Frilly Friday: Pool Blue and the Beautiful Melancholy

 

It’s been a lovely week in the world of body love! How could it not be, with all the sparkly femme Barbie vibes in the air. 95% of my brain power is currently taken up planning my outfit for the movies tonight! Speaking of frilly! Plus, I feel like I’ve fully reclaimed the pool, and they even added a lap lane!

After all those useful and painful paragraphs last week, making lazy art with pretty stuff feels like a balm. This is the first piece of fancy, grown-up lingerie I bought for myself, and the shift in mindset is almost as powerful as when I realized I could find new songs for myself without boys making me mixtapes! (Oooh but remember the Princely One’s dreamy Afrobeat picks though!? Let me now get swoonily sidetracked…)

The cups are a size too big, but as soon as I tried it on last Friday, I knew I didn’t want to be separated from this gorgeousness long enough to make an exchange. I love lingerie so much—the tulle feels so cool and delicate against my sweaty summer skin. The lace and embroidery and so shiny and tickly and exciting! Like the dear ropes, it’s like a hug I can give myself, just softer and less crafty/labor-intensive.

After I took the pictures though, sadness settled over me instead of horniness. I’ve been lonely these past few weeks, friends are away and there’s been a few too many (sometimes some is too many) “On This Day” reminders from last summer. The thing about these self-hugs is that they relax me into all different kinds of releases.

So instead of getting out the toys or hitting the search terms, I turned out the light, pulled the comforter over my fancy self, squeezed my Snorlax Squishmallow, and felt all the things.

Because And Just Like That has a new season, I remembered that I’m already familiar with this feeling—remember Carrie sad in a Paris hotel bed, swirled in that Versace gown?

Just like that but gorgeously fat and under forty bucks. Though I was sad, a warmth traveled through my body, concentrated on my heart and soul. This is what it’s like to love myself! And my dating break is over in just three days!

Knotty Thursday! Double Coin Knot (And Not)

 

OMG can you believe there was so much knot tying in wholesome Bob's Burgers this week? I was inspired by their short little practice ropes! Poor Bob and his bowline!

Before I figured out that I wasn't supposed to pull the top strands down, the knot looked like this, which I also liked. 

Practicing a Sensation

Not really! But sometimes!

(There is/might be a new lovely human in the picture too, but I’m not quite ready to write about him yet except to say:

1.     WHOA.

2.     Yay!

3.     “Good girl.”)

Anyway trigger warning for this story—sexual assault, abuse.

During my twenties and for a good chunk of my time with Sweetie-Now-BFF, the sensation of a penis inside me felt like an elusive, impossible grail, something I wanted WAY to much and absolutely COULD NOT figure out how to get with any kind of healthiness or consistency. I think I accidentally acted out this weird story I tell myself if getting stuck on sexting with The Coach—just another (really fun for a while!) way to convince myself I couldn’t get that feeling. I’ve always thought I’d better become SOMEONE ELSE ENTIRELY to get a dick in me, like other women somehow knew the secret I just couldn’t grasp.

I know. It’s very silly. But I still feel unfuckable-in-this-one-particular way even as the evidence is mounting (ha) to the contrary.

When I was text-playing with The Coach, I got a little sick of fucking myself—all of his delightful big-dick-describing made my fingers feel inadequate and though I came over and over for him, I craved the inside release. I had toys, nice gentle still things that usually do the trick, but I wanted something to take the edge off the yearning, off the power The Coach had over me.

So, having done absolutely no research beyond remembering that one Sex and the City episode, I ordered myself a Rabbit and a whole bunch of lube. Sometimes, I do make good decisions.

My new toy did take the edge off enough, gave me enough of a self-esteem boost that I could admit that The Coach wasn’t going to give me what I wanted. But more importantly, that sensation! The coming-from-the-inside sensation that always felt like an impossible treasure now waits in the drawer for me at the end of any given day, good or bad.

Not only that, it TURNS OFF MY BRAIN long enough to just melt and bask in the pleasure.

It seems a little odd to want to learn to take this feeling, that amazing-superhard-cock-inside-me feeling for granted, but that is exactly what I aim to do.

I want to learn that I deserve that feeling as much as anyone else who wants it. I want t0 practice feeling the joy and comfort and brain-tingle without wondering who exactly I would need to be to get it.

I have to acknowledge that I am massaging out a lot of pain that lives in there too—the loss, the heartbreaks, the losses of autonomy large and small.

Some of that pain is even inherited, I think. My mom may have actually taught me this inside-orgasm-craving-lack-of-agency. I used to overhear her berating my dad for not satisfying her properly, which one night culminated in something-like-ten-year-old-me overhearing him rape her.

What a memory to live in my body along with all of the recent traumas, likes, loves, and grief. I’m happy to be taking ownership of this particular sensation, giving myself a safe, private (well) space to learn what it’s like to feel entitled to, and safe receiving, inside pleasure.

