Perfect Friday Night With Dreamy Playlist Angel, Part Four

 

Snuggling under the covers with a roped-up cutie is like a whole vacation in itself. I recently redid my bedding all in soft pink, it's like curling up in an aggressively cute cloud. The perfect place for a perfect boy.

I like holding him close, protecting him from the world. I like his angel-floppy hair and his open, sincere face. I like him lots. The confidence he'd shown when he kissed me at the door was here in the cloud bed too, eager and game. Both of us, just so happy to be here.

(Side quest: so many of these stories culminate with me on my face, screaming into a pillow in joy and delight. Is this scary for partners? It recently sunk in that I would be jarred by this level of emotion and noise from a partner, maybe others feel the same? I remember Lovely Guy saying he felt like he was being violent even though he wasn't. Poor dear! Maybe I'll talk to people about this?)

Anyway, confident. He bent me in a way that felt new, one knee over his shoulder. He hit the spot so neatly and thoroughly, a heave of relief and pleasure. Fitting together like puzzle pieces seems like a thing I should have gotten used to by now, should have learned to take for granted, but I never have. He just made me feel so, so good.

When I came (and came, and came) I cried out "Thank you, oh THANK you!" over and over. I remembered briefly that "grateful" is a stereotype about lovers my age, then realized I don't care--I was born grateful and I hope, in fifty to seventy years, to die grateful too.

The rest of the night was sweet snuggles and music-and-movies chitchat, what else could anyone on this earth ever need?

It took a couple days for OCD to start yelling at me about it, obnoxiously moralizing and strictly anti-fun. Here are some of the things that my brain decided:

*If he's not texting in this moment, I am forgotten and humiliated.

*I'm sabotaging my chances at romantic love by letting myself play casually.

*He is automatically going to choose the other lady he's casually dating, therefore proving I'll never measure up or be any good.

OCD is an asshole! I felt a little relief from breaking things off, but my body didn't want that! After a few more days, the anti-fun obsession machine quieted enough to hear my body's opinions, which were:

*Yes!

*Yay!

*More please!

He was admirably copacetic about the breaking-off and then un-breaking off. I want him to keep coming over as long as it's fun for us both, and who knows what that will look like! He's coming over Friday night for Mulholland Drive and ropes, wish me luck! :)

Knotty Thursday: Oh, Dreamy Playlist Angel

 

<3 <3 <3 Look at his shoulders. <3 <3 <3

Me: Oh sure, I'm up for casual.

Also me: Holding him and kissing the top of his head while "Pictures of You" by The Cure plays.

He felt shy about showing the front of the tie, but it was a lovely hishi karada.

It felt so good putting this good sweet boy in my ropes, especially the parts where I had to reach around him, and would just pause to hold him and kiss him and breathe him in. How can just a regular middle aged lady be blessed with so much beauty and softness and hardness and desire?! I'll never stop being surprised and delighted.

For a few days, OCD wouldn't let me claim the experience--if he doesn't belong to me, how could I know it's real, like, a real thing that happened?

My heart wouldn't let me keep him. I don't want to try and fit the (somewhat elusive) definition of casual. I want a thing my heart can eventually run with, a thing that can last and grow.

We said a cute goodbye yesterday, and as soon as I let him go, my heart filled with light, as if it were Christmas morning. I love that I can adore him and wish him well without worrying that he's going to choose the other lady, the one who lives around the corner from him and is closer to his age. Maybe she's perfect for him!

I tend to beat myself up for the times I don't make it to a second date, but there's such a power here--to wrap him up and spoil him, talk about music and movies a bunch, then let him go into his own life again, maybe a little shinier and knowing some new secrets.

It might just be beautiful.

Dear Ribbons: Is a "Hoe Phase" Worth the Risk?

 

I feel like The Guest House might be annoying advice to get, but it's maybe the best advice ever.

Would you like some advice and praise? Write in please! Tell your story at thekittencalendar.blogspot.com and put “Dear Ribbons” in the subject line!

Dear Ms. Ribbons,

I met someone and we had passionate, awesome sex. I was really affected by it. We talked about intense things and really connected. I was with them nearly all day both times we were together. Overall it was a very intense experience for me even though it was theoretically casual.

 

I feel like emotionally and physically it’s taken a full week to recover from seeing them. I’ve been unable to work much or focus or maintain any conversations not about this person for days. 

 

I feel at a crossroads. Personally I want to have a hoe phase and I’m definitely attracted to a lot of people, and my desire is pretty ferocious and I feel pretty desperate to get out there and explore. I feel like my need to be with more people and try things is at the center of my life rn.

