As I sit down to type this, I feel half "we went too fast and I lost my chance to truly get to know him" and half "whoa our bodies (and souls?!) really knew what they were doing that Wednesday morning after yoga!" Since I can't fully understand what it means, I'll focus on how it felt, which was unequivocally, dizzily wonderful.
Putting the ropes on Sweet Valentine, I didn't really feel like a Ma'am. Part of the appeal of this connection was how evenly matched we are in some ways. He IS a sweet precious baby boy, but he's also a man with a real, full life and a big stake in his/our community. AND he's in therapy?! So hot.
It's hard to latch onto details because the morning was such a blur of joy and release--I felt both very present AND in a fog. The Pink Haze, my name for the way horniness steers the ship in the right direction sometimes, was in full effect.
His shoulders are made of the most beautiful triangles in existence. His body reminds me of the Greek hall at the Met, so perfectly carved by nature and light. I felt perfectly carved by nature and light too! The sun was shining directly into my body, heart, and soul.
And I felt secure, like all of me was in such safe hands. Dad vibes I guess, or just his open and beautiful attention. Maybe both. My word for the year is trust and on this day I felt like I was living it.
I found out later (or maybe he told me at the coffeeshop and I just missed it) that this was his First Ever Poly Date!!! Not the first one he made plans with, but the first not-his-wife lady he kissed since they started their adventure. I wish I'd taken this into account, asked him questions deeper than "Are the ropes pinching anywhere?" and "Am I doing a good job?"
Or maybe it's better that the ropes and our bodies did most of the talking? Praise flew out of my face like it always does. And much as I get vexed by the just saying stuff aspect of dating, boy did I say stuff. Such as:
"When I put the ropes on you, that means you're mine. And when I take them off...you're still mine."
The kissing and the sex both felt like we were trying to meld into one body, one spirit, not tangled but interwoven. Bound but free. Grounded and kind.
No wonder I've been feeling such floods of emotion following our (first?) two dates--having my needs met so thoroughly and kindly is BEAUTIFUL and also so big that it freaks me the fuck out a little. That be not afraid feeling of encountering angels.
Not that day though. All I felt when he left that afternoon was:
1. THANK GOD The Guy Next Door didn't kiss me!! What if I'd gotten distracted by his mess and MISSED THIS?! Sometimes it's so clear that Love Itself is looking out for me.
2. Sweet Valentine is someone really special to me.
3. This is the kindness I deserve. I hope he feels that way too. He deserves every single happiness in the world, such a precious sweet baby soul.
I spent most of the day in bed, napping/glowing/napping/glowing. I felt peaceful and fulfilled and happy. I knew OCD would chime in with the thoughts soon enough, but that day found me with a quiet brain and a full heart--a miracle just as it was.
Things are getting better and worse. Now that I know I’ll be
in a classroom soon, the loneliness seems less oppressive sometimes, but there
are nights (often Wednesday nights, for some reason) when times slows down and
I just don’t know what I am going to do with myself.
Sweetie and I have broken the habit of checking in several
times a day, and when I do call her at work or sit down to talk to her, it
isn’t the same. When I ask her for help figuring something out, I know I’m
missing an opportunity to strengthen my emotional muscles, to build new
friendly bonds and/or neural pathways. Little by little, our habits and
routines are dying away.
We stopped switching back and forth between the foldout
couch and bed. She claims that the couch is better for her back, but I know
it’s an act of chivalry and I’m accepting it, because I don’t know what else to
do. The window sill that acts as our (now my) headboard used to be cluttered
with books, magazines, and art supplies from when we used to spend weekend days
in bed together, doing our separate whatever but still snuggled up. I miss her
there, I miss when that felt right.
Even after we broke up, she used to kiss me on the head
before she left for work, but the other day I put my hand up and deflected it.
With my mouth feeling so needy, I couldn’t risk even a forehead kiss.
She’s still my friend, but it’s closing up. I feel myself
shutting off from her and seeking support elsewhere and within myself.
We used to have a mug that said “No Coffee, No Service.” for
some reason, even when I wasn’t using that particular mug, I used to say that
to her every morning when I brought her coffee: “No coffee, no service.” I just
realized I stopped doing that a couple of weeks ago.
This apartment is a sucking hole of loss, and half the time
I don’t even realize it. I start to think of it as the only truth, that I am the loss and sadness, but on days
when I’m away, I start to feel like myself again. The other day when I was
driving with The Lady of the House to the beach, it felt like a reunion with
myself, a reassurance of my continued existence, a real life after this
marriage.
But I miss the feeling of knowing where my family is—not my
family of origin, not my sister’s family in the next state, but my own family, my own home. Having
everything up in the air is exhausting and every life around me feels more
situated than mine. It’s too much ending and not enough beginning. I need
something to help pull me forward to the next life.
To give a little tribute to the grief without it swallowing
me under, here’s a list of ten things I miss about her:
1. I miss coming home from a date or a night out and getting
all kinds of snuggles, parsing out every nuance of the adventure I’d just been
on. (I’m having an icky realization that it might have been filling a parental
need, the wish to have a mother figure who rooted for me to find love and
happiness. Yeesh.)
2. I miss travelling with her, stopping off at rest stops
for snacks, stopping on the way home for ice cream. (My eating habits have been
getting better and I really don’t mind pumping my own gas, dear.)
3. I miss our podcasts—I don’t think that I can listen to Radiolab or Wait Wait, Don’t Tell Me or Judge
John Hodgman without her.
4. I miss the cats being our
cats.
5. Likewise the dishes, the sheets, the groceries. We still
share all those things for the time being, but they are no longer a
representation of our love.
6. I miss thinking of her at the library and picking up
weird fantasy novels in case she’d like them.
7. I miss the garden being our garden. Since I might try and
keep this apartment, I guess it’ll be my garden. Back when we lived in my
hometown, the garden used to be like our whole life, but we haven’t had that in
many years.
8. I miss her body belonging to me, but not mine belonging
to her.
9. I miss having dates with her. We haven’t even been to the
movies in a few weeks, though I guess that’s still permitted.
10. I miss the pink ropes and all the other snuggly things.
Everyone, divorce is booooooring. Well, I guess actually
it’s the job hunt accounting for the semi-weekly bouts of crushing ennui.
Remind me never to take the summer off again unless I have a really riveting
reason, like a more-than-two-person family to take care of or a tour of the
French cathedrals. Sitting by myself and being a cover letter factory just ekes
away at my soul sometimes-thank goodness there have been smutty blog posts to write!
I’m really worried that this process is not going FAST
enough. We’ve been trying to think of ourselves as “living with a friend” to
take some of the divorce stigma off our list of things to worry about, but I’m
concerned that I’m still being much too dependent on her.
I’ve been financially and emotionally dependent on her since
just a few months after we got together. When we got engaged, it was 2002. I
may have been craving safety, but so was everybody in the country. Did I just
blame my semi-failed marriage on 9/11? No, but it feels like it fits. She and I
were actually at the same peace vigil a few weeks before we met. With even my
most liberal friends spouting jingoistic threats, Sweetie’s proclivity for tie
dye seemed forgivable, almost preferable.
I’d also just moved back to the East Coast from California,
and I missed my poetry friends so badly—I really needed the move to have meant
something, for the sacrifice to be worthwhile. In the end, of course it was.
It was six months before we moved in together, but we had
the emotional equivalent of the old U-Haul joke even earlier on—on maybe our
third date (On the couch, where so many of my good dates happen…) I let the
phrase “soul mate” slip out. The first time she really opened her mouth and let
me kiss her, it was one of my top five religious experiences.