I would like this to be part of building up my self-esteem and confidence enough to actually look for a guy who LIKES me, someone who wants to be close as whole humans. It’s a pretty basic wish, the PSL of dreams. I’m glad to have written it down.

 

 

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.

 

A Brief Gilmore Guy Revival: Part One

When I got his text, I was in a good mood. It was Friday and I’d just stopped at the bank to make my deposit, then took a rainy stroll in a nearby twinkle-light-filled, very window-shoppingy neighborhood. My life was just so perfectly my life. I got home, got in my PJs, lit all the scented candles, (hygge!) made some tea and settled in for some Gilmore episodes.

After a friendly back and forth about what episode I was on (Season 2, Episode 7: Rory gets Puffed because there’s no Reading and Walkman-Listening Club at Chilton.) (Lorelai and Emily mother-daughtering in the Booster Club fashion show is one of my favorite moments of the whole series.) Gilmore Guy asked, “How would you feel about seeing me?”

When I told him I wasn’t ready to be friends because I still had snuggly feeling for him (I did? I do? Honestly, I thought I’d moved on.) he made it clear that snuggles were what he was after. My body filled with hopeful light and heat. Okay, I said. A treat.

I brought him the painting above, it doesn’t really seem like street art anyway. He made me a gin and tonic, remembering that the fancy Bombay was my favorite from his collection. (“A gin-clear mind…” says The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina in my head for no reason.)

“Should we kiss?” he asked as we settled into Season 2, Episode 8. (Jess is the WORST. Team Wookie forever.)

“Should we? Probably not.” I said, already kissing him.

I’m fascinated and mystified by the way that our bodies were so SMART together. Making out on the couch, we fit together so smoothly, easily, power trading back and forth between us in such a seamless, joyful way. As we made our way horizontal, the closeness I felt to him was startling. Sometimes I held him so close to me like this was something romantic. I guess in my head, it always will be.

Hours later, when I asked him to hold me down, I felt such pure, uninterrupted happiness as I giggled and struggled. The instinct of our bodies together is a monument in my heart, a shiny obelisk of mystery. I know, I know, I KNOW it’s just sex, but I can’t understand how our bodies seemed to know each other so well. Creating such beauty together, and then not, I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. I’m more than happy to keep trying, though sadly not with him.

Snuggles in the Time of Kavanaugh* Part One

*Gabriel Garcia Marquez was also a rapey garbage person.

Before I write elsewhere about my adventures at the Supreme Court protests last Saturday, (Short recap: Screamed at a couple of Trump supporters, got in a cop’s face when he wouldn’t let me take my sign up the steps, screamed at a Franken apologist, helped take the steps of the Capitol, didn’t get arrested, went to the botanical garden) I want to keep honoring my time with Gilmore Guy, which is both related to and so sooooooooothing about the national misogynist mess.

After our wonderful time on the twenty-first night of September, Gilmore Guy and I set our next date for the following Monday. I was sooooo excited for the date that I even went shopping for cute new PJs, a lacy new bra, and underpants that were decidedly NOT the Bridget Jones kind. It felt wonderful to think about lace and ribbon and general girly adventurousness—I hadn’t felt that way in a long time!

Unfortunately and fortunately, that Monday was also the day of the National Walkout to Support Dr. Blasey Ford. It felt tricky to hold both that massively important moment and the wonder of this gorgeous, cuddly new man in my life at the same time.

I did NOT like wearing black. I would do anything for survivors, but in the future, I may not do that. Without my jewel tones and happy, sparkly jewelry, I felt armorless, marked as a victim for all to see.

I stopped at the library to pick up my holds, and the librarian complimented my NARAL pin that says “feminist” in six languages. She then felt moved to tell me that her brother had been molested by a man in the Sixties while hitchhiking. I felt equal parts sympathetic and annoyed, equal parts solidarity and irked by himpathy.

I text voters as often as I can to support the #bluewave, but I maybe should have skipped it on that day. Or maybe I’m glad I didn’t. Every time (okay it was only two times) somebody told me how undignified the Democrats were being at the Kavanaugh hearings, I came out as a rape survivor and told them why their support was important to me. It was good work, but also so discouraging and WILDLY triggering.

So after that, I was jangled. I was scared both physically and about the election. I also sometimes get a feeling from guys that once you’ve had sex with them once, it’s assumed for the rest of time. That’s maybe unfair, but it’s where I was at. I texted Gilmore Guy all this, and he understood, but wasn’t very wordy about it—taciturn. I felt like I had done something wrong, but I might have felt that no matter what.

Still, I liked the idea of just cuddles and episodes, and he even agreed to bring some Prosecco, my hero. (him AND the Prosecco) The idea of bubbly wine and introducing this cutie pie to Steven Universe got me back to myself and on with my day.