 

 But I don’t know if I can do what just happened over again. If it’s going to feel like that every time to have great sex it might be too much. I’m especially worried about exploring kink and the kinds of sex that are likely to be especially vulnerable and have lots of emotional feedback.

 

I’m also kind of confused about how to take this hookup that just happened and wondering if it means something that it hit me so hard.

 

Is casual sex not for me? What can I do to stop the pleasurable part of my life from overtaking the other things in my life that are important to me? What’s a kind of jealous and sensitive person who doesn’t want to use that stuff as a crutch to do lol

 

Curiously,

 

Twitterpated

 

Dear Twitterpated,

 

Thank you so much for writing to me! I’m so honored to be a part of this profound thing that happened to you!

 

First, in the spirit of Judge Chutkin, let’s take the temperature down a little. Not on the lovey-dovey emotions! Let’s keep those ablaze. The thing you’re feeling is, I think, one of the main reasons we’re here on this cool planet.

 

But please talk to your self-judgement and ask it to simmer down a bunch! Let’s do that old therapy trick of—what if this were happening to a friend? If one of your besties came to you distracted, confused, besotted, you’d greet them with curiosity and joy. You wouldn’t rush them to define things, urge them to be sensible, remind them of their other priorities.  If this were happening to a friend, you would just be with them where they are. See if you can give yourself a little bit of that friendly grace.

 

There are no prerequisites for a “hoe phase.” By all means, just have it!!!!! You absolutely do not have to meet some imaginary standard of casualness to slut it up! Plenty of people will be as hot for your romantic nature as they are for all of your other very hot qualities!

 

And, you can take all the time you need to absorb the beauty, pleasure, synchronicity, and meaning of passionate awesome sex with this very special human! You don’t need any permission, label, or ticket to the Relationship Escalator in order for this experience to mean a lot to you—it just DOES!

 

Give yourself space for this. It’s so big!

 

I for one CANNOT understand people who breeze through sex and love and kink like it’s no big deal! It’s a big fucking deal! Our bodies are there! With our hearts, minds, and souls! Do anything you want to in order to internalize and honor this ordinary miracle that happened to you! That you helped create!

 

Please try not to worry about being too jealous, too sensitive, too ANYTHING. Let yourself experience this moment as EXACTLY YOU.

 

I can’t tell you what to do about the current person except this: Talk to them. See how they feel and feel how you feel. You might like to swirl around in these lovely emotions for a while! Or you might let them go and look for someone(s) even more right for you.

 

I trust you with this precious thing, your precious heart! I promise, you’ll know what to do.

 

Your comrade in twitterpation,

 Pretty Ribbons

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“UH, maybe AFTER aftercare?”

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

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

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

A Bad Date, A Good Hookup, and a Helpful Google, Part Two

 

I fucking LOVE THIS.

That night back in September when I texted The Coach right after Casual Guy left, The Coach was helpfully explaining hookups to me. “It’s only about what you want,” he said, meaning I guess that’s true for both parties. I can’t tell if that idea is heartless and lonely or if it’s just liberating. On this particular Sunday afternoon, it was the latter.

Hookup Guy and I had our first (couch, wine) date a week ago tonight, and it really did seem like a date-date. We talked for a good while about our lives and work. He (said he) is a special ed teacher in an alternative school, so of course that melted my teacher-heart. He (said he) was recently divorced, just back in March of this year.

As with the Sunday Morning guy, Hookup Guy’s recently divorcedness made me feel tenderness toward him, made me want to provide all the comfort and empathy and warmth. He was so gentle-voiced and deliberate that talking to him gave me kind of a contact high—I don’t smoke weed but he does, this guy’s vibe was like the best of it.

Because I am me, we fucked that first night—warmly and sweetly but also roughly, with some hints that he might be a little too much with the boundary-crossing, or at least that he’d gotten some minor-but-easily-breezed-past bad ideas from porn. He felt so vulnerable and fragile to me that I originally named him Mr. Kindheart in my head. I felt a little guilty for not being as loopy about him as I was/am for the seemingly-at-the-time-more-withholding Lovely Guy.

But it was clear pretty quick that this would be actual-casual if it was anything. His texts were short and infrequent, all logistics. He asked to come over a few nights after that, and I asked too, but there hadn’t been time. I was happy to see his “Hey” in my texts when I got home from my yucky date and nice hike.

Hookup Guy said he was getting ready to drop off his son at a birthday party, and he was thinking he might “come over and fill me up.” after that. (This script is so close to The Coach’s game that I’m again convinced there might be an at-least-semi-alarming how-to-seduce-middle-aged-ladies Reddit thread out there. I mean, there probably is.)