I was literally in the middle of a panic about career and
money when she produced a tiny sapphire engagement ring. She’d bought it very
soon after we’d started dating. That “let me take care of you” situation is not
usually the engagement story we tell—we officially proposed under a meteor
shower on her birthday (coming up this Sunday, as a matter of fact) like any
respectable poet/philosopher pair would.
So our relationship was definitely about love, but it was
about security, too. I had a deep need to finally be taken care of. After my
fucked up childhood and ten years of attempted adulthood, I felt like I
deserved someone who would seek me out to bring a coat when it threatened rain,
who would drive around talking for hours. (Often about boys, little did she
know that’d be her life for a long time…) I felt bedraggled and spent, and
there was something pure about her that I loved and aspired to—she seemed
redemptive somehow, and I guess she sort of was, except I didn’t really need to
be redeemed.
The fights started pretty soon after we got together, but
she’s also deeply loyal and she supported me while I dawdled through my
undergrad years and went on to be a full-time writer, supplementing our income
a little with part time retail and teaching artist jobs. She’s worked millions
of hours for us, making almost all the money for all but the last six months we
were together. During fights, she would threaten me with homelessness from time
to time. I felt like I contributed in the usual housewifely ways and I
definitely provided us both with a social life, but I’m ashamed that I didn’t
build more for myself over the years, that I let myself depend on her so much.
Fast forward to two nights ago, sobbing on the floor because
it was one of those grief-sneaks-up-on-me days where I’ve lost hope of ever
finding a job or moving ahead or ever being worthy of love. Those days only
come about once a week, and they’re getting less intense so I am not worried about
my mental health just yet. She helped me through it, telling me again and again
that I wasn’t worthless, that our situation isn’t permanent, that it would all
work out—all the things I believed so joyously when we first made the decision
to split. I feel so guilty for still needing her help. I shouldn’t need her to
tell me that it’s gonna be okay anymore. But twelve years is a long time to
have been in the habit of needing her, and it’s proving trickier than I’d hoped
to get out of the habit, but I am trying.
Eventually the tears subsided and we sat down to an episode
of Project Runway. Nothing like an Unconventional Challenge to lift the spirits
of two poor sad ladies.
Every dollar I save, every new thing I try, every time I
write out the feelings instead of calling her at work or take the bus instead
of calling her for a ride, I’m trying to create a more self-reliant version of
me. I just feel like it’s taking way too long.
This morning I woke up happy, with an oddly festive feeling
like it was a holiday. I’ve been doing restorative yoga and sometimes it brings
little mood-treats like that. But with that happy feeling came the thought: Why
can’t this be it? Why can’t we be us together again?
I miss her so much, even though we’re here together for at
least another month. I miss the hugging, the kissing, the snooze-alarm
snuggling, the sex, the pretty pink ropes, the knowing we belonged to each
other. Each day, we practice belonging to each other a little less. We clean,
we sort, we pack, we take a break and go to the movies, we treat each other as
kindly as we can, but it’s an in-between time that feels excruciating. I want
to go backward or be on the other side of it, knowing we’ll both be okay.
I left the house for a job interview this morning feeling
prepared, expansive, and optimistic. I was even feeling proud of myself for
filling the car up with gas, since that’s a chore that usually falls to
Sweetie. (Except in New Jersey, a more femme-friendly state where there’s no
such thing as self-serve.) I mostly ignored the GPS and navigated myself to an
opposite corner of the city. And then I made a left turn and somehow missed the
big silver pickup in my blind spot. I scraped his bumper and smashed the shit
out of my driver’s side door.
I wasn’t hurt and the other driver was kind enough to take
my info and let me go on my way.
“Calm your nerves,” he said, and I did.
I had to climb into the passenger’s side because the door
was stuck shut. I took deep breaths. I pressed the destination again on the
GPS. I still got to the interview fifteen minutes early, and I did fine,
certainly as well as I’d done in interviews where I WASN’T in a car wreck on
the way over. Afterward, I hoped no one noticed that I got into the passenger’s
side.
When I got home, I fell apart. This felt like evidence of my
failure to take care of us, to move us forward. I felt so stupid and scared for
risking my life and our livelihood like that, for the fact that I was going to
drain off more of our already-dwindling seed money. Everything else on the
horizon seemed darker and more difficult, one potential failure after another.
I know this is just one of the languages of grief. The hopefulness I’d been
cultivating for the past few weeks dissolved and was replaced by a wrenching
pain in my gut—the heartbreak always finds a way to make time for itself. I’d
give it time on the calendar if it were in any way predictable.
I sobbed sorries into the phone to Sweetie, and of course
she wasn’t mad about the car, she was just glad I was okay. It’s just another
thing we’ll have to sort through, the way we sorted through the Christmas stuff
and the CD collection. We’ve been a team for twelve years, and we’ve gotten
through so much. We still love and value each other enough that we can see
ourselves through this last stuff, as long as it takes, even if it is lonely
and frustrating and claustrophobic. There’s just no way but through it.
I guess I realize that as much as I want to push myself
through, to try to be brave and learn and self-improve myself to the other
side, sometimes it’s important to just take some time and be NOT OKAY. I need
to always be ready to put aside time to fell apart, to hug the duvet and cry,
to sob sorries into the phone. I loved her so much and we are over, or at least
a big part of us is. And there were other losses and breakups too. That’s too
much to just go on pretending I’m okay. Sometimes, I’m just not.
On the upside, I have a pass for unlimited yoga sessions for
the next two weeks, so whatever I don’t sob out or get spanked out, maybe I can
just breathe out.
This’ll be a long post, but I appreciate the way the three
things fit together so here goes.
Way back in May when I met Steampunk Guy and Steampunk Girl,
I hit on them both but I kind of backpedaled, so there was confusion all around
and awkwardness between me and her. When he asked me about it the day after our
first couch-date, I gave my standard
not-usually-attracted-to-non-Sweetie-girls-but-I-wouldn’t-rule-it-out answer.
But when (a little over a week ago) the day finally came for
our first metamour coffee, I thought back to my intentions that first night and
realized that my first thought on seeing them was “I want these two to do stuff
to me.”
We were meeting right after I’d just had a job interview, so
I was feeling all competent and happy. I changed into my favorite blue dress in
a café bathroom and felt glowy as I drove out to the suburbs. She’s chosen a
coffee shop on a little Christmas village of a street near where they live.
When I saw her, there was just no question as to whether I’d been hitting on
them both. She’sjustsopretty. She’d come right from work and was wearing a
vintage white wrap dress with cap sleeves and pearls. She had on pretty white sandals with wedge heels. I imagine
we looked like an adorable pair of ladies.
She took charge, which was helpful since I’d wondered how a
submissive and a bottom would fare. She bought me a perfect iced latte and even
though it was eight million degrees out, I was glad to stroll down the street
with her.
I felt like I bonded with her immediately. We talked and
talked and talked. She made me feel superwelcome in their life, even suggesting
adding me to one of their Google calendars. (Swoon, I know. I just couldn’t
picture him actually doing that.) Even though he’d made it clear that I was
just borrowing him from her, she made me feel like we were actually sharing,
smoothing over the things about him that don’t always make sense, finding lots
of things in common about what else we’re looking for. We’re both really strong
women who like to stay that way until it’s time to submit, and out in the world
that presents us both the same vexations sometimes. I told her I’d love to be
her wing girl when it’s time for dom-hunting.