After work, even more of the fear and strain fell away. My job is very restorative these days, thank goodness.

So I got home, lit candles, got happily into my pretty new undies, awake and full of anticipation.  He was a few minutes late but when he got there and popped the cork, it felt like the moment was charmed. Plus, I got to use the fancy champagne flutes that Sweetie and I got at our wedding way back when. I gave him the pink glass and took the green, thinking (BUT DEFINITELY NOT SAYING) oh, heart chakra colors!

It’s a good thing Steven Universe episodes are only like fifteen minutes long, because Gilmore Guy’s arms were so warm around me, and this apartment sure as HECK has an available bed.

Gilmore Guy Part Four: Your Arms Make Me Wish I Was Still a Poet

I'm not saying this night was about love, oh wait, maybe I am. Not about couple-love, that still feels a million miles away, but the love of bodies, of luck, of my neighborhood, of the rhythm of Amy Sherman-Palladino's writing. It was a night about the love of LIFE, and I'm so glad I indulged in it. Gold stars all around.

            As we kissed on Gilmore Guy’s couch, the magic of desire took me over like a fluffy pink cloud. The comfort and pleasure of him was making me feel woozily submissive. (In my favorite book-I-didn’t-finish-because-it’s-too-triggering, The Body Keeps the Score, I learned that the impulse that makes us freeze when we’re scared is the same as the one that holds us still so we can bond with someone. This is my favorite romantic-but-horrifying brain fact!)

           

            Rather than totally succumb to the blissful frozenness, I remembered that he’d said he’d like to try a little submissiveness himself. I took a deep breath, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved him away from me, back against the couch. I straddled him (aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh like a horny homecoming) and immediately felt a Wonder Woman jolt of confidence. He tried to put his arms around me, but I pressed them back, held his wrists as tightly as I reasonably could with someone I JUST met.

            “How does that feel?” I gently growled into his ear.

            “Good.” He gasped, “It feels good.”

I reached to the nape of his neck and pulled his hair. I was worried it might be too much, and it was.

            “Don’t pull my hair,” he said a little reticently, and I let go.

            “Okay, thanks for telling me. Do you feel okay?”

            “I’m okay. Just…don’t pull my hair.”

            “Okay. Meanwhile, you are freeeee to pull mine!” I said, placing his hand in the right spot.

            Oh my GOODNESS I needed my hair pulled! It’s always such a relief. I arched my back, squirmed in his lap, and moaned, semi-realizing that I was giving the revelers downstairs on the sidewalk and earful. I hoped nobody I worked for was down there. Downside to geographic desirability, I guess. Totes worth it.

            He helpfully noted that the futon perpendicular to the couch was easy to fold out, and I was all “Yes please!”

            I was in such a happy haze (I feel like I should assure you that I only had half a drink, this haze was pure hormones) that I don’t really remember how my pajamas and sort-of-pretty underthings got strewn about the floor and coffee table. He took a moment to catch up with me in the nakedness department. Is there anything happier than meeting a new penis? This was a GOOD one, big and ready and delicious-looking.

            But no time for that yet, because his eager talented face was already between my thighs. I came easily and repeatedly, in giggling jolts until I pushed him away by the forehead.

            When it was my turn, though, I felt stunned with self-consciousness. It had been almost a year since I’d had a dick in my mouth (Season Two of Stranger Things with The Socialist—ah, fall.) and I suddenly felt like I’d written exactly NO paragraphs about blow jobs. It felt too big to manage, I was paranoid about teeth, I couldn’t get my head at the right angle

            No matter about my precarious blow-jobbing, he pulled me into a kiss, and our bodies wrapped back up into a snuggle. He ran his hand over my ass and I said “You know you want to smack it!” So he did, hooray!

            The intercourse part just…sigh…fit. It was as natural and as easy as the kissing. In concert with his strength, I found my own lovely rhythm, pausing to realize how transcendent this moment was—a near-stranger and me, making something lovely together. A glow as lovely and golden as the fall sun.

            There was this little dip between his shoulder blades that I could have spent weeks caressing. His body was glowing perfection to me, and so, in that happy haze, was my own.

            “Your arms make me wish I was still a poet,” I said. He’s yoga-strong, like a huggable sculpture.

            “Well, you could always put pen to paper…” he said.

            It’s helpful to have permission to wax poetic about the deep, glittery waves of release and joy I felt as we cuddled, then fucked, then cuddled some more. He spent a long lovely time with my left nipple that I will use (and have used many times already) during personal time. When I come from the inside, there’s rarely any big finale, just waves and waves and waves til we both get tired. I yelped and giggled. “Welcome!” I wanted to say. “THANK you!” I probably did say.