I was already in bed for a nap, so I said sure, why not? I was instantly soaking wet at the idea of Hookup Guy interrupting my nap. I snoozed a little and woke up when the text chimed that he was on his way.

Waiting for Hookup Guy in bed, naked, with the window closed in case I was (because I was definitely going to be) loud, with the door unlocked for him, was one of the sexiest feelings I’ve ever felt. I was wired and sleepy at the same time. At no point in his visit would I get out of bed even a little.

“Hope that’s you!” I said when I heard the door open. I was so, SO happy to see him come up the stairs.

Hookup Guy is BEAUTIFUL. He looks like a combination of John Boyega and Jordan Peele, and he’s even close to my age. He’s tough and kind of softly military-built, with a couple of fraternity brands that fucking make my head spin to think about.

I took his shirt off and he did the rest. I just lay there all cozy in my freshly-laundered sheets and girly comforter watching him strip down. His dick was hard as a monument under his black boxer briefs, and soon those were gone too.

It was good, good, GOOD sex, urgent and matter-of-fact and joyful in a way I’m only starting to get used to. He did, in fact, fill me up.

I wanted him to come back again at his/my convenience, so I asked for his last name so it didn’t have to be “Hinge” in my contacts.

And then, when he was gone, I googled him. Nothing drastic, I promise. But I’ll tell you what I figured out another day.

 

Postscript: The Coach (Imaginary Asses Are SO Easy to Google!)

 

I guess it’s not a good sign that I’ve been feeling nostalgic for a breakup dinner from like eight years ago: I was looking for a hot story to send The Coach and I landed on part two of my Real Date/Car Sex story with Steampunk Guy. Here’s part one: https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/07/real-datecar-sex-with-steampunk-guy.html It’s not great that I refused to admit to myself that it WAS a breakup date until a couple weeks later, but looking at the story through my current pleasantly-poisoned-by-hookup-culture view, the dinner part of the story felt like a miracle. Steampunk Guy had like nine partners, including a wife, plus a kiddo to take care of, but he still took the time to break things off kindly. I felt, here in Slutty September of 2021, a burst of gladness that Steampunk Guy had, well, broken my heart, but in such a dignifying, humanized way.

The Coach didn’t break things off, he just finished getting vaccinated and still didn’t want to spend time with me in person. He still sexted a few late-nights a week, and I was still having fun with that until I wasn’t. But I can’t fathom, and I really wish someone would explain to me, how sexting could have been fun for him with someone he did not want to be in a room with. Why not just look up some porn or pay a cam girl (and tip her well!) instead of keeping someone he didn’t like on the line for longer than he wanted to?

When I responded to his messages/comments a month ago, I’d put a pin in the prob he and I had encountered long ago, the feeling of him having a fat fetish (rather than simply being attracted to whole hot fat people) or thinking I was just someone to be humiliated. I saw the physical mismatch of us—him twenty-nine and slight except in one particular way (I found out through unsolicited-but-not-entirely unwelcome dick pic, obvs.) (But is there such a thing as dick-catfishing? Probably.) and traditionally fit-looking, me 47, Amazonian and weighing in at 302 pounds. We WOULD have looked a little funny in public together, but someone who liked me as a person wouldn’t have cared.

What started as feeling appreciated, celebrated, overwhelmingly desired a month ago turned into hidden, erased, dirty-in-a-bad-way. Maybe he did feel attracted to me but ashamed about it, or maybe he just wanted me to be a sex-typing-bot whose feelings, bad days, and vulnerabilities he didn’t have to care about. Maybe he wasn’t brave or kind enough to turn me down directly. Maybe he was just a jerk. In fairness to him, I knew that trying to be casual would get me to this emotionally untenable place eventually. I just shouldn’t have let it go on until it hurt this bad.

This past few weeks have been a (not un-fun) scramble to find the things The Coach couldn’t provide in someone else, to distract me from the loneliness while I kept him in the mix. Not! A great! Strategy! As sad as I am to lose (and reblock) The Coach, I’m grateful to be done with that scramble. I’m so impatient with what I really want, it’s so annoyingly specific and (imaginary in this case) snuggle-prohibitive sometimes.

Yesterday, a car plowed into my side mirror and smashed it off on my way to work. I wasn’t hurt but I was heartbroken—I love my car so much, and the mirror metaphor was a little too on-the-nose. Sweetie-Now-BFF immediately sprung into action ordering a replacement mirror and rearranging her schedule to get me to work until it was fixed. And while that was happening, I was worrying that I would seem too needy when (okay IF) The Coach texted after ten. I know it’s not superfair to compare a TWO DECADES LONG friendship/love/friendship with a recent not-quite-a-fling, but BFF’s kindness and concern reminded me of what I’d like to have eventually with a guy. The Coach was not going to get me there.

