Catsitting Was Service and It Felt Good.

 While I care for myself and keep not knocking on his door, some of the things I felt during my near-romance with The Guy Next Door deserve attention. I feel like the memories don't quite belong to me yet, like I'm still waiting for him to sign off on them by liking me back, which he doesn't. But it was still real.

On Christmas leftovers night, when he was "ready to try snuggling," I took his hand and placed it on top of my head. I expected it to feel comforting, of course, but I didn't expect to fall down a very cozy well of subbiness! I felt the switch flip and he became Him.

In Codependents Anonymous, we are definitely not supposed to let other people be our Higher Power. That's supposed to be benevolent but big and all-encompassing and largely unknowable. This feeling might have been that, but it was also the opposite- play! A role I haven't played in such a long time, and suddenly there I was. Little. Cared for. Humble. Chosen.

So when he asked me to watch Cat Next Door while he was away for New Years, it didn't feel like it sometimes feels now, like he was having his to-him-unfuckable friend watch his place while he was out of town seeing Yoga Camp Hottie. That was what was happening, but it didn't feel bad at all! Most of the week!

I said I'd be honored to watch his place, and I meant it.

The first time I went over, Cat Next Door was relaxing on TGNS's bed. The bed was spare and the bedding white, very yoga camp. I sat on the floor next to the bed to pet the cat and felt woozy with love. I wanted to crawl into bed with the cat and cuddle, but that felt like a creepy thing for a catsitting neighbor to do. He later said it would've been fine, but then, he later said a lot of things.

Every moment, crushing Cat Next Door's meds into his tuna breakfast and supper, washing the plates and spoons, just sitting in TGNS's chair keeping the cat company while read my audiobook and inhaled the scent of man and sandalwood, it all felt like I was honored to serve him. I'm sure that was not his intention at all, but that's what happened.

I looked at my art and Tarot cards front and center on his fridge door, and I felt he's mine and I'm his. When I left the porch light on for myself and locked the door for the night, I felt in my place. Where I belonged.

Submissive or no, I don't do neighbor-favors half-assed, so though he'd told me I didn't have to scoop the litterbox, I sure did! Kneeling in front of it doing objectively the worst chore, I felt peaceful, seen. Even though it was SO STINKY! 

He's an old cat who misses a lot and there was a pink towel in front of the litterbox that got soaked with pee by the end of the week. I took it home and washed it with a heart full of love and hope.

I'd told him I was having subby feelings after our first cuddle, but I don't think he ever really got how badly I wanted to serve him.

I'm telling you this to honor my submissive self- it was so lovely to see her. I hope she'll be around again soon, in much happier and healthier circumstances. It just felt so good.

The Kindest Hookup, Part Two

 

Since I’ve been officially looking for Boyfriend Material, I’ve wondered on and off if I should give up the more casual kink connections. Conventional wisdom, aka my Inner Patriarchy, tells me that I only should be going on Serious Dates with Serious Relationship Potential, but that seems kinda high-pressure! I think I can find true love again while slutting it up, especially since internal happiness feels key to finding the right folks.

Plus, ahhhhhhhh…service. It’s so magical when I get to play as a service top! The world is so harsh to all of us, I love giving someone cute a soft place to be for a while, a chance to feel special and cared for, to rest in pleasure and be wholly celebrated. I deserve that for myself too! There’s so much power in bringing a sweet stranger kindness and joy, it’s one of the best parts of adventuring.

I’m so grateful to The Boy Who Brought Flowers for helping me touch base with the benevolent power of Ma’am-ness!

“Meet you upstairs,” he said, as soon as I released him from our taking-it-something-like-slow makeout time on the couch. He bounded upstairs, eager to do a good job.

We were listening to my Liked Songs because none of my other playlists were feeling quite right. I’d asked him if he had a playlist to share, but he said something really sweet like “No, I want to be in your world.” A lot can go wrong with a playlist that’s not really a playlist, but I gave him the power to skip anytime! He never used it.

I had him strip to his briefs before I gave him the gentle ribcage harness. He’d mentioned that he wanted to be restrained, wanted to be swept away.