            Afterwards, until we eventually put back on the Gilmore Girls, we lay listening to a mix of silence and street noise, breathing and heartbeats. He put his hand on my heart, I lay my head on his chest. There’s just as much romance in short-lived flings as in more serious stuff, I think. Maybe that’s why I keep revisiting the casual—these brief sparkles of connection are no small thing. They’re important to me, and they give me hope.

            There was talk of sleeping over, but I wanted to go home. Not just because they have a no-other-partners-in-the-bed rule. (Though it did bring to mind a piece of Cunning Minx’s advice from years ago that still chimes like an old friend in my head: “You got all these rules? You don’t get me.”) (Also, in fairness, Sweetie and I had that rule as well. I was soooooooo happy when I got my own bed.) It was more that I wanted to go home and be with myself, to honor and process what had just happened.

            He put on his shoes to walk me out (It was around then that we finally exchanged last names. I wonder how/if he ever spelled my last name in his phone) and I thought he was walking me chivalrously to my car.  Instead, he gave me a quick peck at the door, looking around exactly like somebody who’d done something wrong. While I later wondered if he was being secretive or ashamed of me, I also do enough thinking about weaponized white womanhood to wonder if he just felt unsafe being seen with me at night.

            Whatever the reason, his furtiveness didn’t register until later. I went home well-fucked and starving, ate some night cereal, and slept the best I had in a long time. There are more Gilmore Guy paragraphs to come, and I’m so glad I gave us a chance.

Gilmore Guy Part Three: Please, Please, Please

Though Gilmore Guy lives on a busy block and it was Friday night, I did show up wearing pajamas. I wore my favorite old soft pair, the ones I usually wear after the beach when I want to feel femme-y and relaxed and posh—black with purple, line-drawn lilies, stretchy but with pretty, sheer trim. Underneath, I had on a regular good black bra and one of my few pairs of undies that doesn’t go all the way up. (Confession: Though it’s hard to imagine anybody reaching around inside them, I really like wearing briefs. I wish they weren’t so stigmatized! Darn you, Bridget Jones! Although come to think of it, they really didn’t hold Bridget back, did they?)

I didn’t know which bell to ring, so I texted and he came down. I’d broken a sandal-strap on the way from the car, so I had to awkward my way up the steps. His (their) apartment was impeccably clean, with a feeling of the midcentury about it, like Mrs. Maisel’s apartment but not so fancy. The walls were painted a warm, vivid orange, which should have been hideous but was not.

Though we’d talked all about sex already, including the awkward testing talk, there was a lovely tentativeness between us—it’s nice that no matter how worldly anyone gets, the time before a first kiss is so often fizz and jangle, innocent and silly and new. It’s a wonderful, excruciating feeling, and I wonder when it will happen again.

His alcohol selection rivals my pen collection (and my Instagram feed) in terms of pure (artistic, one hopes) obsession. I handed him the mint from my garden, which I had forgotten to wash. His mojito-ing process was LONG, and he got sidetracked a few times having me taste fancy things I hadn’t had before. I noticed the sprig of pink silk-flower butterflies in a vase on the table, the same dollar store ones I use in my street art. I took it as a good sign.

His living room was warm and full of pillows, festive with street noise from the bar downstairs. The room very clearly belonged to Gilmore Lady, but could have equally housed Max Medina. I scanned the bookshelves (mostly philosophy) wondering if their book collection was merged—I mean, of course it was, right? His DJ equipment was in there too, though he said he hadn’t used it in quite a while.

We watched the Demi September 21 videos (Seriously, google it, “electrolemon September”) and then settled in for the Gilmore Girls.

“Stars Hollow looks so different,” he said, and filled me in on facts I’d forgotten about how things changed after the pilot. I was soooo happy to be starting my yearly rewatch, next to this gorgeous man, with a bespoke mojito in my hand, proud of my mint and swoony with good luck.

            Unsurprisingly for two switches, it took a little effort to figure out who would put their arms around whom. I wanted to wrap him up, take him, cocoon him protectively, but he did that for me instead.

            Probably about ten minutes into the Stars-Hollow-is-so-different pilot, I looked up into his face and it was easy. It felt natural and right, as if we had been kissing for our entire lives. His mouth was soft, yielding but also insistent. Our faces, our mouths, we fit together and the night clicked into place. Our fate, at least for the next few hours, was sealed.

Gilmore Guy, Part Two: I Let My Pants Decide

This Lorelai quote isn't QUITE how I feel (the phrase "that couple life" kinda gives me the heebie jeebies) but this DOES become a story about what I really want. Just...not yet.

Gilmore Guy has a Gilmore Lady, a long distance but primary partner. Although I don’t fit the poly mold these days (if I ever have), I wouldn’t have ruled him out for having a partner, though the hierarchy in the word “primary” did raise a flag of hesitation. But the appeal of connecting with Gilmore Lady, whether in friendship or otherwise, was also a factor.