So at quarter to ten, I said texted him the things I was feeling. He was was an entitled, bratty jackass about it. So ends my foolhardy foray into hookuptown. I can’t promise it’ll be the last, but I promise to keep trying to embrace wanting what I want. But first, wallowing.

 

Actual Casual Sex Part Three: The Kinda Emo Part

I’ve been thinking a lot about what the word “romantic” actually means to me and in this particular case I think it means being all fizzy and lonesome from no-cuddling-but-very- competent stranger sex and getting a hankering to tell my hot unavailable friend all about it. I wanted to tell The Coach about the hookup in detail to get him off, but I also just wanted to confide and get his perspective. Plus, there’s a story between us, however mismatched, and I wanted some grounding.

I sent the text to The Coach at 11:11. (Didn’t time it that way on purpose.) I even checked this time if I was interrupting some other lady’s evening, and he said I wasn’t.

He was slutty/sweet/curious, instructive and encouraging. I opted not to get explicit, but I liked telling him this new adventure. After I was pretty sure he’d fallen asleep, I confessed that if I was gonna casual anyway, I wished I’d casualed more with him.

When I woke up the next day, I saw that The Coach had texted at 4:33 AM and offered, you know, some more casualing.

I asked about friends with benefits, and that was fine with him. I don’t know what that means, really, or if it’ll result in any more adventures with The Coach, but I like that door being left open, even as it also makes me want to jump out of my skin. If nothing else, it would be really nice to have somebody besides my ex-wife to talk about my sex-life with! (I don’t give her much info, but I’m pretty sure it’s more detail than she’d like!)

As for Casual Guy, I’m grateful. I liked his instructions, his sweet voice, his unequivocal fucking. I needed it so much.

With all this adventure in the past month or so, of course there are also triggers to care for. The line between arousal and anxiety has always been shifty for me. I would like to spend some time being extra kind to myself, give myself space to think and feel and crush and process. (And get back to learning my knots!) And then I would like MORE PLEASE, UNIVERSE, if you don’t mind.

 

 

 

Actual Casual Sex Part Two: A Lot to Think About

“Do you have a condom?” I asked as we started to aim for upstairs.

“No, do you have any? I mean, you said you hadn’t been fucked in a long time so I didn’t think we’d need one.”

“I mean yeah but I’m not crazy!”

(Seriously people, it’s basically legal to bounty-hunt abortion seekers in Texas these days, is there anything LESS HOT than trying to shirk safer sex? There might be one thing less hot, stay tuned.)

He admitted he *might* have a condom in the car so I smacked his ass and sent him out the door to go get it. I felt impatient and not exactly hopeful.

But yay! He had one and we went upstairs.

“Okay I want you to kneel down.” He wasn’t so much dominating as he was gently instructional.

It was nice to have a dick in my mouth again after aaaaaalllll this time. I really missed the taste (Didn’t make him have the condom on for this part, probably I should have.) and the fullness in my throat.

“Deeper now,” he said, guiding my head with his hand. The tip of his dick hit that part of my throat that makes me feel a little squirty and a little scared. I gagged in a way that I didn’t mind but that definitely shifted me away from my own room and into porn-mind.

“I want you to spit on it.” Yeah no. I ignored that request and I humbly ask that everybody look at porn just maybe slightly less.

Realizing I wasn’t going to be spitting on anything, he shifted to helping me do the best possible job, which I really appreciated. Love any time spent getting better at penises, learning about angles and rhythms and…

“Okay now I want to see how tight that pussy is. Take your pants off and get to the edge of the bed.”

Ahhhhhhhhhh he felt sooooo good. We fit together so nicely and he was both confident and competent enough that I didn’t have to worry about a single thing in the entire world for a few minutes.

“Move back onto the bed, I want to fuck you right.” And ohyes, he did. I hung onto the bars of the headboard and made all the noise and felt. Just. Relief. Welcome, hooray, thank you.

He started talking about how he was going to take the condom off and come inside me though, so I said “Wait, what?!” and wriggled out from under him until he convinced me it was fine, it was on, he was just talking shit.

(Again! So gross! Be a good citizen of sex!)

A lot of his talk was so much fun though:

“You deserve this. You said you haven’t been fucked since 2018? Tell me about 2018.”

“It was…this guy...from down the street…and we liked to watch…Gilmore Girls…afterward we…argued about the…midterm elections…”

And:

“You like this, don’t you? You watch a lot of porn, don’t you.”