Side note: Are people sometimes using kink to dissociate? To be jarred all the way out of themselves and be ready for whatever self comes next? I know I’ve subbed that way, especially during those hard, hard divorce times! But I am not that Ma’am!

I wanted us present and slow. I held him close each time I reached around to cross the ropes at his back. I breathed him in, the smells of sweat and soap and, very faintly, of cannabis. His shoulders and back and arms were sculpted with care, and there was something dear about that, something vulnerable. His body reminded me of the motivational books he was reading—every part of him wanted to do what he saw as a good job, every sinew reaching out for approval and praise. I was so happy to give it!

The effort of being a person, any person, is such a heavy lift. This ambitious, aspiration-filled young man deserved a moment to just be.

Like the Thoughtful Guy said a few weeks before: “Just lay here and be you.” I hope my Flower Boy felt that peace. I hope we all do, as often as possible.

As he stood over me, I wound the purple ropes between his legs, echoing the knots and loops of the harness above. His dick was fat and joyful beneath his grey briefs, beneath my pulling and adjusting and re-adjusting. Each time I grazed it lovingly, sparks of happiness sparkled in my fingertips and all through my body. I hope he felt sparkly too!

Hold Me Upside Down and Shake All the Nonsense Out, Part Two

So I did my break-off ritual with The Song Sender: texted a (nice, I hope) goodbye, explained I was only blocking him to mitigate pining. Broke the connection on Instagram, wondered how long it would be til I could go back to my favorite movie theater.

But then I was like, why? I knew that he, like everyone, but moreso, was irreplaceable. I didn’t want to wait another eleven years for fate to intervene. I wondered why I hadn’t even tried talking to him about it, once the fight-or-flight wore off. We’d been so amazing at bad kink way back when, why just skip over TRYING to add better communication to the hotness?

Yes, stop sign street art, I know.

And he said okay. It didn’t take much talking-things-though until I felt secure again, until I asked his permission to reactivate slutty mode. We still need to make a good aftercare plan—there may be a checklist. Maybe next week.

Okay so I've sent the Song Sender TWO poems. He seems fine with it.

This humbling myself, the asking The Song Sender for what I wanted and letting go of my pride and defensiveness enough to give the connection a chance, it felt new. The not-fleeing felt new. We haven’t seen each other in person since things went haywire, but phone things have been lovely. Romantic in their smuttiness. I’m making him a playlist that’s gen-X dreamy as fuck.

So then, the dinner with The Shy One came around last week. I wore a modest not-sure-if-this-is-a-date-or-not dress, apparently a whole genre of clothing I need to have.

The Shy One, meeting me at a restaurant on his side of town, was somehow even more beautiful than before. The humility came easily to me this time, without the bitter edges I’m so used to having. I just wanted to give him whatever he would have of me. I would have sat at his feet if we weren’t in a restaurant and if he were a more PDA kind of guy.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” I said. I’ll figure. it. out.”

He reached his hand across the table and said “Whenever you want me to come over, just call me and I’ll come over. Like I can come over this Friday if you want.”

(Eeeee!)

“Okay, but I still super love you.” I said. “That hasn’t gotten any less. You’ll just have to deal with it.”

So that’s what I’m submitting to: kindness, curiosity, love. I want to submit to the most generous parts of myself and hush the rest. It feels tenuous to try keeping my defenses down, but I also feel deeply helped, like I’m tapped into something much bigger and more reliable than myself. Love. The Universe. Fate. Definitely something kaiju-sized and divine.

 

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years, Part Seven

The night before J. was set to stay over at my place, I had one of the most optimistic shopping trips of my life. I really wanted to celebrate my slutty self and all that was joyful between us, what was beautiful in my dripping-wet desire for him. I got a matching fancy blue lace bra and underpants with delicate peach accents. Since I had a toothbrush at his house, I got him one for mine. Buying a 24-pack of condoms seemed so hopeful as to be hubristic. (I’ve since remembered that I’m happy to have them for my own use, too!) I overcame my mental block about buying lube. It felt like as soon as I made these purchases, he might disappear.