As Gilmore Guy and I walked along in the woods, we talked easily and flirted gently. He told me about the cocktails he’d designed based on Star Trek, (How is Deep Space Nine anyone’s favorite, BTW?!) I told him how much I’m loving my job these days, we talked about how much we both hate fascists, normal 2018 stuff. Things were so easy and fun and he looked so dapper, I was inspired to have him pose for a picture in front of a nice stretch of creek.

When I asked if I could post the picture, there was hesitation, and my heart dropped. Gilmore Lady is looking for a job, he explained, and they couldn’t be as out as I am. They’d agreed not to have other partners on their social media accounts, which just made me sad. I mean it’s kinda like, love me, love my Instagram, even though of course I respect people’s right not to have their pictures shared. Still, I hadn’t asked to tag him or anything, so the closety-ness didn’t sit right.

(I also realize that this is exactly what someone would say if they weren’t in fact IN an open relationship, at least not one the other partner knows about, but I’m doing my best to take him at his word.)

We kept happily walking along making plans for that evening, but I kind of knew it wouldn’t work. To have something intimate in my life I couldn’t document and share felt lonely and sad, felt like an artistic limitation, and I told him so. Maybe that’s not fair, but it just didn’t feel right.

“I’d better not come over tonight,” I said, much to my own chagrin. I told him I don’t feel comfortable in hierarchies, shared a little bit of the solo-poly chip I still have on my shoulder while trying not to sound bitter. I probably sounded bitter.

There were still 30 minutes of hike back to the car, and much of it was in painful silence. We walked in frozen awkwardness as I tried to buoy the conversation, talking even more candidly since it wasn’t going to work out.

I’m sure it was partly just me wanting to take care of his feelings, but there was something about him that still made me curious. As the conversation shifted to kink (always an ice-breaker when confronted with a taciturn man…) I could feel a playful power dynamic between us.

“I have to admit you’d be fun to boss around,” I said. The conversation and my body rallied to make me want to forget his closet-y stuff, made me wonder if taking pictures is really that important. (IT IS) As we (ostensibly about to say goodbye) talked about the things we like and I told him a little about my adventures (this consisted mostly of sighing about ropes) sex came into the conversation like a benevolent pink force that lifted and carried us along. I was happy to let it.

He told me some more of his submissive fantasies and between the woods and dropping him off at home, I had talked myself out of telling him no.

“Can I wear pajamas when I come over?” (Remember when this option was my requisite for going almost ANYWHERE?)

“Of course, wear whatever you want. Wear nothing!”

A few stoplights later, I harrumphed “Do I have to SHAVE anything? I mean, not that I would.”

“No, I actually prefer hair, though it’s none of my business.”

Gold star.

(Side note: I also stopped shaving my legs a couple of years ago and I hope to never go back. Hope there are guys out there who think fuzzy legs are cute, ‘cause that’s what I’ve got.)

By the time I dropped him off (I had some afternoon work to do, we agreed to meet up later) I was wet and glittery with anticipation. I wondered how I would concentrate all afternoon, with Gilmores, mojitos, and HIM to look forward to. I was glad I’d let my pants decide—I’ve gotta do that once in a while.

Welcome, Gilmore Guy: Part One, A Walk in the Woods

Friends, I love being single. I aspire to reach Kate Bolick heights of spinster fabulousness, and I think that I do. But this story starts where so many of them do—a gentle, long-fluttering crush. About a month ago, curiosity bubbled up and I (sort of) asked out a friendly acquaintance I’ll call Steven. (because Universe) He spent the better part of a day with me, painting watercolors and falling asleep in front of my favorite movie. (Slacker. I would blame exactly NO ONE for falling asleep in front of it.) At no point during that day did I find out if he liked girls or boys or both or neither, most importantly whether he liked me.

So, in the middle of the night, (I knew he’d be up, he’s not a morning person like me.) I texted to ask him if he’d mind snuggling. After I sent the text, my heart was pounding in that dizzying, vexing, nauseating way that I hadn’t felt in a while, and when he sent back a very kind no, I was SO MUCH SADDER than I’d expected to be. Even though it was late, I called Sweetie (ex-wife, now best friend, only call-in-the-middle-of-the-night person besides the hotline I use for panic) and SOBBED.

As unpleasant as that was, there was something healthy about it too. Irksome as an unrequited thing always is, I felt like I’d returned to a vital part of myself. I used to let my hoo-ha steer my life so much more, and it felt like a relief to have turned to that compass, even a little bit.

(Before we leave Steven, I want to report that he and I settled into friendship faster than I expected, because he’s a treasure and also probably because of the next part of the story.)