And here’s where it gets really swoony: She was amenable to
the three of us doing snuggly things. That just made my heart giggle. I felt my
inner unicorn wanting to come out and romp around, and why shouldn’t it?
Without the weird half-monogamy I’d been arbitrarily giving Sweetie, a whole
new set of possibilities opened up, and I was giddy with the release.
After I hugged her goodbye and texted him a high five, I
drove back into the city inspired as all getout. My smutty imagination and my
friend-making heart were all fizzy with hopes and dreams and scenes.
But. She’d reiterated their semi-rule about not dating
people who are midbreakup, and I did feel that hanging over me. That was a
particularly optimistic day in divorcetown, but what if they decided it was too
big of a risk? And trying to make my divorce seem adorable all the time seemed
like a recipe for disaster. I couldn’t stand the idea of them joining the
overlarge pile of friendships wrecked by my mismanaged love life—I want that to
happen exactly no more times.
Then Sweetie and I took our trip up to my mom’s and my
sister’s. We didn’t acknowledge it at first, but it would be our last trip together
for a long while. It was kind of okay. We played with my niece and nephews,
chatted with the family, set off bittersweet fireworks. I felt numb-to-anxious
most of the time, and when I hugged my baby nephew, my recently-admitted family
urge twisted up an ache in my belly.
But it was alright until it was almost time to leave. I was
doing one of my favorite things in the world, playing Mario Kart with the kids
(I play as Peach, obviously.) when I started to get a really bad headache. I
went out to the porch to get away from the game, and while I was out there I
checked my phone, and it was dead. I get really attached to things, even
gadgets, and I hadn’t backed up my numbers or my favorite texts, so the broken
phone just went ahead and opened up the grief floodgates.
I didn’t quite escape crying in front of the kids, but we
got out of there and once we were driving away, the sobs came hard and fast and
ugly. I realized that my family would never be the same, and I felt like such a
bad person and a failure for breaking up the marriage.
With pauses for friend and job search stuff, the sobs came
hard from Sunday to Wednesday. I felt like I was gonna die.
In retrospect it seems crazy that in that state I was trying
to make plans with Steampunk Guy, but we did have a whole bunch to talk about.
I kinda felt like he was already gone, but you know I’m generally open to goodbye
sex. But because of where I am on his list of priorities, his plan-making style
takes a lot of self-confidence to deal with. I’d generally find out the day
before if he could fit me in, and that worked fine for the little spate when I
was working 60-hour weeks and having four partners, but it wasn’t working now.
In the process of trying to convince him to include me more, I realized I was
negotiating for a thing that had already passed.
If I really had seen him as a treat, it would have worked,
but once I realized I liked Steampunk Girl too, I wanted real relationships
with both of them. I knew he didn’t have room for that, and I was in no state
to navigate it anyway.
I’d hoped to have the conversation in person, but it was
weighing on me so I wrote him a bye-for-now love letter. He wrote back kindly
and understandingly. Being a reader and a listener, he’d noticed the difference
between what I want and what he has to offer. Although I was feeling sad about
having to let go of him/them for now, reading his replies made me feel like I’d
unlost him, like the warmth of the connection between us was still real. I hope
it comes around again, lord knows I’d still love to climb all over the two of
them, maybe someday when I’m all happy and settled in. But for now I’m really
proud that I put the friendships first and did what I needed to do to take care
of myself. There’s a lot of power in admitting what I want and I’m glad that
they both helped me see it so clearly.
“We are being awesome at this breakup.” I typed, “Two gold
stars.”
“Two gold stars and a pony sticker. High five :)”
I told him he could go ahead and make that a sparkly unicorn
sticker and that’s the story of my first breakup that ever ended in a high
five. Compared to that mess of a breakup with The Man, this feels like a
miracle, it feels like I’ve come so far. Thanks for getting me here, pals. I'm sad we're not snuggling, but I’ll
be so happy to see you around town.
Grief is kicking my ass. Even though I still see Sweetie every day, I miss her so badly it feels like I might die. The old life is gone and the new one seems like it might be a mirage.
I'm gonna set the blog to private in a little bit, at least for a few weeks. I need some space to go ahead and fall apart.
It’s hard to write about divorce without ending up using
clichés, so forgive me.
Although there’s a lot of sadness between Sweetie and me, it
feels like all of the tension is gone from us. After the drama of breaking the
news to family and friends, we settled into what I hope is a grief-muted
version of our future friendship.
For sleeping arrangements, we take turns for who gets the
bed and who gets the foldout couch. For the most part, we’ve stopped snuggling,
even during snooze-alarm time. We still walk around naked in front of each
other and she’s still beautiful, maybe more beautiful now that I know she’s got
a chance of being happier some day. We got a second air-conditioner so that all
of the sorting we need to do can be done in relative comfort.
There aren’t any more reasons to fight, so our time together
is punctuated by sad kindness. She still listens encouragingly about everything
and still sends luck when I go out on job interviews. If I’m going to aim for
independence, I guess I might have to get out of the habit of calling her
whenever something electronic isn’t making sense.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but most of what was toxic
between us seems gone, and so is a lot of my anxiety and fear, replaced most
days by a clearheaded sense of forward motion.
Once I realized we’d both be free to pursue what we really
want, I stopped feeling envious of the happy couples around me and started to
be inspired by them. In fact, seeing my best friend Angel Face and his new partner
in full-on NRE adorableness was part of what prompted me to make the decision.
I know love is a long way off for me, there’s so much to take care of first,
but most days I’m pretty sure I’ll get there, and it makes it so much easier to
just let everyone around me be what they are.
Although most of the time it seems like everything is moving
itself forward, sometimes it does get overwhelming to think of how much has to
happen to get us safely and happily to the next life. I’m laid off from the
school district right now and I try not to get freaked out about how urgent my
job search is. I’m pretty great at job interviews but it’s hard not to think
about all of the other teachers who are out there looking too.
I look forward to being on my own, having my own apartment,
remembering how to rely on myself. I see glimpses of the life that I want, it
isn’t too far away, but I know I have to honor the heartbreak too. It was a
relief to let go of the struggle, but so sad to let go of the daily life of us.
I hope there really are parts of it that we can keep.
I do get scared that I won’t find a job, that I won’t be
able to get us where we need to go. For
the past twelve years she’s taken care of us financially, but I’ve always been
the one motivating us, pushing us forward, and I think that’s still true.
I can picture my own apartment, plants in the bright
windowsills, a new bed with flowered sheets. I want to be there so badly but it
still feels selfish, it still feels like something can make us stay here. I want
to be in the new life so badly, safe and settled in and ready to heal.
Letting her go (and letting go of the idea that I had to
change for her) has helped me to appreciate her and what we had, and the
friendship that we eventually will have. I’ve been walking through the world
knowing there’s always someone to take care of me, and that’s both a good thing
and a bad thing. I’m interested to see what I can be without her
over-protectiveness, without her backseat driving, but I’m grateful for how
much love and care she’s given me.
This is the biggest cliché of them all, but I did this so
that I could learn to love myself. I just need the strength and resources to
get us out of here—I need the universe and hiring committees and landlords to
cooperate and get us through, to help us to do this big loving thing for each
other so that we can both be healthy and free.
Today I decided to just stop, rest, let myself feel all of
the complicated things. (And watch way too many episodes of 30 Rock) I’m gonna
try to do that as much as I can.
Tomorrow we’re driving up to my sister’s to hug the niece
and nephews—I wanted to make sure that Sweetie knows she’s still a part of my
family. My mom says to bring as many fireworks as possible, and I couldn’t
agree more.
