tedium and discounted snacks!) daydreaming about his warm skin and soft hair and to-be-continued mixtape, looking out the drive thru window in a happy haze between customers. But then, just as the word “temporary” had derailed a lovely afternoon of our visit, three little words out of my face closed off whatever I thought might come next with him.

 

“I need you,” I found myself saying into my yellow landline phone. I would very much like to go back and unsay it, even if the results would still have been the same.

 

“You need me?” he wasn’t being harsh, just a little incredulous. “I can’t be…needed right now.”

 

His reasons were sound and to be expected, but that didn’t make the conversation any less devastating. He had just started college. There were girls there with purple hair and he wanted to be free to live his college life. Totally valid! But my heart both deflated and exploded into a fine, sad, messy mist.

 

For some reason, his guilt or my sentiment or both or just love, we decided to keep my planned visit a couple weeks after the breakup. To say goodbye I guess. I met the purple-haired girl there—I remember her name being Sloane but it’s possible she had only recommended the BAND Sloane to him. (“She was underwhelmed if that’s a word, I know it’s not ‘cause I looked it up, that’s one of the skills I learned in my schoooooool.”) She left Perfectly 1993 Guy and me alone to lay in his tiny dorm room, on a pleasingly narrow twin bed.

 

We stayed spooned up in that bed for a long time. I looked out the window at the pretty campus feeling romantically achey. The Get Up Kids wouldn’t be invented for two more years, but it was maybe the most emo weekend of my life. That is REALLY saying something.

 

We decided to go see a Dead Milkmen show a couple of hours away from campus by train. The club was at the beach so things did NOT get less emo despite the very silly music. As we walked from train to club to beach, he got grumbly because I was walking too close and kept walking into him. Nonetheless, I put my head in his lap and rested on the train ride back. I wanted him to be hard beneath my sleepy cheek so I would know his desire for me had been real. I was vigilant for it but don’t remember the results being decisive. What a sign to look for.

 

In his dorm room he had a childhood teddy bear named Clyde and I decided to take him home with me for consolation. He was a pretty big bear, dark brown with one of those really sincere faces that stuffed animals sometimes have. Perfectly 1993 Guy told me years later that he hadn’t wanted me to take Clyde, he just hadn’t known what to say. I feel such a longing to know what happened to Clyde, to hug him tight. (Confession: For the past few months I’ve slept with a stuffed peacock named Nancy, a platonic I-was-having-a-hard-day-post-attempted-coup gift from Sweetie.)

 

We tried to be friends, especially when I came that winter to a school a few hours away from his. I knew every day of my short photography school life (With darkrooms! And chemicals! Glad I tried it while I still could.) how close Perfectly 1993 Guy was by train. My first night at school, I used a big handful of change to call and let him know I had arrived. After a couple of will-we-or-won’t-we visits (More chaste, longing spooning with a little wrestling thrown in? Odd.) things got too snitty and he stopped taking my calls.

 

I called him a truly reprehensible number of times for a couple of months, including on Valentine’s night surrounded by the mylar balloons of my roommates’ more successful relationships. I imagined the phone ringing and ringing and ringing in that tiny room, knowing purple-haired girl would think I was pathetic. I definitely was.

 

Aside from nicely saucy letters from Pagan Boy, (RIP) my loneliness that winter and spring was abject. Eventually, by some miracle, Perfectly 1993 Guy did pick up the phone and we went comfily to a fantastic King Missile show where I got to hug John S. Hall and accidentally poke him with my spiky bracelet. (Another object I’s just LOVE to have today. Wonder how it’s doing?) We saw each other a few more friendly times but he was one of the few old friends/flames who didn’t make the real-life-to-MySpace-etc transition. I looked him up on LinkedIn a couple years ago. Without his Eddie Vedder hair he looks like a regular person, a regular BEAUTIFUL person.

 

I never won’t miss him. I’ll never forget that Bee Girl moment of being loved by him, of being wanted. It both went by so fast and lasted my whole life, like so many of the stories I tell you here. Thanks for listening dears, I’m all wistful and grateful.

Quarantine Crush (Because of Course) Part Six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Part Four)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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…

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

A lot has happened since I posted last. I’ve all but wrapped up my post-election trauma therapy, paring down the sessions from weekly to monthly, experimenting with how it feels to not spend QUITE so much time thinking about trauma.