            I went back to regularly swiping through Ok Cupid, at least to remember to keep snuggles a priority. (I gave up on Tinder a long time ago because guys kept being mad at me for being a person.) Because it’s election season, my OKC profile picture is of me meeting Hillary Clinton. The picture (which I also keep by my front door for strength, along with the times I met John Lewis and Cecile Richards) served the dual purposes of both being a conversation starter and (presumably) weeding out most of the Trump monsters and Bernie bros. (Some trolls still get though, though, my OKC inbox is not THAT different than my textbanking-for-Democrats inbox.  Any opportunity to push back, I guess…)

            Every once in a while, though, somebody says Exactly. The. Right. Thing. And I have to resist the temptation to screenshot it so I can show ALL the men what the exactly right thing is. It’s a very nice bonus when the guy typing the right thing is a cute black guy with dreamy eyes and who lists Gilmore Girls as one of his interests!!!

Here is the exactly right thing to say to me on OK Cupid—or anywhere: “Wow, you got to meet Hillary Clinton! I think she is a majestic woman and I really wanted her to be our president.”

Majestic! *swoons*

            Plus! This guy lives right in my beloved neighborhood! So we made plans to spend a morning on my favorite local hiking trail. I had him meet me at the library, since my number one most exciting reserve had just come in. (Rich People Problems! CANNOT get enough of Kevin Kwan) I nervously caught Pokémon in one of the pretty chairs outside the library as I waited for him to arrive.

            When I saw him, I felt immediately special because he’d clearly dressed with care. (Now that I know him a little better I’ve realized that he probably ALWAYS dresses with care, but still.) He had on a vintage jacket and a yellow gingham shirt—picture-perfect for the woods.

            And cute. Long locks, those dreamy eyes, and yay! Close to my height. He’s fit in a way that made me worry I was too fat for him. (Sorry, no amount of feminism has banished that annoying thought.) Spoiler alert, I wasn’t. Despite my worries and jangled nerves, we felt like a match to me, a sort of “Yeah, this could work.” moment.

            As we walked through the woods on that beautifully cool grey early fall day, golden color just beginning to tinge the leaf-edges, I was delighted to find out that he was MAYBE MORE OBSESSED WITH GILMORE GIRLS THAN I AM. He even listens to the Gilmore Guys podcast. It dawned on me then—

            “Hey! It’s September 21^st! Have you seen Demi Adejuyigbe’s video about that?” (Google “electrolemon September,” you really need to know.)

            “No—what are you doing later? Why don’t you come over and we can watch it and some Gilmore episodes? I’ll make you a cocktail?”

            Um, yes. Wait, he watches Gilmore Girls AND makes fancy cocktails? Are you KIDDING me? I requested mojitos and he said he’d have to pick up some mint, but I happen to have plenty of mint in my yard. Clearly, part two of this date was mint to be.

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

            Thinking about the rest of this story, I had a saaaaaaad realization: I’ve lost a word since the last time I wrote about sex! Let’s have a moment of silence for the word “pussy,” which will never not remind me of the rapist-in-chief. I used to like using it sometimes, and now I’m kinda lost about what can replace it. It sounds a little clinical, I know, but I think for now I’ll just call body parts by their names and hope for the best.

Okay friends. If you’ve been keeping score, you’ll know that I haven’t had sex in a couple of years, not since blue-canary-nightlight guy, so I might not have the most perspective on what it was like with The Socialist, but it was good. Easy. Friendly. PIV sex has always been the big mystery to me, the hardest thing to settle into, even though it’s often what I want the most. This was a night where bodies just knew what to do, where everything just sort of took care of itself.

Soon after we got into bed, he got out of it. He knelt on the floor and pulled me to the side of the bed, put my legs over his shoulders, and BURIED his face in my vagina, like I was the most delicious thing in the universe. As assured as if this had been happening since the beginning of time, like he owned the place. Urgent and expert, he sucked my clit and thrust his tongue in as far as it could possibly go, and it felt so ridiculously good that I laughed between cries, apologized for laughing, then descended into giggles again.

All those years on lesbian island had made me sort of indifferent to receiving oral sex, but I guess that’s over now. I felt beautiful and silly and so, so happy. I kissed his slippery face gratefully, then set out to learn his lovely penis. It was friendly in my hand, sure of itself the way he is, and as affectionate. I felt self-conscious about my skills since it had been so long, but he assured me that there would be plenty of time to practice.

I was soooo grateful to have a box of condoms in my nightstand like a boss. They’ve mostly been used to make toy clean up easy, but what a joy for them to find a person.

There was something different about the sex this time, and as much as I want to collapse into giggles at the chemistry between us, I think what was different was me. In all my adventures, though so much good, dirty fun was had by all, I could never be fully present in my body. I struggled so hard to reduce sex with men to a transaction so that I wouldn’t be swept up in an inevitable wave of abandonment and hurt. But this? I was here for it, in every sense of the phrase.

He just fit so perfectly, bent me in all the right ways, filled me up in such a joyful, kind, friendly way. When I looked up into his face, he was with me, and when he held me down by my hair and insistently bent to kiss me, I felt the weight of the world lift. This is my bed. This is my body. This is my home, thanks for visiting. I felt grounded and pink, floaty and rooted, and the feeling hasn’t really left since.