Friends, I’ve left out a really important part of the story.
I haven’t told you how much hurt there is between me and Sweetie. Every loving
thing I’ve said about her is true and sincere, but there is a very deep sadness
between us that’s getting harder and harder to push aside.
Every so often, we trigger something in each other that is very
hard to live with. We only have bad fights a few times a year, but the things
we’ve said to each other are a very heavy load to keep carrying. Any couple
that’s been together for twelve years might have deep angers and resentments,
but in this case I don’t understand how we can get to the point of liking
ourselves, individually or together. For a long time she attacked my sexuality
whenever we were fighting, so even though she’s almost always supportive now it
is hard to accept myself as bisexual. I have a very, very deep wish to be gay
for her, to make all of the complications and dissatisfactions (well not ALL of
them, I suppose) go away.
Saturday, we thought we got it figured out. We were
bickering on the nude beach of all places, exchanging barbs about how I always
want her to go in the ocean and she doesn’t want to. It, um, wasn’t really
about the ocean. I told her I couldn’t deal with the idea of swimming alone for
the rest of my life, couldn’t deal with paddling around by myself with all
those happy couples. I didn’t want to hit on them, I wanted to be them.
She pointed out, incorrectly but insightfully, that the
wave-frolicking pairs I was envying were all boy/girl combinations. I’m sure
this is partly because I was hurting over Mr. Sweetheart, but I know that’s not
all.
“I haven’t been your primary partner for a long time.” she
said, again wrong but not wrong. What I feel for her is closer to
best-friendship than romance to the point where I dearly wish we could skip
right past divorce to being pals. But she would have to not be madly in love
with me for us to do that.
Having been back and forth about divorce bunches of times,
we decided we were finally going to rip the Band-aid off as soon as we got home
and start the divorce process. I got up and walked into the ocean, suddenly and
completely fine with swimming on my own. It was cold and it took me a while to
settle in, pick my feet up, float and even smile. I felt relief. I could
finally stop trying to squeeze into this thing that no longer fit me. My long
hard quest to somehow what she wants was over. I could stop running and finally
turn to face myself.
Of course she swam out to meet me. I started to cry. “I’m so
sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
I started to cry harder and sobbed out “I want a husband.”
There in the water, cool and naked and facing the person who
knows me best in the world, it seemed so clear. It seemed like such a simple
truth.
It’s impossible to overstate the amount of shame that my
failure to be gay and monogamous has brought me over the years. I felt, I still
feel, like I let her down so much. I’ve been given a partner who is almost
perfect, almost every single thing a person could need, why couldn’t I just
TAKE it? Why couldn’t I just be satisfied?
I’m not sure if I can every really love myself within the
context of this relationship. It is certainly very hard to accept being bi, let
alone the taboo and crazy-feeling wish for a male primary. Every time some dude
wrecks our evening in whatever careless way, I overflow with sorries, for
taking away her time and happiness, for the fact that I could never manage to
just settle down and let myself be loved.
Day to day, she’s understanding and giving, the most
supportive a poly girl could hope for, but in the fights the truth always comes
out. Like I started to say, for years she’d attack my sexuality during every fight,
calling me a slut or a whore and telling me that I’m disgusting for wanting
men. She talked so disdainfully and I gave as good as I got. These days she
doesn’t tell me to go suck a dick like she used to, but she does go from zero
to you’re-a-stupid-selfish-bitch-and-you-never-shut-up-about-boys every so
often. I wish there were some in-between there.
She doesn’t say those things because she really hates men or
bisexuals or anything like that. She does it because I do get self-involved, yammering and fussing through every crush,
and it makes her feel insignificant. I am not loving her the way she deserves
to be loved, and I am not loving myself, either.
As we drove home from the beach, stopping for sundaes and
listening to Wait Wait, Don’t Tell Me as
usual, the enormity of losing each other kept hitting us and what to do next
became a lot less clear. Whether I stay with her or not, a husband seems like
an impossible dream-where does one get
one of those? How does that happen?
The best thing about this, though, is that I’ve allowed
myself to stop denying it, to stop wishing and trying and struggling to be the
wife I planned to be ten years ago, to be what’s expected of me, to be what she
really wants. I grieve for the nice lesbian wife I didn’t turn out to be, but
I’m also glad to be (almost) free of her. (Free of the imaginary me, that is.)
Since Saturday, we’ve been intermittently fine and sobby. We
fall asleep separately but she still crawls in with me every night, we still
hit the snooze a million times and hold each other in the cool morning air. I
wish we could hit the snooze on this decision forever.
Ten years ago, in a rose garden in Upstate New York (before
gay marriage was legal there) in a ceremony officiated by a poet, Sweetie and I
said our vows in front of our family (even the most conservative members
attended) and friends. It was a perfect day, exactly the way we’d envisioned
it.
To celebrate her general state of wonderfulness, here are
ten things I love about Sweetie:
1. She is beautiful. She has the most baby-deer sincere
eyes, softsoft shoulders, spectacular bosoms and highly smoochable lips. My
body fits perfectly with hers and the smell of her is the deepest of animal
comforts.
2. She is smarter than anybody. She has absolutely no
patience for nonsense except for (thank goodness!) mine.
3. She is my best friend. Sometimes, especially if we have a
nice, leisurely Saturday afternoon ahead of us, we’ll lay down to have sex but
seeing her face will make me just start yammering. She opens me all up, and
though sometimes I know I have just a few more words than she’d prefer, she’s
always, always there to talk with. I’m so very grateful.
4. I love the way she gets really worried if she sees a
groundhog or some goslings about to cross the road. She’s protective of everything, especially me—once before we
were even dating, it started to rain and she was worried that I’d left without
a coat, so she went to my house to get me one.
5. I’m happy doing nothing with her. One of the best weeks
recently was the week when the new Arrested Development season came out and we
spent all kinds of time binge-watching episodes. Oh, Sweetie and me and our
love affair with the couch. And the bed. And the garden. And the porch.
6. She’s so unbelievably generous! All week this week, even
though she has her own full-time job, she’s been coming into school with me
early every day to help pack up my classroom. She always takes care of me so
well and I know I could never even BEGIN to make it up to her.
7. Strawberry waffles in bed every Saturday. Romantic trips
to the Whole Foods for sushi and salted caramels. Broccoli soup in the
wintertime. Getting like six fortune cookies with every Chinese food order.
Morimoto for fancy ramen on really auspicious or really trying occasions.
Beachside sundaes. Making dinner for her and sometimes for her and other
sweeties too.
8. She listens to me cry when boys are mean to me and hardly
ever gets frustrated with me for letting them. She roots for the dudes who make
me happy (the whole cast of characters at the moment) but when times are tough
she says the lesbians will always be willing to renew my membership. (She says
she has an in with the committee…)
9. She joins me in so many adventures and happily sends me
off on the ones that don’t interest her. She’s so good at knots that it makes
it hard for the boys to measure up. (Yes that is a challenge, guys. Go
practice!) She stands supportively by when nice men are helpful enough to hit
me with stuff, and then is happy to hit me with more stuff. (Mostly her lovely
hands.) She brings out the growly top in me but also can make me feel sosoothingly docile. She lets me draw elaborate doodles on her back because she
likes the tickle of it.
10. She gets superpissed when I don’t love myself as much as
she loves me. She is better at love than anybody I’ve ever known-she isn’t
perfect but she never, ever lets me down. She never stops letting me know that
I am the most important thing in the world to her. I would love to be as good
at love as she is.