“No just a little…Hentai… once in a while…I don’t…really need it…I have a good imagination…”

And:

“I love all this hair you have on your pussy. Don’t shave, do you understand me?”

(Okay points for that but I probably would shave for The Coach if he asked me nicely.)

And:

“This pussy is mine now, right?”

“Um, no. It’s actually mine.”

But then there was this moment that I can’t quite get my head around. Now, I don’t mind being objectified as a white woman, that seems totally fair, a little bit satisfying and corrective. And I should not be in the business of yucking anybody’s yum or getting protective of a grown man while he is CLEARLY having a good time.

But:

“You like that. You like that n****r dick don’t you? It’s okay, you can say it.”

After I winced and looked away, he dialed it back to “You like that big, black dick, don’t you.”

“We don’t need to make it about race.”

(Okay. I am attracted to black guys (and also, white guys are fucking terrifying) but I also spend maybe too much time worrying that they’ll think I’m fetishizing them, that I’m Allison Williams from Get Out. I should think a whole bunch about this later but first let’s finish the scene.)

After that jarring/heartbreaking moment, we got back on track.

“Okay are you ready? Can I fuck you harder now?”

“Oh yes PLEASE.”

It felt so good to wrap my arms around his big sexy strong arms, his muscular shoulders, to kiss him one more time and feel him let go inside me.

And then he was dressed so fast. He made noises about owing me cuddling another time, but I knew I wasn’t going to take him up on it. I put my pants back on the come down and lock him out.

In a warm, fuzzy, kinda-shocked-at-myself daze, there was exactly one person I wanted to talk to about this. Not super-advisable, but my guard was all the way down so I texted The Coach.

 

Actual Casual Sex, Part One

After my week of phone adventures with The Coach, I guess I decided to play a little more like he plays. (Or I guess, the way he looks like he plays, I really don’t know his life!) I switched my very sensible 37-57 settings on Bumble to a more playful 26-57. I stopped automatically swiping left on anybody who looks like he goes to the gym a lot. I realized (!!!!!) that dating apps could just be for looking at cute people instead of steadfastly looking for The Right One. I slutted up my opening lines by a little bit, which means a lot of kissy-talk and emojis that involve hearts because! If they’re scared of hearts they could just not say hi back!

Note to self: They are NOT afraid of emoji-hearts. What have I even been doing with my life?

It is a whole. New. WORLD in my inbox now. Which was good because Friday night I was antsy, and I was (for basically no reason, it turns out) trying not to text The Coach, and I was trying to just read my library book but it was in my phone where all those guys were.

There were a few dating-y guys in the mix, but when Casual Guy was like “What are you doing right now?” I didn’t tell him about the library book I was trying to read or about looking for a Real Relationship. I didn’t even ask if he was allergic to cats (no) and if he was vaccinated (yes) until he was already on the way.

(Let me just stop and give credit to The Coach, because he could have said he was fully vaccinated too and been done with me like two weeks ago.) (I mean, kind of a low bar, but being a good citizen of both Covid and sex is superhot.)

I didn’t believe that Casual Guy would come, or that he would like me (well) or that he would look the way he looked in his picture. He did show up and he WAs beautiful. He was dark-skinned, dressed dapperly, and had pretty that’s-how-they-get-you eyes. A softly West Indies accent. A round tummy but/and jacked arms. (I believe that is the first time I’ve described someone using the word “jacked” on this blog and it sort of makes me feel one hundred years old, but it IS the right word.)

I poured us some wine. My supersweet lesson-planning Pink Moscato was the only one I had cold but it didn’t matter because nobody drank any wine.

OH MY GOODNESS I DID NOT EVEN STOP TO PUT MUSIC ON! Scream emoji!

He had told me to put on something sexy for him and I, because I am lazy and it was all-the-way after ten already, decided that meant cute PJs, a lacy purple bra, and no underpants. No things were shaved or even trimmed. He could not have given less of a fuck.

I thought it was really sweet that he didn’t want to move my cat from her spot on the couch. I scooted the cat over and sat as close to Casual Guy as I could without touching. I thought there would be…banter? Time to drink wine and settle in a little bit?

Instead he was like, oh, you’re shy? Let me help you. He took my hand and put it on his knee. He gently put one hand on the back of my neck and pulled me into a kiss as the other hand went right up my pajama-top, roughly (but not too roughly) pulling my nipple up and out. OHboy, the lace and nipple and his rough hand gathering me up with expert pressure, that’ll stick with me. I’ll picture and feel it for so many alone-times to come. He put my nipple in his mouth and sucked sweetly. I groaned and lay back, disrupting the cat.