Between snuggles, we chatted about music and fascism and other 2017 things. I looked into his deep green eyes a lot, felt silly, and did it some more.

            Since I started writing these posts, I’ve ruled him out and ruled him back in again. I haven’t lost my post-election fear of white men, the fear that somehow I’ll be swept away from The Struggle by the appeal of testosterone and playlists. I haven’t forgotten that he listens to Howard Stern, but I have to admit that The Socialist treated me 100% like a person. He treated my body with respect and admiration, and I can’t dismiss that.

So for now, I’m cautiously optimistic, thinking of an outfit for our next date, and Googling “Stranger Things Valentines.” I can’t ever really be anyone but myself, and I have faith that that will appeal to someone, even if it’s not this time. For now I’m willing to say, who knows?

Fuck This Sexist Piece of Kindhearted Advice

            Not the first part, that’s like my whole thing. The “let love find you” part.

Last week, I left the library where I worked with Mr. Makeout Music. There were a lot of good reasons for doing so (Work crushes can sometimes be a sign that I need to be doing something more absorbing.) but the main reason was that it was exhausting to keep pretending to be okay around him. I wasn’t. Now that I’ve got the time and space and naps to heal, the pain of him is almost gone.

            Because I couldn’t bring myself to walk past MM one more time, Sweetie went to clean out my desk for me, with Awesome Genderqueer Librarian’s help. In the bag with my collection of kid art and my desk socks was a lovely stack of “We miss you!” cards from kids and coworkers. It was very gratifying to still be valued there, after three sometimes-crying months of love-shame and election grief. The woman who wrote the above advice is one of my favorite humans in the universe, but it unleashed a stream of gleeful annoyance that I’m kind of excited to paragraph.

            It’s partly that she knew (Ugh, everybody knew.) that my leaving was even about heartbreak at all, but mostly it’s this—I’m mad at myself for spending three months crying about a guy who got scared of me because I made the first move. He has tried to frame it in other ways, but from where I’m sitting, he adored me until I took his hand.

            Of course he had the right to decline my advances for any reason, but I hated the way I felt around him after that—too big, too excited, too complicated, too much. About our weird somewhere-between-friendship-and-the other-thing situation, he kept saying “just let things develop organically” every time I had a question or needed a clarification, but I think what he meant was, let things develop on his terms.

            Even the way our flirtation started, with him visiting my department or my office when he could (He had keys to my office, but I certainly didn’t have keys to his.), with me waiting around with an open heart and what I hoped was a pretty face for him to come and be praised, it sometimes made me feel helpless and trapped, even when things were nice. In one of our fights, I said I wasn’t a web cam girl, just waiting around to approve of him. (He probably wished he hadn’t told me his porn preferences…) The way the building is designed, he could see me from almost any of his posts, and it felt really claustrophobic sometimes.

            The “let love come to you” (if you’re a woman) paradigm is part of what makes the traditional structures of dating unworkable to me. When I like someone, I really like him/her/them. When I want ANYTHING, I try very hard to be awesome at getting it. If I’m attracted to somebody, I tell them. I ask for what I want and see if it works for them. I’m not Sleeping fucking Beauty, I’m an adventuress on a quest. On a good day,  I’m a goddess, and men have been known to kneel down for me without my even having to command it. I have a dominant, honest, brave, ridiculous heart that knows what it wants and will always go after it.

            The passiveness of the “wait for love to find you” paradigm takes me to a dark place. It reminds me of necrophila. It reminds me of rohypnol. (When I just Googled that for spelling, the horrifying third choice was “rohypnols buy.”) It reminds me of back when there was MySpace and all of my guy friends liked girls whose profile pictures managed these slack, vacant expressions. I could never have made my face look uninhabited enough to resemble the ghost/zombie girls who were the style of the Mid-Zeroes. It reminds me of the time I was told that I smile a lot for a submissive.

           

            The boxed-in passiveness of the advice reminds me of Moana being told that everything she needed was on this one little island and that all she had to do to be happy was reject the song of her own soul. (Did anyone else see her and her many new islands as a polyamory tale? Maybe it was just me.) Like Moana, I am an explorer, a leader, a navigator. I won’t sit in a box and wait to be clicked on, and I hope to never tunnel-vision myself into any more narrow little islands of gendered constraint.

Like many of my rants, this is really a culmination of an argument with myself. Since my brokeny teenage years, I’ve always “known” in my heart that I’m not passive enough to be loved by a man, that I could never be compliant or compromising enough for a straight cis male. That idea is offensive to one and all, but it didn’t come from nowhere. I would love for it to go away.

