This isn’t one of those
stories where I ignore a red flag and then everything goes awry—everything went
PERFECTLY.
For our second date, I
asked if he wanted to come over and watch a few episodes of Stranger Things, Season 2. The perfect,
spooky, romantic, music-y date, I was proud of myself for thinking of it. I
stocked the freezer with toaster waffles and he volunteered to bring wine. Again
with the giddy.
When he arrived, (SO big
and tall, dressed nicely all in black, looking like he was just custom-made for
me…) I mentioned that I’d found our local radio station’s Halloween special “Too
Bauhaus-y” and he said there’s no such thing. He showed me his Halloween
Spotify playlist and it was indeed very Bauhaus-y, and also full of The Cure,
and The Smiths, as well as a little Marilyn Manson I could mock him for:
PERFECT. So perfect as to seem fictional. Maybe I was just really, REALLY happy
to have a guy on my couch.
Even though it was a
Netflix date, I’d worn my favorite red lace dress, and as soon as he sat down
next to me, I started to suspect that the dress was coming off before too long.
He had a warm, open energy, and draped his arm invitingly over the back of the
couch. I think it took me about one episode to snuggle in, and when I did, it
felt like it such a natural, easy fit. His hands (I’d spent all week thinking
about them, tempted to text and ask if he liked spanking people) were big,
soft, and warm, gently but insistently affectionate. As he stroked my arms, my
hands, my hair, it became harder to concentrate on the Hawkins goings-on,
though nothing could distract me from the terribleness of Bob’s taste in music
(Team Bob 4life though) and the awesomeness of the rest of the soundtrack.
I finally turned my head
and kissed him (is there anything better than that moment?) during episode
three—it was easy, delicate, soft. I pulled away after a little bit (“Wait I
really want to see what’s on that video tape!”) and made intermittent attempts
to stay focused on the plot points, but after a while, it was time to switch to
music, my mix called “Dreamy music” which has an inexplicable and
not-super-helpful amount of Radiohead on it, definitely time to edit.
I knelt next to him on
the couch and wrapped myself around him, pulled into a soft quilt of man-smell
and comforting warmth. His hands went to my boobs in my favorite insistent-but
reverent teenage-feeling-up way, and I growl-groaned, relieved and hungry, safe
and ecstatic, just like that. He moved to the floor and spread me out over the
couch like I was prey, but in the very good way.
“I’m in a place…” I said,
and I was. I hadn’t been to a submissive place in my heart or head in a long
time, certainly not since my ill-fated date with Mr. Makeout Music, and I was
very happy to be back there.
I was wearing thick black
tights, but when he ran his hand over my crotch I could feel the wetness
soaking all the way through. I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or
thrilled, but I’d been this way since I met him, and it felt like very, VERY
good news.
Next: I DO have a bed…