Sweetie says it’s not always the same story, but the last
year is really looking like a pattern to me—girl meets dom, dom breaks limits,
girl panics and feels unplaywithable. It takes so much to rebuild myself after
each breach of trust, and it’s very hard to live with the fact that these kinds
of things are happening all the time, that he’s out there ready to dehumanize
the next girl.
I don’t want to be using words like “dehumanizing.” I want
to have fun. I want to be the brave naked girl with a well-spanked behind and
ropes in various shades of Hello Kitty, but that girl seems really far away. So
I’ll start with the worries:
--I am worried that there isn’t a dominant guy in the world
who doesn’t secretly want me to just shut the fuck up. No matter how clear I’ve
made it that messing with my voice is a hard limit, I always seem to end up
with a hand across my throat, literally or metaphorically.
--I’m worried that I’ll never be able to tell the difference
between red flags and just fears. Since I’m a fairly anxious person anyway, I
tend to dismiss intuitions and deal-breakers until it’s too late. In the case
of the last guy, so much of my psyche was like a horror movie audience
hollering DON’T GO IN THERE but somehow I always end up in there. It would save
me a lot of trouble if, as Sweetie suggests, my intuition could please speak
in complete sentences.
--I’m worried that I’m just someone who can’t gain respect for
some reason. I worry about this a lot in my classroom, as well, on the days
when the first graders won’t simmer down long enough for me to finish a
sentence.
--I worry that submission is just something that I try to
exchange for love, but I don’t think so. After a good, connected scene, I feel
clearheaded and centered, closer to my better self. It’s only when I play without
connection that things go off the rails.
Now for the wishes:
--I wish for a man who’ll be happy to belong to me, no
matter who else he belongs to, no matter who else is at the table. I would love
to sit there and know that he loves me, even as he gazes lovingly at his wife.
I want to feel cared for and secure enough to enjoy the love between him and
his other partner(s). I don’t mean belonging to each other in a M/s sense, only
in the Breakfast at Tiffany’s
buy-some-furniture-and-give-the-cat-a-name sense. This is the hardest thing to
believe in.
--I’m trying to figure out a non-hurtful way to say I wish
for a guy with a regular-sized penis that works most of the time. But it’s not
really about the size or hardness; it’s more about having the depth of character
to handle mishaps and insecurity with aplomb. In my somewhat limited
experience, there seems to be a connection between frustrations in that
department and misogynist tendencies.
--Speaking of depth of character, I wish for a man who is as
good and careful with knots as my wife is. Learning ropes takes discipline,
practice, and patience, all things that I need to be looking for in a partner.
--I wish to be able to make mistakes, talk things through,
ask for compromise. It keeps getting to a point where I’m afraid to ask
questions, and by then it is certainly too late.
--I am not a unicorn, and I do not want to date or bottom to
his wife, girlfriend, friend, other sub, or anybody else, unless I expressly
say so. I wish for a man who can have healthy boundaries between relationships
and who can even (Do I dare wish for this in modern times?) PUT THE FUCKING
PHONE AWAY on date nights. (Except for check-ins and emergencies, of course.)
It’s not that I don’t want to know his people; I just would like a chance to
know him first.
--I wish for a man who can see me broken and sobbing, who
can see me at my ugliest and still think I’m beautiful. I know this is a
possible thing because my wife has been doing it since 2001.
And the resolutions:
--I will not ignore red flags. If something in me says
“RUN!” I will run as if Matt Smith himself were telling me to.
--I will not do things I don’t like. Even if other people
seem to like them. This seems obvious but I need to tell it to myself.
--I will not date men whose other partners have “Veto
power.” I will gladly meet folks but I won’t be vetted. I want to be treated
like a potential friend, not a potential employee.
--I will not date anyone who makes me feel secondary or
tertiary. I have room in my heart for a real second partner, and I want a man
who does as well. This doesn’t mean I would need equal time, but if I see him
once a week, I want the time to mean something.
--I have friends with whom I will happily play casually, but
when I am on a date and someone asks me what I am looking for, I will not give
some wishy-washy answer about “Oh, well, I’m open to however things turn out…”
I will say “I’m looking for someone at whose house I could eventually leave a
toothbrush.” and if he seems toothbrush-averse, I’ll move on.
I really didn’t want to let him go. I am tired of being in
the pattern of girl meets dom, dom breaks limits, dom disappears. I thought
there must be a better way to end the story, some way to let him earn back my
trust. I spent the couple of days after the bad scene concentrating on being
100% there for my students and trying to get in touch with my inner strength.
Because The Man and Sadist Girl were members of the venue’s
security staff, I wrote to the venue owners to tell them what happened. Because
of some stupid loyalty or hope, I left The Man’s name out of it. I gave his
name later on, but I seriously doubt that there will be any consequences. I’m
one voice against members of a close-knit group, and I’m sure it’ll be easy for
them to convince their boss that I’m crazy or whatever. Power imbalances like
this are what make me wonder if kink is ever really safe.
When it came time to get in touch with him, I was still very
unsure, but I thought it would be good to plan a walk either way—we could
either reconnect or debrief and part kindly. It seemed like a healthy way to
try and break my pattern of disappearing doms.
He didn’t text back when I texted after school, so I started
to figure out that it was really over. I called around 5:30 and got back an
unfriendly text that said he would call when he got back from the gym. He made
me wait for that call for a long while, but I got the kids’ behavior reports
done while I was waiting—that seemed oddly fitting. I kept reading out relevant
quotes to Sweetie: “Please pay attention and follow directions,” etc. Does not
play well with others.
The call was quick:
“(The Wife) says I have to talk to you so I’m talking to
you. I don’t think that you are healthy for me to be around. You are too
fragile, even when I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“What are you TALKING ABOUT? I didn’t do anything wrong. I
realized that I needed help and I told you! And you didn’t listen. It is not
fragile to respond to something traumatic by being traumatized.”
“You weren’t traumatized and this isn’t about Saturday,
which, I already apologized. You have emotional issues about me. You’re so nervous
that it makes me fearful. When you met (The Wife) you were so upset that you
could barely speak, even though there was no reason to be nervous.”
“I was nervous when I met her because I LIKED you.” (And, I
didn’t say, because she started out the night by pouting and refusing to come
to the table. And she had veto power. And she tried really hard to convince me
that I would like a horror-themed play party. And because they were Who’s
Afraid of Virginia Woolfe-ing each other all throughout dinner. It was
nerve-wracking, is all.)
“That wasn’t the only thing.”
“Explain please. I just don’t understand.”
“I don’t HAVE to explain. I can just hang up this phone and
never speak to you again.”
(tiny voice) “Oh. Okay.”
I couldn’t understand why he was suddenly so mad, what in
the world had changed since Sunday. I started writing this post as a “Well, AM
I too nervous?” kind of thing but that is just pointless. Even if I had fucked
up the dinner we could have talked it through. He was trying to turn it around
on me for whatever reason, but it makes no sense. None of it makes any sense.
It’s always tempting to look around in a story and see what
I could have done better, see what lessons I can learn so that it can all go
better next time, but this is not the time for that. The plain and simple fact
is that he fucked me over and then tried to gaslight me about it. It wasn’t my fault.
It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.
I’m not fragile. I have “emotional issues” but who
doesn’t—it’s called being alive. I tried to talk and process and do what you’re
supposed to do, but none of it worked, because it was over, even sooner than I
thought it was. I miss him so badly and I don’t know when I’ll be ready to date
again. The fear and sadness gets less every day, and I’m ding my best to take
care of myself and move on.