“I mean, I do have a bed…”

From Good Second Date to Ghost, Part Three

 

He's her lobster.

“This hair isn’t gonna pull itself,” I said with my trademark subtlety, grabbing myself by the scruff.

Again, a look of startlement, like whoa, but then Nearby Guy wholeheartedly complied. He hugged his left arm up under my torse, both an embrace and a hold-down. He played roughly with my nipples while with his other hand he pulled my hair, just hard enough that I felt like I was surrendering, not quite hard enough for it to hurt. He smushed our faces together into a hard-to-breathe-but-not-unpleasantly-so kiss. It took strength to leave the kiss enough to tell him to go easier on my nipples, and once he complied, the kiss/pull/restrain went on for a good while.

As the energy ebbed back to tender and I regained the use of my arms, I held the sides of his face and kissed him like I was in a movie, or like I was Rachel Karen Green on Friends. (Ross is garbage, I know, but I feel like I grew up with them, and their romance is part of my overall template for love.) (It would be completely fair if someone is out there writing about me as Toxic Rom-Com Lady.) I didn’t mean it as a quote-kiss, it felt very real. So sweet. So close to that thing I’m always looking for, then feeling stupid for looking for.

“I might get feelings,” I said. “Is that okay?”

I didn’t really need to ask this question. He’d already framed our connection as romantic on the first (retroactively-upgraded) date. Asking was self-protective and maybe defensive, but also fair in that cloud of subbiness, vulnerability, and man-smell.

“Well, we would have to talk about it…”

So we did. He wanted reassurance in the poly department, which I was happy to give. Feelings got a tentative green light, but the situation still felt too fragile to me (or maybe like I needed to smash it and run) so I said:

“Okay, but if you’re looking for something casual, that’s not me.”

In my mind, so much of dating is/has to be about showing that I’m ready to graciously say goodbye. This is maybe not the best strategy, but I haven’t found a better one yet.

 

Single Life Week Four: A (Mostly) Good Christmas and a (Mostly) Bad Date

My favorite thing about this last week was going to Christmas at my own local Unitarian church—usually I’m out of town so I’ve always missed it. Since I went by myself, I expected it to be sort of a solitary, reflective evening—I stood at the cookie trays long enough to watch all of my peanut butter blossoms disappear and then made for a pew, drew myself inward and listened to the choir warming up.

Then this couple I’ve been crushing on for like a year walked in, all vitality and smiles. They happened to choose a pew with room for one more, so I made a beeline to go sit with them. Just as always, they were rosy-cheeked and friendly, either full of natural well-being or having just smoked a bowl, or both. We chatted about their pre-church walk in the woods and their upcoming holiday plans. I learned that they live nearby and often have brunch at the little place down the street from me, and promptly invited myself along. I found out that he grew up Unitarian and asked him what is was like to have so much less shame. They’re both musicians for a living and I was a little intimidated singing next to her since she’s a voice coach, but actually we sang together beautifully.

We giggled, grinned, and sang our hearts out through the service, singing all of the verses of the original carols with capital G God left in—not always the case with Unitarian songbooks, but I liked it. The packed church was beautiful and reverent as we passed the light from candle to candle for “Silent Night.” I felt so grateful to be home and then and there I committed to making my own church part of the yearly Christmas routine.

It made me so happy to have spent that time with the cute couple, not in a hitting-on-them way but just enjoying them and seeing that real, playful, spiritual love is a possibility in this world. I liked sitting next to their love and knowing it was real, knowing that I’d put myself on the right path toward finding it for myself.

As I walked home that night, the thought came to me clear as Christmas lights: “I’ve moved on.” It felt like I was walking into a new life. According to every Christmas movie ever, it’s a terrible tragedy to be alone on Christmas, but that moment of hearing myself felt just as festive as any other part of the week. Just listening to the chime of my own soul was a quietly awe-inspiring thing.

Christmas day, as I’ve already written, was pleasant but sad towards the end. I was glad to welcome Sweetie over and eat out favorite things, watch some Project Runway and do our family calls. In true Cindy Lou Who fashion, I didn’t miss presents at all, not the giving or the getting. I felt simple Christmas joy in my heart.

The night was rough, though, lonelier, and in the dark I started to scroll through all that was missing. Christmas falls on one of the longest nights of the year, and it really felt like it. I was glad to be home safe and warm to grieve in my own bed, and when I woke up the next day I was glad that it wasn’t Christmas anymore, just an ordinary day.