Part of me hoped that I would be different once I finished this phase of exposure therapy for PTSD. I’d heard other survivors talk about feeling more open, more accepting, more affectionate, less quick to anger. I guess I’ve changed a little, but there are some boundaries I just can’t bring myself to cross—my yesses are sometimes stronger and easier but my nos are too. It’s disappointing not to just be open like a lovey-dovey post-traumatic flower, it feels a little lonely, but given the world we are currently trying to inhabit, I’m as open as I can be.

I went back to OK Cupid-ing a little while ago when I realized I was getting a crush on my massage therapist, whom I would never, ever hit on. I started swiping and chatting again, and I’ve honed my screening question to perfect bluntness: “Bernie or Hillary?”

To my heartbreak, I have NEVER gotten the chance to flirt with a guy who voted for Hillary in the primary (Seriously, if you know any, kindly send them my way. I will reward their loyalty with SO much generous sluttiness! And cake!) but I liked The Socialist’s answer. It gave me the immediate sense that he was solid and trustworthy, confident, and somehow, I even gleaned from his answer that he probably had a pretty excellent penis. (Spoiler alert: He does!) I don’t know how I could tell all of that from a tiny paragraph about politics, but I could, go me.

Plus, I liked his sense of humor, and he was a close-to-my-age goth guy who was EXCELLENT at the ultimate aphrodisiac: talking about Nineties music. I asked him out for wine and cake at my go-to first date spot, and I delighted in the chance to put a face on for somebody cute for the first time since the spring.

When I saw him, I was even more convinced that he might be a match—big enough to make Amazonian me feel little, so I knew he could probably throw me around. (Further spoiler alert—he could!) He was smiley and self-effacing in a charming way and so, so funny. What really sealed in the liking was finding out that we had both been at the same Dead Milkmen show in 1994-I’m an absolute sucker for that kind of meant-to-be-ness.

And then (there’s always an “and then”) The Socialist mentioned that he listens to Howard Stern all day every day at work. When I expressed shock and dismay, he defended himself a little:

“But Howard Stern supported Hillary Clinton!”

“He also helped create the atmosphere of misogyny that defeated her!”

Knowing that The Socialist was a fan of one of the grossest decades-long perpetrators of lady-objectifying, one of the deepest architects of rape culture, should have been enough to make me leave, but after he conceded that I was probably right, I stayed, and knowing we probably weren’t right for each other gave me a chance to let my guard down even more. I confessed that I’ve had a pants-wall since primaries, that I was worried I would always be at war with men. AND HE WAS THERE FOR ALL OF IT. What I liked so much about him was his ability to remain unfazed, to argue without getting defensive or fragile. He’s A MAN.

In spite of my doubt, I left there giddy. It could have been the wine (I don’t drink enough lately to take it for granted) but I think it was the laughter. He asked me out again right away, and I said yes.

Next: What kind of wine goes with toaster waffles?

Supersweet Election Love Story: Part Three

After I found out that the thing was mutual, I felt nervous about going into work. I didn’t know how I was supposed to act, whether I was supposed to hug him hello and goodbye, etc. His desk was in a very male-occupied space and it always felt very vulnerable to visit him there.  Election Day, on the possible cusp of our first female president and with the fate of the world hanging in the balance, I was also fretting about whether I’d been too affectionate in my voting-morning text. I’m not superproud that my Call Me Maybeness helped get me through the day, but there was also poetry and canvassing and a general sense of patriotic/neighborhood love that made such a fraught day as bearable as possible.

Then, of course, the worst happened. After a year of hope and struggle and fighting misogynist trolls and as much canvassing and phone banking as I could handle, after a year of telling the library kids it would be okay, of telling Bernie Bros to fuck off, of boycotting conservative relatives, the worst happened and Trump won. Wednesday morning, at the college bookstore where we work together, Sweetie and I listened to Hillary’s beautiful concession speech and cried even as we tried to take courage. On my commute, I alternated between singing along with my upbeat playlist and sobbing. If I never hear Fight Song again, it’ll be too soon.

My plan when I got to my afternoon job at the library was to be strong and soothing for the kids, to help them feel as hopeful as possible, but when I got to the children’s department, my friend the Nice Genderqueer Librarian saw me and burst into tears so we held each other and I sobbed loudly and brokenheartedly in front of the kids and everyone. There was nothing else to be done at that moment.

One of the other security guards was down in our department showing concern and accepting a hug, so I was brave/needy enough to snivel “Can you get (Mr. Makeout Music) for me?” She smiled and radioed for him. He totally Muppeted out when he saw me, just reached his arms out as far as they could go and gave me the warmest, friendliest, most joyful hug imaginable. I got the chance to tell him “I’m sorry white people suck so bad!” which is a sentiment I’ll be expressing as often as possible for the foreseeable future. (Seriously, if you’re a white person reading this, get it the fuck together and stand up for people of color. And while I’m at it, if you’re a man reading this, get it the fuck together and stand up for women. It’s past time to inventory your privilege and start using it to help. We’re past life and death here.)