When I look at it objectively, I see that Mr. Makeout Music was a rare exception. I am surrounded, past and present, by men who have enjoyed being sought out, pursued, and pounced upon. Far from being a turnoff, my literal and figurative bigness and enthusiasm have drawn the best, most adventurous, most oomph-filled men to me. Some of them have even stuck around.

Though I’ll always appreciate the way that he woke up my body and heart, I think Mr. Makeout Music mostly served to show me what I don’t want—I never want to try and make myself smaller or less in hopes that someone with a narrower scope might see me. I never want to be stuck on an island again.

            I know that romantic love isn’t something that can be to-do-listed into existence, but I WILL have agency. I will not sit in a box and wait. I will not listen to the fears and the family/social pressures that kept me away from the water. I aim to untie myself from the hetero/mononormative shore and learn to sail. My heart knows the way.

A Conference with Myself: Part One

After all the heartache of the election and Mr. Makeout Music, I decided that my poly self needed to be as spoiled as possible, so I decided to make the Big Poly Conference into a mini-vacation. For the first time ever, I had my own room, and I planned to alternate learning and socializing with swimming and lounging around by myself. I stocked my mini-fridge with good sandwich stuff and strawberries and brought a Valentine heart of chocolate and Amy Schumer’s memoir. I packed two bathing suits, new pajamas, and cute underpants.

After the various fuckups of my past poly adventures, I was a little nervous about all the reuniting, but before the keynote address even started, The Recurring Character sat down next to me and said “Welcome back!” so I thought it might be okay.

Per Fireguy’s instructions, I was more there to make friends and reconnect with my poly self than to flirt, but I glanced around the assembly to see if anyone caught my fancy, and someone did. He wasn’t even in the room yet, he was still out in the hall getting checked in, and I thought “Jeez I hope he likes girls.” He was tall, broad and looked authoritative and also like he might know everyone there. As tends to be my preference these days, he was African American. I basically had to have him.

I found him after the talk. (Which was about diversity and inclusiveness but was given by a skinny, straight, able, cis white woman.) (Whom I adore, but come on…) He was standing around with a mutual friend, everyone trading stories about their respective Woman’s Marches. I found an excuse to high-five him (I love high-fiving so much.) and we struck up a conversation. Like the third thing he said to me was “Do you hug?” After months of feeling like I was Entirely Too Much around Mr. Makeout Music, that question was a balm, and yes, of course I hug, and this was one of my favorite hugs of all time.

It’s these moments when I want to start talking about that Energy thing that I don’t quite believe in but always that I seem to be able to feel. Wrapped up in his big strong arms, I forgot all the sadness and heartbreak, all of the trying to be less than I am. I felt accepted and I felt blessed. I was going to need to keep hugging him. I learned that he’d just finished his doctorate so I’ve decided to call him The Professor.

The next time I saw him, I was headed out after a somewhat-harrowing workshop on intersectionality. The Professor had his arms around a tall, cuddly, prettily-intimidating woman, but he reached out and pulled me into their hug. It felt like what life is supposed to be like, warm and beautiful and bi.

After Kind Ma’am went off to talk with some other people, The Professor sat down and I snuggled into his lap. I made apologetic noises to one of the women from the workshop (my whole strategy as an activist and an ally is to always be ready to apologize) and he said all kinds of encouraging, comforting things that my heart had been waiting broken-white-lady decades to hear. In no universe was it his job to take care of me in those feelings, but he did, and it was wildly generous.

            We exchanged phone numbers, emails, mailing addresses. I wrote mine on one of the many Pokémon Valentines I’d brought for just such a purpose. We kissed lightly and sweetly and hugged goodbye and I walked into the next workshop with a happy dance and an “I got a GOOD phone number!”

Instead of meeting anyone for dinner, I had a little introvert party--went swimming on my own and then ate dinner in bed, listening to the Bunhead Bros podcast. (It’s by the same guys who did all those three-to-five-hour Gilmore Girls recaps, can’t get enough. Okay I did get enough during the revival, but still.)

Joy of joys, The Professor texted and asked what I was doing with my evening, and we agreed to meet up at the Cuddle Party. I was very glad I’d brought cute soft new purple flower pajamas. I COULD NOT WAIT to get cuddled.

Song of the Week: We Used to Be Friends

Oh Veronica Mars, you're no Buffy, but you do have pluck. Not quite tackling that List of Lost Things yet, but when I do, at least I'll have this good 'ol theme song.

Meditate on Lily Taylor from Say Anything

The newest (yay!) episode of Poly Weekly  asks a question I am utterly unqualified to answer: How do you get over a deep connection to a Dom?

It reminded me of some advice I recently got from my friend Pagan Boy. I was talking about (still!) pining away over Bill and he said that I reminded him of Lily Taylor from Say Anything, writing a million songs for that doofus Joe. That image may not keep me from reminiscing, but it should help me reduce the number of ill-advised emails I write this holiday season, and that is a victory in and of itself.