Friday I’d made a date to meet an OKC guy for the first time—he was cute and I was glad to entertain him as a possibility. We met in his (Slightly upscale, compared to mine) neighborhood. He could have been the ghost of everything I thought I wanted when I first started dating guys—tall, gentle, beardy, hipsterish in a well-scrubbed way, fairly inscrutable.

He was pleasant enough but I didn’t feel a spark or a pull, so I was somewhat surprised when he invited me down the street to his apartment, ostensibly to meet his cat. I’d already made up my mind that this could be a casual sex afternoon and if that’s how it turned out, and that’s how it turned out.

I loved his apartment. It was boyish and dark and full of pop culture toys. I could imagine taking many naps there. The very sweet orange cat was ensconced on a pillow beneath the window next to a Kermit the Frog doll. “That’s his sleeping friend,” the guy explained.

He (the guy, not Kermit) got very familiar very fast, so fast that I felt like “Huh?” but I went with it. It’s amazing how quickly bad decisions can was over me sometimes, like I’m in the cast of Girls or something. Not necessarily a good look at 39.

His dick as big but the rest of him was just kind of too smooth. He touched me sort of gingerly, like he wasn’t sure how to work me. He kind of fucked me like he thought I was fat and I feel apologetic to myself for the distasteful way he moved my belly aside—Dear Belly, I love you, I’ll try to never let it happen again. His couch smelled like cat pee and when I had the sex-moans that sounded like sobs, he said “Don’t cry, baby,” and I think I might have actually rolled my eyes at him.

I was getting off and bored silly at the same time and I told him he could be rougher, but I don’t think he could. He had these amazing big hands that couldn’t smack convincingly, what a waste.

Eventually we admitted that it wasn’t working and parted ways with no drama at all. What a blessing, a bad match that only lasted part of an afternoon. He tried to make noises about being friends but his number was deleted (I’d never even put his name in my phone) before I was half a block away. My only regret was that I never got to ask him why he had a set list of Hall & Oates songs on his fridge. Was he in a Hall and Oates cover band, or had he been to see a Hall and Oates cover band on a night significant enough to warrant the posting of a souvenir? Or had he been to see Hall and Oates themselves? Ironically or unironically? I’ll never know.

I felt wretched as I walked back to the bus stop. After all I’ve been through, all of the genuine and special moments I’d experienced, how did I let meaninglessness slip in, as it were? The simple answer is, I wanted a penis in my vagina, and he certainly provided that. Also now that I think about it, I was trying to gloss over some deeper feelings I was having about other characters. Not a good strategy, but nothing to feel terrible about. Though I wouldn’t repeat it, I’m kind of turned on writing about it (Pause for personal time…) and I’m glad I took a risk even though it didn’t pay off. They can’t all be beautiful stories. Though I’m not going to make any pronouncements swearing off vanilla guys or casual sex in hipster apartments, I am not, in fact, on Girls. I am a grown-ass woman who knows she doesn’t have to settle for disconnected. On (slowly) to the next things. Especially after hearing this in the supermarket really cracked me up and made me love my weird life:

Worries and Wonders for Casual Times

Friends, it will surprise exactly no one that it’s taking me some time to get over Steampunk Guy. I didn’t really realize that until I was on a hike last night with my BFF Angel Face having all kids of mentionitis about it. All those transformative experiences in such a short time make it still really difficult to have any perspective about him, even if it means I risk losing my awesome breakup award.

With that in mind, I want to spend exactly no more time trying to make myself be casual about someone I’m actually bonkers about. When the time comes that I’m a little more past my divorce and safely settled into my own place, I look forward to finding a guy I can just go ahead and fall for, and he might even fall in return.

In the meantime, I’ve been mulling over how I can keep playing without getting my heart tangled up in anybody until I’m ready. I know there are no magic rules that can keep me from going to crushtown—after all, I fell for Bill just by exchanging song links, and I got all those daddy feelings for Fireguy just from one approving look during a casual public scene.

I do have one non-lovey-dovey ongoing thing: Old-Timey Guy and I have played off and on for more than a year now and I’ve never even had a little twinge of wishing things were different. He is certainly affectionate, but I’ve never kissed him, he’s never put anything inside me, we’ve never been alone, and he’s never given me aftercare. I’ve never needed aftercare because I’ve never been to subspace with him. (Haven’t been to subspace with anybody since The Man. It might be a while on that one.) Maybe it comes down to those things, or maybe it’s not what we do or don’t do, but just that the feelings are genuinely just friendship feelings.

So I don’t know. The idea of going however long without kissing or fucking is unappealing to me, but so is the idea of trying to rein my feelings in while I do those things. I did just break up with everybody I wanted to fuck or kiss, so I suppose I maybe do need space from it.