Oh pals, Mr. Makeout Music took such good care of me that day. He talked me through the good and evil factors at play in the election and helped me to articulate my silver lining, which was that good people were drawing together in anger and love. He also asked if he could come visit me at the bookstore that Friday, since the library was closed for Veteran’s Day. I was delighted at the prospect of him distracting me at both my jobs, so we made plans for a picnic on the Hogwarts-esque campus where I work. No one would begrudge me a long lunch on such a week.

That sad Wednesday was made much less sad by the fact that he spent almost my whole shift by my side. He brought his notebook down and worked on a paper so soothingly next to me, it was just such a comfortable family feeling. He joked with the kids and parents and watched me stave off apoplexy when a mean-girling parent tried to challenge my taste in music.  When he switched tables to play chess with my teen assistants, I drew flowers, stars, and tiny red hearts all over his homework while I had a Shine Bright Like a Diamond singalong with one of the little girls. I was totally singing to Mr. Makeout Music. When he turned around from chess to see how the homework-art was progressing, his eyes flashed something so beautiful and perfect and clear. I felt bathed in a glittery cloud of safety and strength, like I recognized someone so special and devoted and true. And, I hopehopehoped, mine.

Supersweet Election Love Story: Part One

I spent a year hardly thinking about romance at all, but there’s always a perfect character to come along and break me open again, so that cartoon hearts swirl around my head and I remember who I was born to be. Like the election, this story didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped, but I’m reopening the blog to make sure none of the gifts of this experience slip through the cracks.

I work in my local library’s afterschool program. It suits me much better than teaching because the kids and I spend most of our time on art and I never have to make anybody do anything, except be respectful and kind. I can smile all day and tell the kids “I love you” without being accused of being too soft. The library is my happy place and my biggest source of love, pride, and friendship.

About a year ago, a new security guard (I know! Me and security guards.) transferred to our branch and the first time I saw him, I thought “Yep, that’s what a man should look like.” African American, beardy, glasses, locks, sigh, swoon, giggle. One of my goals for 2016 was to flirt daily, and I felt like I’d finally found a worthy recipient. I tend to sing out my coworkers’ names, so I wholeheartedly sang out his name whenever I saw him, chatted when I could, accidentally told him how very much I like the scene from The Avengers where Black Widow breaks out of the chair.

Eventually, he started hanging around. He would spend his breaks coloring with me and the kids and talking about music, helping me build up my ongoing playlist of kid-friendly love/friendship/inspiration songs. Lord help me, he owns vinyl. He kept suggesting songs that were either too emo or so R&B dreamy that I could barely walk after listening. I made fun of him for his makeout music, but it kept finding its way onto my personal playlist, turning my early morning walks into dreamy movie-sequence mushfests.

He was with us in the children’s department whenever he could be, and started telling me apologetically when he was scheduled elsewhere. (I found out later he’d been making the schedule specially to spend time with us! <3 <3 <3) We painted galaxies, flowers, we drew mandalas. We did coloring pages that said things like “Follow Your Heart” and “Don’t Stop Believing.” He’s in college, (This is as good a time as any to tell you he’s twenty-five and I’m forty-two…) so he’d sometimes just bring down his homework, talk to me about what he was working on, and then happily let me distract me from it.

In the way that sometimes happens when you make a truly great friend, I kept telling him way more than I meant to. He became my safe space, someone I could confide in about my election struggles, my feminist rage, my religious questiness, everything that was the most important. I hope that I was doing the same for him.

I’d gone through a good spate of not caring at all what I looked like, but I started to want to look cute when I got to work. I stopped wearing shlubby T-shirts and became more likely to put on lipstick and blowdry my hair. Eventually he told me he wanted his to be the only name I sang out, and that was both very sweet and probably a bad sign.

Happy Friday: Sweet Hallelujah, a Good Date

So it turns out there’s one guy I’m not currently afraid of: Mr. Sweetface! For the last month or so I haven’t known what to do with in. I was feeling hesitant about poly and we’re both going through a lot at home. For some reason, I was inspired this week to invite him to join me at the Cute Neighborhood Music Thing that my adorable alt-country duo church friends run. I liked the idea of listening to the music with my head on a nice warm shoulder, sidling up to his faintly leather-scented warmth.

So, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I put on makeup after work, curled up the ends of my needs-to-be dyed hair into a flip. I wore red lipstick and my red date-night raincoat, even though it’s still a little too chilly.

The venue’s a historic Mennonite meetinghouse; the Cute Church Couple live on its grounds. There are tall candles in all the windows and Cute Church Girl made vanilla cupcakes from scratch.

When Mr. Sweetface joined me, a band with the working title “Poor No-Name Cat” was playing and I was enjoying the Breakfast at Tiffany’s reference and the soulful lady singer, singing torch songs in French like it was a café in a movie. I was nervous when he came in—we’ve never had a pants-on date before, so I didn’t know what to expect. He took my hand and I did put my head on his shoulder, kind of swooned along to the music and felt a kind of rest I hadn’t felt in a long time. “I missed you,” I whispered, and he said he’d missed me too.

After the show (They booked me to open next month! First time reading poetry in almost two years!) he drove me home and we curled up on the couch and talked about all the things—his family stuff, the Big Therapy Project (to tell a guy that story and have him hold me protectively is it’s own therapy…), our similarly LSD-fond pasts. We compared the perils of teaching with the perils of parenthood--both involve doing one’s best and feeling like a jerk a lot, it turns out. He got deeply emotional talking about his son and it felt good to take care of him a little, to reside for a moment in a story besides my own. It made me feel true and alive, so gratified that he was kind enough to share himself with me.

I told him I’m a ways away from sexytimes--he held me tight and told me to take all the time I need. I said I’d try to make it quick so I could get back to beating his ass before too long.

His second child is due this fall, so I know I can’t expect much time with him, but I liked inviting him into this new world I’m building and that he’s willing to share his world with me too. I think I’m still poly, given how much I like sharing him with my friend, how much I liked cozying up to a date with a wedding ring. The Mystery Family thing didn’t mean I’m not poly, I just meant I prefer sanity, and so far this seems pretty sane.

On the couch, wrapped up in a blanket with my head on his heart and his (newly beardy, yay!) chin on my head, as he told me his secrets, I felt the thing I love to feel the most—simple human connection. Warmth. Life. We’re getting to know each other in a way that makes my pants-on time seem like even more of a blessing.

Though my heart is still heavy with worry about work, it was lovely to go to sleep last night with an unequivocal smile, to have these gorgeous living moments in my heart, to fall asleep and dream in pretty neighborhood love songs.

Kinky Karaoke Part Two: Silly Nineties Music and a Dream Come True

Every since my first munch when Fireguy put the idea into my head, I’ve wanted to be tied to another girl, so when I found out that Mr. and Mrs. Sweetface had a rope scene in the works, I didn’t hold back a single little ounce of my eagerness to join them. (Hard to believe I recently spent a couple of days crying about being called pushy…it seems to serve me okay.) They were getting ready to play in the tiny living room on the red plush recliners and when he came to invite me over, I said “Yesyesyesyes ohyes!” and had my bra off before I crossed the room. (Surprised it had stayed on as long as it did!)

I couldn’t believe my luck. She’s so cute and bubbly and has a goofy sense of humor just like I do and I! Was going! To be! Tied to her! She left on her shiny dark-silver bra and panties, and I was down to my peach and purple polka dot undies. While he started her harness, she scrolled through the radio stations on the TV, landing on “Hits of the Nineties” And by “Hits of the Nineties,” they did not mean dignified alt-hits like “Cut Your Hair,” or “Cannonball,” we’re talking full on “Oops, I Did It Again.”  I don’t know why, but this made things more awesome.

I loved dancing around and singing with her while occasionally being admonished to be still by our top and watching the comings and goings of the party guests. Cacophony kept coming up from the karaoke-ing basement, lending to the overall atmosphere of joy and mirth.

Once he finished weaving her into her shiny purple harness, it was my turn. The ropes he used on me were peacock blue. I was soready. My nipples were alert in that ultrasensitive way they only get for ropes, sending tingles all through me ever time the rope or his hand even lightly brushed against them. I didn’t get all surrender-y the way that I sometimes do for ropes, but sometimes he’d tug at them in just such a way that peace would radiate through me from that spot, and aah, sigh, a reunion, oh ropes, I always miss you.

Much was made of the fact that I like to have an ass-knot in addition to the clit knot, thank you very much!

I wasn’t subby-dreamy-drowsy, I was exultant, and when he looped another length of rope underneath both of our crotches and started tying us together, I got intoxicated by the smell of her—there are never adequate adjectives to describe the smell of a girl’s hair, and besides that sweetness there was sweat, and alcohol, and some girly soap, the smells of happy aliveness. I put my arms around her and we danced around like slumber party girls, to the tune of “Roller Coaster of Love,” which I don’t think I ever properly appreciated before.