This was the first time I saw the inside of their apartment,
a cute homey place except for the racks and racks of horror movies everywhere. (Seriously,
who wants to sleep next to more than one installment of Human Centipede?) I
loved his cats instantly—he rivals the Mayor of Kittentown in terms of breakup
pet-regret.
We tried to talk but we were both exhausted and not really
getting anywhere. I said I was embarrassed about arguing loudly with Sadist
Girl and he was all “Yeah, well, you’ll just have to mend some fences.”
“What? Mend some fences? After what she did?” I just
couldn’t believe it. There was less hope of renewing trust with him with every
word out of his mouth. I couldn’t believe that that’s what he was gleaning from
the situation—a need for me to preserve some imagined friendship with someone
who’d helped him completely screw me over. I just didn’t get why he was so
desperate for me to connect completely and immediately with the women in his
life, but, spoiler alert, that’s what he ended up calling the deal breaker.
Mending fences? Really? I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t
mad at her when I was clearly so hurt. The more I type this story, the more I
think maybe they planned it without me, that it was his idea all along.
Talking wasn’t working, so we went to bed. He and his wife
have an agreement that others can sleep in their bed, they just can’t have
sexytimes there. Even though I couldn’t feel safe with him, I still felt
something like affection lying there in his arms, with the cats hovering around
us, nuzzling and sweet. I really, really wanted this to be real, not just a
hollow shell of a snuggle.
He fell asleep immediately, the blissful sleep of the
not-panicking, and I lay there feeling trapped and sad and horny and broken. I
woke him up a few times to try and get him to help me calm down. His face
trying to stay awake was really sweet, but the conclusion was always the same.
She was his friend, and of course he loved his venue, and there was nothing
that could be done about it. I felt like he was choosing brutality over
everything I’d had to offer, over the very, very much I’d already given. It
didn’t make sense to me then, and it doesn’t make sense to me now.
Around 6 A.M, something piped up in my brain that told me I
had to get myself home. I told him I was leaving and he offered little protest.
He just said goodbye. I don’t think I could stand to know that he valued me so
little, I felt like I had to stay and change his mind. I went back to bed and
finally drifted off.
When he woke up (He kept mentioning a thousand times that he
had to go and pick up his wife at a horror convention. He had, in fact, asked
ME to go and pick her up, because he is man-with-no-boundaries. I’d declined.)
Anyway, when we woke up, I told him to hold down my heart to keep it from
breaking—he has these big, beautiful meaty hands, just like I always go for. I
can’t believe I never got to write about those hands having happier times.
Maybe I’ll come back to it. He held my heart down so hard that it pressed my
neck and felt like choking-as I pushed his hand down, he felt exactly like
Bill.
And yet the warmth from him still felt like love or like
some kind of connection. I forget sometimes, I forget over and over that some
things are just about sex, just animal attraction that I tend to give more
meaning than it deserves. I just forget.
“Let’s go to the couch and make out,” I said. “It might be
our last chance.”
I climbed on top of him and ground myself against him, that
teenage dry-humping thing I always miss when there are no guys around. (Although, teenagers probably don't really do that anymore, now that I think about it.) No way
in this world was I going to let him inside me, but I loved feeling his
(admittedly insubstantial) stuff against mine. We kissed and kissed and he
played with my nipples just as much as he possibly could.
He said “Tell me the things you want to tell me. Get the
anger out.”
“Well, you are just gonna have to get it together. I have 23
first graders and I don’t need one more. In fact, I don’t need a whole venue
full of first graders who can’t keep their hands to themselves. Be my hero and
clean up your fucking mess. Rise to the fucking occasion.”
“What else?”
“No matter who else you belong to, no matter who else you
LOVE, when we are together, you are MINE. These lips are mine, these ears are
mine, this dick is mine. MINE.”
“Okay.”
After I said that I felt a lot of the tension drain away.
The feeling of wanting to claim him was deep and scary—I’m still very scared of
it, but I am also glad I acknowledged it.
“Unless (the wife) is there.”
Ugh. Goddammit that wasn’t what I was talking about. But
also, I totally can belong to somebody else if my wife is there. I think we’ve
reached the actual problem, or one of them.
We kept kissing for as long as we could, and I made myself
come with him on top of me.
Then we talked, and in a way it felt like the first real
talking we’d done. He told me all about his family and his background, and how
he’d joined the military because they called the day his mom died. I was uncomfortable with the whole ex-military aspect of him, but that was such a sad
and broken fact, it endeared him to me, and when he asked me if I wanted to see
photo albums, I was so touched and said maybe next time. This is what made it
seem worthwhile, what made me want to give him every possible chance.
We agreed that we would talk a whole lot, do lots of vanilla
things for a long while before we ever set foot back in a dungeon again. We
made plans for a long walk the following weekend, assuming I decided to
continue things. We were gonna give things a few days to simmer down and then
talk.
Then he told me to bring a toothbrush next time, but to make
sure not to leave it at their place. I need someone who wants me to leave a
toothbrush. Yet another time when I should have just broken it off right then.
But all morning he’d told me that he was going to get better
for me, stronger and more courageous, that he was going to be the man I
deserved, and that, as an added bonus, he’d work out until he could lift me
over his head. He said that I deserved everything I’d been asking for.
“And you tell that girl what my REAL NAME IS.”
I was supposed to meet Sweetie downtown for the flower
show—it was our big date. I parked pretty far away and walked toward where she
got off the bus, feeling disoriented and young, the way I’d felt when I first
lived here in 1994—lost, unformed. We never made it to the flower show because
I couldn’t stop crying, and that is what I regret the very most.
It’s been a little while since I’ve been able to post.
Sweetie and I moved into a new apartment last week, and while it is shaping up
to be quite a little love nest, moving has been sucking the life out of my
writing life.
So! Three main updates:
My
first date with Mr. Popular! I named him that because we first started
corresponding last summer when his dance card was all filled, and at the
moment he lives with his two kids, wife, his ex-wife, and his ex-wife’s
new partner, as well as having another girlfriend who doesn’t live with
them. I’m thinking that if we work out, he’d make a nice once-a-month
treat, and I’m excited about meeting the rest of the constellation some
day too.
Mr. Popular is a tall, beardy, adorable engineer. He asked
me out for Indian food, which means yay, he read my profile! We sat there
talking for like three hours, about his family, my adventures, his love of Rock
Band, and poly in general. He was all full of energy and it was easy to get
excited about him. (In fact, when I excused myself to go to the restroom, I was
so excited that it was hard to pee, so I think that’s a good sign.)
He likes to seduce girls by inviting them over to play
Beatles Rock Band—he says it’s easy to get cozy after singing all those
romantic songs together. So that’s exactly the plan for our second date, which
isn’t for a few weeks. He gave me the choice of family-style Rock Band or a
more datey plan, and I chose the just-the-two-of-us version because I want to
get to know him a little better before I meet everyone else.
What really turns me on about Mr. Popular is that he has to
be proactive about scheduling—it oddly seems easier to make plans with him than
with less-busy pals. I feel like all of the stuff he’s got going on makes him
more respectful of the stuff I’ve got going on—and that is HOT.
On the
other hand, my second date with Mr. Hazel Eyes was romantically
serendipitous. I was just getting out of a placement test on Friday when
he texted to tell me that he needed a hug. I happened to be in the
neighborhood where he works, so I was happy to deliver one. It was pouring
down rain so I had to go on a quest for an umbrella—the only one I could
find was a mini Hello Kitty one, darn.