While divorce-grief has me fragile, I did make some rules that I like:

1. No more than two drinks ever.

2. Leave when it feels even a little bit icky.

3. Aftercare, if needed, will be self-provided.

My sense of self-preservation is stronger than it’s ever been, so I feel confident in my yesses and nos, but I also know that my heart runs away with me sometimes. I’m not sure what the solution is.

Roadblock #2: Guys Might Be Ashamed of Me

***Friends, I’m having a very sad day for reasons that I’m not ready to write about yet. They’re only peripherally related to the topic of this post, but it’s hard right now to even feel confident enough to write about the things that keep me from being confident. Still, aside from putting the telephone down the garbage disposal, writing is the best thing I can think of to do. ***

About a year ago at a conference, I was sharing in some group or other and mentioned that I’m a sex blogger. An adorable teenage queer person came up to me after the group and asked “So, you write about fat culture?” I was mystified before I got furious—I rarely think of myself as a fat girl and certainly wouldn’t have thought to write about it. My response was cordial but indignant.

Back when I was dating (or whatevering) Bill, I wasn’t familiar with the norms of casual sex and kept trying to get him to go on real dates with me instead of just showing up in my living room weekly. He made every excuse. For a while I bought that he was too broke for dates but I knew he was going out with his friends, so I got it in my head that he didn’t want his friends to see me. When he finally and un-auspiciously announced that we were never going to goth night together (Goth night was kind of a stand-in for a playspace, before I knew about play parties.) I never had the courage to ask why but I took it to heart that he was ashamed of me and didn’t want his friends to see him with me. He’d made very minor (so minor as to have been possibly nonexistent) fat-themed comments, but I felt like what he was telling me in not wanting to date was that I was too fat and ugly for him, even as he was quite grizzled and (yummily) bear-shaped himself.

Maybe because it brought back the Bill feelings, but part of what made me cry on my date (again, or whatever) with Steampunk Guy was when he said (Citing time constraints) he wouldn’t go to the nude beach with me unless Steampunk Girl was there, or maybe the two of them would just run into us at one of the upcoming gatherings. He’s (understandably, maybe) hesitant about playing with me in public, too. There are many possible explanations, but a question bubbled up in the aftermath of that conversation, one that I’m really hesitant to type: “What if he’s embarrassed of me? What if I’m too fat?”

To ask that question in connection with the nude beach, where I always feel so happy and loved and perfectly myself, seems like a terrible sin but I have to confront it—do these guys only want casual sex because they see me as unattractive, or does casual sex just make me feel fat? Or both?

All the way down to my heart, I love my body. My hips and belly are all smushy and my ass is round and of documented spankability. My boobs are round and plush, my nipples are huge and pink and blessedly sensitive. As a series of vacation-day selfies proved to me last week, my pussy is adorable. My arms are long and toned in places and I easily get a golden tan. My eyes are big and blue and my smile is endless and sincere. On a good day, I know I am beautiful.

But I also know that a body like this wouldn’t make every guy proud. There’s absolutely nothing about me that is small or delicate, except for my adorable sneezes. I’m taller than most girls and I do wear size 18 jeans. While I don’t worry about my size on a day-to-day basis, I have resolved to lose the same 40 pounds for the past however many New Yearses. I have an ambivalent relationship with weight loss, complicated by a desire to be loved exactly as I am and a hedonistic resistance to not eating whatever the hell I want to.

A friend of mine recently dropped a whole bunch of pounds, but to me she was the same perfect little adorable angel before and after. I was hanging out with her a few nights ago when I guy came over to say “You look great before but you look so much healthier now.” His saying that to her made me want to a. Give up on men entirely and b. punch him in the face. How in the fucking world would he know whether she was healthier or not and who in the world was he to tell her she was better this way?

A favorite aunt of mine used to tell me that fat is “jerk repellant” but it certainly hasn’t worked out that way for me. I’ve often wondered what makes people treat me with less respect than they do others, what makes guys forget I’m there or treat me as much less valuable that other partners or potential partners. I don’t want to think it comes down to how I look, but sometimes I wonder.

I wonder if, in some guys’ eyes, fat might mean I’m fuckable but not lovable, at least not take-outable. Even as I get in better shape, shrink down, and start wriggling into cute lingerie, size-ism (Or perceived size-ism) makes me hesitant to put myself out there, lest the body that I genuinely love (at any size) be mistreated and/or rejected. Whether it’s true or not it is certainly unhelpful, but hopefully naming the fear will take away some of its power. I want the confidence to know that I am beautiful and worthy and the self respect to just go ahead and reject anyone who doesn’t treat me that way.