We sat together on one of the two big red recliners, the two of us girls in Mr. Sweetface’s lap. I was the boldest and most handsy character in that chair. As we settled into cuddling and petting, many hands were many places, but my fingers went right for her panties, found her clit beneath them, toyed with it alternately with hand and rope. She moaned and rocked, and I worked my way inside her bra, first with my hand and then my face, licking and nuzzling, finding what I was looking for. I reached around and unhooked her bra, and even though I couldn’t get it all the way off, I made her just as naked as I possibly could. It was a good long time until I finally kissed her on the mouth, soft and perfect, and then kissed him too. They kissed alike, searching and cautious, friendly and sensual. She told me later that I’d been her first girl kiss, and I was honored. I should stop going around assuming everybody’s always kissing everybody, I guess.

She grabbed the ropes at my hips so that the crotch rope, with its lovely knots, did just what it was meant to, which was turn me into a moany writhey animal-thing. They both looked a little taken aback.

“Ohyeah, I’m really loud.” I explained, super-unnecessarily, and I didn’t get any quieter when they went for my boobs, a mouth on each one, my favorite, favorite thing. Well, one of the favorites.

Next: Spanks, more songs, and goodbyes.

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Four: His Huge Life Force

In the course of writing this, I’ve realized that I’ve had an awful lot of first-date sex for someone who keeps saying she’s not casual. I guess the two things aren’t mutually exclusive, but it’s time to acknowledge that some of the things I want fall outside of my lovely-dovey dreams. Some of my favorite adventures have been off to the side of romance and some have been nowhere near it. I’m pretty much in crushtown about Steampunk Guy, but not in the same way that I am for my more romance-oriented partners. Maybe I just want to climb all over him a whole bunch more.

Anyway, back to the couch. As we snuggled, I told him that I was really enjoying the enormous amount of Chi thrumming through him—he thought “You have a huge life force.” was hilarious and worthy of a Fet status, but to his credit he did not stop and update. Anyway, the man has a lot of oomph, and I think it’s contagious.While we were cuddling and chatting, I felt this amazing warmth come over me; heat, well-being, life just simmered through me—he must’ve felt something like it too, because on went the condom. 

He took me by the hair and pushed my head toward his dick, pressing and thrusting--I believe one would call this getting fucked in the face. I pushed him down my throat as far as I could, taking as much gagging as I could stand. I squeezed, licked, sucked. It turns out that the taste of a regular comdom’s okay, but I did miss the taste of the thing itself—it’s a little harder to know what to do with a blow job without the taste to make me all ravenous for it. But I was ravenous for it in other ways.

He put me on my hands and knees and pushed in from behind, hitting new spots inside me and bringing forth more yowling. I got pushed down over the edge of the couch so that my face was almost on the floor. I tried to stifle the screams with a couch cushion.

Then he turned me over, put my legs over his shoulders, and went in so deep that it hurt again, but I decided to take the pain—I really didn’t want him to ever stop. His expression was angry/gleeful, especially when my screams turned into something like sobs—no tears came but it was close enough to crying to put him over the edge. (I know I got mad at Bill way back when for getting turned on by tears. I’m not sure why this is different.)  Again, he came and just kept fucking me until I absolutely couldn’t take it anymore.

During afterglow/aftercare The National started to seem too moody to I put the songs back on shuffle. I was going to skip “You Get What You Give” (given to me by a dear friend whose road mixes have no rhyme or reason except that they are in alphabetical order) based on its general not-hotness, but he liked it so much that I left it on. He went on so ebulliently about the movie-montage moments in life that I have no choice but to love the song now. If we were a thing, it’d be our song.

Some of the things he said made me think that night was a one-off, and ever since Mr. Popular I’ve assumed that overbooked guys might see it as a one night thing. I guess since he texted the next day to see if I’m interested in his partner as well there’s a possibility that more things might happen.

We kissed some more, had pie, and then all of a sudden he was ready to go. He did have a pretty long drive back but I felt a little sad about how quickly he had his shoes on. If there’s a next time, I think I’ll ask for praise and more snuggles. I felt a lonely ache between the time he left and the time Sweetie got home.

However, over the next few days the lonely ache gave ways to such a wonderful feeling of confidence and centeredness—my favorite side-effect of submission. There’s something good there. I don’t know what the heck to do with it, if anything, but it’s good.