I was dressed for a placement test, not a date, and my back
was soaked from the rain, but he didn’t seem to mind. We met at the local
indoor farmer’s market and had burgers in the little diner there. Over lunch we
talked about some of the things I’ve been worrying about, my post-Bill
anxieties, which he was able to mostly put to rest. I kept stroking his arm and
he kept looking me like grrr. I told him his Kitten Calendar nickname but
didn’t tell him where he can find it.
After lunch the rain had stopped, so we took a little walk
before he had to go back to work. He whispered progressively filthier things in
my ears and stopped periodically to press me up against buildings. I’m starting
to get used to the fact that I can turn guys on, but he really was making such
a big deal about it. I liked him hard and pressed up against me, mauling each
other like teenagers in the middle of the bright day seemed extra lewd. He
grabbed my ass at the bus stop and I think I’d have to call it the good kind of
humiliating.
He has really good top energy and I think I might be able to
teach him how to be my dom, but I’m still just not sure about him. We’ve got a
dinner date for Wednesday night so we’ll see.
This
weekend Sweetie and I went to our favorite rope-themed play party again.
I’ve been really hankering for a spanking so I was really excited to be
there. Two really significant things happened!
First—somebody else spanked me while Sweetie was nearby and
she didn’t mind! Huzzah! There was this sort of Renn-Fair-ish guy whose flogging techniques I’ve admired
for a while and he looked like he wanted to try out a new toy—a cane tipped
with a ceramic star—and without stopping to think, I blurted out an offer. I
asked Sweetie if it was okay and she said yes!
We were sitting on cushy benches in sort of a square with a
whole bunch of people. It was lingerie night, so had on a pretty, sheer
nightgown with hardly any coverage on the boob area (but tape on the nipples,
sadly) and a frilly ruffle at the bottom, with matching periwinkle blue lace
undies. I climbed up on my knees on the bench, hoisted up my nightie, and stuck
out my ass. The star thing hurt like a son of a bitch but the guy had such a
funny spankside manner that I was laughing my head off. I asked Sweetie how it
felt to see that and she said she just really liked to hear my laugh. High-five
to us.
Then it was time for me and Sweetie to play. I decided I
wanted my arms tied to posts and lots of ropes on my upper body and thighs. Off
came the nightie and I stood there almost naked in front of everyone. It felt
much more exposed than being all the way naked at the beach. I had my contacts
in so I kept catching people’s eye while they watched us, which felt hot but
unnerving. There’d been a munch right before the party, so I think people just
felt too chatty to play.
“Too many looky-loos!” I kept saying. Finally I asked
Sweetie to put a blindfold on me and it felt GREAT. I lost self-consciousness
and slipped right into subspace after that. I’d been scared of blindfolds after
Fireguy, and I’m delighted to have them back on the yes pile. So much to
celebrate!
Resolved: I am going to welcome opportunities to be more
flexible with my time.
I loooove to schedule things, both from the necessity of,
like everyone else, having a million things going on, and as a way of staving
off insecurity, especially when I really like someone. It’s as if I think that
writing someone’s name on the calendar means they’ll automatically like me and
stick around.
Last week, after Mr. Hazel Eyes texted on Friday to see if
we could hang out Saturday, (Um, alas? Sweetie and I already had awesome beach
plans.) I started to examine the anxiety that I have about spontaneity. It
seems that in the course of my life, all kinds of sexist, sex-negative, pop-psychology
nonsense snuck its way into my brain. There’s a cultural norm against being too
available if you’re a lady—I did get worried that he was into more of a booty
call thing than a..something else, but he was kind enough to reassure me that
it wasn’t. (He earned major cuddle-points for that.) (Also, booty call? Thank
goodness I did not use that actual term when asking him.) (And! Points to me
for asking!)
Back in my early twenties I read The Rules more out of curiosity than for actual advice, but somehow
that “make him really ask you out or he won’t want you” thing really stuck. Ten
years later I learned that “If he’s not asking you out, he’s just not that into
you.” I’m not sure why asking-out only counts if there’s advance notice, but
one thing’s for sure: I’ve got to stay away from those dating-advice books. Even
if I’m just reading them ironically, they seem to have power.
Bill and I had a real tug of war about the calendar. He kept
asking me “Why do you always have to know what’s going to happen?” and I never
had a good answer. My now-self is like, “Um, because I have a life?!” He made
such a point of dragging his feet about day-choosing, and it was just one of
the things he did that made me feel like he didn’t care. He’s a pretty bad
example, and probably the source of some of the anxiety. Everyone else I’ve
dated and/or played with has been great with planning, so I have no reason to
feel self-conscious about preferring it.
I remember hearing somewhere that submissives like to be very
oriented, and that is certainly the case with me. I like to be able to picture
the time in front of me, to have some idea of what it looks like. It makes
things seem more manageable, less hectic. Plus, over the course of this Poly
101 kind of year, the importance of calendars has been emphasized by absolutely
every advice-giver, to the point where it’s maybe a little over emphasized in
my head. Trying to be a good student as always, I guess.
MHE’s spontaneity triggered an embarrassing fear. For whatever
reason, part of me believes that if I let men into my life, it will somehow
become unmanageable, that I’ll suddenly be less smart, capable, organized
because there’s a dude around. New relationship energy does make me a little
scattered and distractible (just ask the midterm I’m glacially writing…) and it
makes me feel like I’m going wildly out of control.
It’s time to let go of that control a little. though I am
comfortable with preferring to plan, I really need to make room for
spontaneity. After all, it’s the dream to have somebody to just be with,
without having to plan anything, so, yeah, a little playing it by ear seems
like just the thing.
MHE had minor surgery this week and I’m in the middle
of packing up the apartment and eventually writing a midterm and going on some
tour dates, so I’m not sure when I’ll see him again. I don’t feel too anxious—I
think the liking-each-other thing will keep if it’s meant to. Meanwhile, I’m having
fun making (and flexibly changing) plans with other nice guys, too. But jeez, I
really do want to snuggle him
Our second trip to the clothing-optional beach started out
kind of rocky—there was a chilly wind that kept trying to turn our books’ pages
for us, Sweetie felt like the current was too strong for her and I kept trying
to convince her to come in with me. We had a strangely love-affirming moment
when she noticed a scrap of toilet paper on my bare bum and had to cover me up
with a towel to get it off. We kept
laughing and saying “oh, intimacy,” which is what we say when we are having to
do something a little gross for each other. That’s love.
(Just as an aside, I remember David Sedaris writing about
seeing TP on someone’s butt at a nudist colony. He wrote about vulnerability
and so on, I think, said something like “This is the essence of nudism.” and
that strikes me now as obnoxious—really, THAT’S the defining moment? Not the
standing around triumphantly or embracing our sweeties or getting swept
together in the waves? Only I would be bobbing around in the ocean having an
imaginary argument with David Sedaris.)
Anyway, Sweetie has weak, hurty legs, and wanted nothing
more than to be left on shore. Once I figured out that I didn’t have to drag
her into the rough surf with me, that I was free to fight and float and be
pummeled by the waves to my heart’s content (oh, ocean, my original top…) we
both relaxed and started to have fun. This can be a metaphor for our entire
relationship—we are happiest during the times when we’re both free to be
ourselves, whether we’re snuggled up watching back-episodes of Design Star or separate but happily
connected. When I relax and let her be herself, sometimes I get exactly what I
want, and so does she. Until then, it had been a cloudy day, but the sun was
happy to punctuate my epiphany by peeking through the clouds momentarily—it was
beautiful. The green water I was floating in was lit up and shimmering, the
patch of blue sky contrasting with the swath of dark grey sky on the
horizon—raindrops started to fall on the water, and somewhat inexplicably, I
got out.