I got picnic fare for our Sunday breakfast: nice bread, cheese, chocolate, and pretty little red delicious apples. For some reason I had a twinge of fear about drinking with him, so I didn’t copy his (AWESOME) champagne-in-the-fridge move.

The morning of our date, I felt sunny and expansive. I had been squishily turned on since our picnic and was fully embracing my desire to pounce. He understood that he was to surrender his pants promptly at three. In preparation, I went down to the corner to the neighborhood co-op and got rainbow carnations for the table inside the door and little mum pots for the outside front and the terrace. All of my plants were thriving green and blooming, and the nasturtium seeds I’d bought at our garden date had grown into nice little sprouts. I cleaned and organized my girly apartment until it felt like a perfect welcome. You could certainly say I was trying to hard, but I might call it service. Or art!

I had my pink soft pajamas on over the sexy lingerie and I was full of my lovey-dovey self when he knocked on the door. I let him in, gave him a quick kiss, and asked, “Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Do you have to pee?” When he said no, I pushed him up the steps to my loft bedroom, shoved him down onto my princessy bed, straddled him, pinned his arms above his head, and kissed him hard. He pulled off my top and the lacy lingerie was summarily dismissed. There was an odd moment when he said “I didn’t bring condoms, so…” but I was way to rarin’ to go and stocked up on condoms to be all WTF about it. I opened one with what I hoped looked like confidence, slipped it on him, rubbed his big, hard cock until it was more than happy, and with a relieved exhale, pushed him inside.

He was the one who made me truly love being on top. I felt so at home there, so in control and competent. He sucked and played with my nipples for the longlong time I so enjoy, and when his hands were at my waist or on my back, they felt made for me. I keep saying magical, but those hands were. As we were turning over to switch positions, I asked him to stop and hold me a minute, I felt overwhelmed. I was out of breath and dizzy from emotion and release. After we breathed together for a while, he had me lay back, held my hair, and pushed in, and I looked up into his eyes and loved him. There’s no other way to say it.

We stayed in bed a long time, listening to my makeout playlist (YAAAY for having one again, it’s been since Steampunk Guy!) cuddling, staring into each other’s eyes, and fucking some more. At one point, when he was on top with my legs wrapped around his back, he hit the spot so precisely that I blurted out “If you were me right now, you’d believe in god.” and he said “No, the name’s J___.” and I laughed for like forty five minutes. It was one of the funniest, happiest, silliest moments of my life so far, but all of the laughing had the unintended effect of killing his hard-on, so we went back to cuddling and pillow talking. We decided to consider ourselves a couple, but I was still afraid to ask about the boyfriend word even though I was tired of referring to him as “the guy.”

Eventually we got our clothes on so that we could go to dinner. I was showing him my favorite neighborhood diner, so we decided I would drive. My little car was parked in a tight spot, I bumped the car behind me, and though I laughed and said “that’s why god made bumpers” I felt really stupid. I’m normally an okay driver (not the best, as we’ve established here…) but the dizziness of the day and his razor-sharp attention to my driving made me feel lost and discombobulated.

Sweetie was the world’s worst backseat driver, in the car and in life. Her protectiveness made her chime in over and over on what wasn’t safe and what I shouldn’t do. It took years for me to convince myself that I could drive on my own and to feel competent to drive others. Now I do, I even drive my niece and nephews to the comic shop when I visit them. I want to keep steering towards autonomy, so I have an inordinate amount of baggage about backseat driving. The night might have ended differently if he’d driven, but probably not.

Dinner was fine, lemon meringue pie for and appetizer and mostly pleasant sweet nothings of conversation. We made so many plans—for me to spend weekend-after-next at his house, to go back to the art museum sometime, and the beach before it got too cold for him (instead of Sweetie) to help me pick out an external CD drive. He was planning his next mix CD for me, now that he knew me better. It felt like we were kind of a snowball picking up relationship momentum, except a few little things, like this: He had a sandwich with SO MANY onions and refused a stick of gum after, giving the rest of the night a literal bad taste. Knowing how it turned out, I’m tempted to see that as evidence that he couldn’t really empathize with my side of things, but that seems like a stretch.

Next Time: Taking too long to say goodbye.