We decided to take our stuff up to the car, have lunch
there, and see if the weather cleared. As we started to pack up our towels and
books and picnic stuff, I settled into the feeling of rain on my bare skin. I
kept getting distracted from what I was doing to face the sky, hold my arms out
a little, and smile up into the rain. I love
being naked in the rain, and if we hadn’t been averse to our nice picnic rolls
getting all soggy, I would have happily stood there all day.
I decided not to put on my dress until we got close to the
“attention—nude sunbathers” sign. I saw other people making the same decision
as well, carrying their clothes until the last possible moment. I don’t know
what I looked like carrying a heavy load of beach stuff with my boobs and
hoo-ha all on display, but I know I felt great.
Sweet, perfect, laughing joy bubbled up. I asked if we could put the stuff down
and stood there in the rain smiling some more---my body loves me at times like this, and I am in total NRE with it, too. I
couldn’t stop laughing and smiling and feeling ridiculous and silly and
beautiful and free. Sweetie’s face lit up too, though her clothed experience
must have felt a bit soggier. She loves seeing me so happy. Later she told me I
looked beatific and that’s exactly how I felt.
The weather cleared up after our car-picnic, and I got to
swim hard for the rest of the day while Sweetie napped and shell-gazed. I even
was brave enough to chat with people—the current seemed to want us to be
sociable, swooshing us all into a clump—it was fun to have folks to play with
me. I came home EXPLODING with sexy, vital energy, my muscles hot and skin
flushed, ready to ravish myself, Sweetie, and anybody else who might get in the
way. I’m so full of…something, and very grateful to be alive.
Sometimes, I’ll hit on someone on OK Cupid just because they
remind me of my ex-boyfriend-from-the-techno-years/current pal Pagan Boy. This
was one of those. The other thing that made me attracted to him was that in
response to the “Did you have a goth phase?” question, he said “It’s wasn’t a
phase.” I got a feeling in my belly that he’d be fun to hug, just from his
emails, and boy was I right. He looked sweet and game in his picture, with big
soulful hazel eyes and fluffy eyelashes. How could I resist?
Getting ready for our date, I debated with myself about
whether a spiked collar was first-date appropriate. I went for it, just to have
the excuse to wear it. Also I can proudly say I was leading with my boobs—there
they were right in front of me…He found me a bar that serves mojitos, which
isn’t always easy because not every bar stocks fresh mint. It was a good
mojito, it felt like a reward for a whole bunch of things. We fell into Moonlighting-level banter right away, is
there anything more fun? Sometimes I turn into this really brassy, candid
version of myself and just yammer a whole bunch about my various adventures—he
looked happier and happier as we went along. He looked into my eyes a lot while
we talked—boy are those pretty eyes.
We decided to take a walk to the river, joking as we went
about the really intense snuggling and hand-holding we both enjoy from time to
time. I revealed my quest for my inner Bettie Page, and he told me he has a
tattoo of her on his leg—I’m sure that isn’t uncommon among guys who also have
Black Flag tattoos, but I like the coincidence and I’ll consider it a good
sign. I could feel my inner Bettie while I was next to this guy, that’s for
sure.
He kissed me by the water, as little waves lapped up around
the bottom of the walkway, in full view of the swan boats and tourists. He
pulled my hair a little, because I’d told him I like that, and I’m sure later I
can convince him to pull it harder.
We talked on and on and on about sex, I’m sure we might get
to other topics some other time. If this were considered an assessment, I think
I’ve made a lot of progress since Bill said to me “You keep telling me what you
don’t like, tell me what you do
like!” When I feel comfortable with someone, I just keep talking, and we went
over likes and dislikes in great detail. I feel confident that he’s up to the
challenge of LOTS of bare-handed spanking, and he assures me it wouldn’t have
occurred to him to make me ask permission before I come. I even told him about
the love affair I’ve been having with my ass, though I didn’t go into detail.
(Oh, yeah, I should write that soon, too.)
He reminds me of the good parts of Bill; he’s strong, soft
in places, swaggery, about the same height as me, with reaaaaaaaaly nice arms
and good hands. But unlike Bill, he’s got his own house (I liked the way he
said it, “My house.”) a cute car, a
good job, a basement full of records from when he was a DJ in the Nineties.
There was a kiss in the parking garage elevator that made me
want to press the Emergency Stop button like they would in the movies. In the
car, he said I was evil for making him so turned on and I said “No, I’m a good girl.” And he said “You’re a very good girl.” and put his hand on the
top and kissed me some more. Swoontown.
When he dropped me off, he said “Tell (Sweetie) good things
about me. Tell her I was respectful and not gropey.” When I got inside, Sweetie
(Whose pre-date advice to me was “Don’t flee.”) was on the couch, glowing with
love and support. We watched an episode of Queer as Folk and went to bed. I
love her even more when my face is all stingy from beard-burn.
This morning I have that
what-if-he-forgets-to-make-more-plans-with me feeling. I’m happy and daydreamy,
even if I should be studying.
So many posts lately have tears in them. I’m hoping I get to
the other end of the tears soon, to some more good things.
Last Sunday at home, we wanted to play with the ropes some
more, so I could have a picture and Sweetie could practice her knots. I got
home from church and was ready, if a little sleepy still from the night before.
I stripped down and stood in the middle of our bedroom, hands-to-elbows behind
my back, but a few minutes into her harness work, I said “I’m having some
not-hot thoughts…”
In fact, they were fairly hot, just also sad. She stopped
working for a second, gave me the rope to hold behind me and asked what was
wrong.
“It’s just reminding me of Fireguy. The moment when he took
off the ropes and I was free and playful. I loved that so much and I never got
to write about it.”
In fact, I think I did write about it, but I never really
got to honor him, that friendship, those genuine moments I liked so much, the
way that I wanted to because I was so angry and scared. I had to cut off the
connection to make his betrayal less painful, but just like with Bill, Fireguy’s
jackassery didn’t make my affection for him (or maybe even his affection for
me) any less real.
I started to cry and Sweetie said “What do I do? Do I take
it off you?”
“No, leave it on.” She put her arms around me as tight as
the ropes were and I cried, feeling pink and naked and beautiful and loved and
sad and real, still holding the rope behind me. Her shirt grazed my nipples,
still standing alert from my flushed skin. After a few minutes of me standing
there pinkly sobbing, she got some tissues and dried my eyes, but I drew the
line at letting her blow my nose.
The moment I was crying about was this: back in Fireguy’s
basement, I’d been laying with him on a futon on the floor, laying back on my
tied arms, blindfolded. He said, “Come on, I turn over, I need your arms.” I
was about to be spanked for something, and I felt so adored—it was moment of
pure play and friendship. My shoulders ached and he said he wouldn’t make me
lay on my arms next time, but I said I didn’t mind the hurt. We were like
puppies, we were like kids, we were like friends. It was a moment of my
guy-dreams coming true and I was crying because I’d lost it. Crying for all of
the fleeting moments of connection that get buried under avalanches of fear and
anger and shame. For the ways I can’t connect and all the miracle ways that I
do. For the times that I just. Stop. fighting. They’re beautiful, and those
were beautiful tears.
Sweetie took off the ropes and I cried some more. She stakes
such good care of me at times like this. Sure, I would rather have had sex that
afternoon, but letting my heart bubble over was almost just as good.
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