Ohno, Second Date Tears

Sunday was my date with the Gentleman, and it was a fail. Sigh. I felt off before I even walked out the door. Sweetie and I hadn’t had much time together during the week, so we were feeling each-other-deficient. My chemicals were a little off from having to leave her, but the Gentleman was driving over from out of town and I’d been looking forward to him and the art museum all week.  Sweetie and I straightened the house in case he wanted to stop in and I got myself all dolled up.

As soon as I was in the car with him I felt like I was fucking up the date. I couldn’t keep myself off of dark topics. He mentioned having had a steak the say before and I didn’t stop myself before I veered into Food Inc, territory. I mostly gave up red meat a while ago, but it’s been a looooong time since I was the kind of insufferable person who'd begrudge anybody a steak. On a topic slightly more relevant between potential playpals or whatever, I also didn’t stop myself from mentioning the slew of scary rape discussions going on on the local FetLife boards and the ethical dilemmas I’d been having about BDSM. I was not being fun.

The conversation lightened once we were in the museum, but when we got to the point of discussing out current dance cards, I ended up telling him why I’d broken things off with the Mayor of Kittentown. I told him that I do worry about only being liked for my boobs. I said that if we had a scene together again it would be helpful to compliment additional things about me.

“That’s nice nail polish you’re wearing,” he said sarcastically.

“See how easy that is?’ I really didn’t mean to make such a big deal about it—it was only a minor quibble with his brand-new topping skills.

“In my defense, you were kind of leading with them.”

….

“What?”

“When you walked into the diner and I saw you, I was like, whoa. I mean there’s nothing wrong with that, but…”

I started to cry.

“Um, I was just trying to look cute. I think I want to go home.”

He suggested that going to see the exhibit we’d come to see would make me feel better, and I agreed, but I didn’t stop talking about it.

“That was so unfair of you to say. It’s just what I look like and you made all kinds of assumptions about me based on it. It’s not fair.”

He seemed defensive, who wouldn’t be, I guess, but “leading with them”? Ugh. I guess they are technically in front of me, but still.

My picture of myself showing up for that date was totally different from what he saw. I blowdried my hair, chose pretty pink makeup, put on a cute purple dress, which, yes, had cleavage, and new stripy platform shoes. I felt pretty and confident because of my happiness at the idea of getting to make new friends and learn new things, of being at lunch with my wife and a date and his wife, it felt like such a happy occasion.

But here’s what he saw: boobs.

He said he was sorry and I acknowledged that I am in kind of a bad place.

We waited in line for the exhibit, for which he’d paid a lot of money, but I just wanted to get away from him and cry. Eventually that’s what I did. He apologized, offered to drive me home, but I said I wanted to be alone, that he should stay and look at the art. I really hope he stayed and looked at the art.

I sat on the museum steps and sobbed in front of the Sunday crowd. I called Sweetie, even though I felt bad for interrupting her creative alone time. She said to start walking towards home and she would come to get me. I hung up the phone and sobbed some more.

A pair of ladies, sisters carrying lots of baby gear, came over to ask if I was okay, and I said, yes, sure, it’s just a bad date, and they said “Oh, that explains it. Everything is men’s fault.”

I laughed and sniffed and said I really don’t want to see it that way. They gave me some baby wipes and I started to walk towards home.

Once Sweetie picked me up, I could really unleash the tears. “I feel like a kid.” I kept saying. “I feel like a kid.”

I don’t know why that was the feeling, except that the day had wiped away some naïveté that I really didn’t want to lose. I didn’t feel like an adult woman with all kinds of worth and accomplishments. I felt like a little girl whose body (which she absolutely loves) somehow makes people not see her. Which somehow makes me seem less respectable.

We spent a quite evening at home, went for a little walk. We watched lots of sitcoms. There were these terrifying ads for a Family Guy episode wherein Meg (the teenage daughter) gets kidnapped and tortured, dragged all around in her underwear, and her dad offers 2$ for her safe return. On a comedy! It’s a network show I’m sure many of my elementary-age students watched. How could I NOT feel like the world is a fucking terrifying place?

I don’t want to feel all dark and threatened, helpless. A month ago, I felt strong and beautiful, like something wonderful was emerging from me. But where in the world is safe for that version of me, if even the nicest guys reduce me to a floating set of bosoms?

Because this is not a bad guy, none of these guys are evil and maybe not even intentionally mean. They just seem so conditioned by stereotypes and expectations that they can’t see me, and sometimes I can’t see myself. I know that lots of men are not like that, I hate the way my fears lead me to confirm them over and over. Because I may not be leading with my boobs, but at this point, I am leading with my fears. I’m not sure what the solution is to that.

Wish Me Luck!

On Sunday, the Gentleman is taking me to the art museum for our second date. Strangely, it marks the first time in over a decade that a guy has actually picked me up for a date. I'll take my gold stars where I can get 'em.

Beginning Rope Class FTW Part Two: I Feel Conflicted About My Boobs

When Sweetie saw the above photo, (it’s a crop, the original does show my very smiley face) she said “If you want them to stop fixating on your boobs, maybe you shouldn’t…” I’ll get to unpacking that statement in a few paragraphs.

As we settled in for the presentation, the Gentleman left the rope on my wrist and did that thing where he looped it into itself, to make a kind of a handle. (To give it some “flair” he said.) He kept the handle in his lap. There’s no other way to say it, the guy has good energy. Sitting next to him he definitely felt like someone you’d meet at a snuggle party; warm, safe, open.

The first part of the presentation was about different ways to use sex toys with ropes—ah, my old nemesis, the Baggie full of vibrators. They didn’t seem so scary in the light of day; though I’m not sure I’ll ever warm up to big bouquets of machinery. It’s an awkward talk to sit through on a first date, but once she got to the ropes part, the Gentleman and I settled into each other. Our legs touched. He put his hand on my leg.

The woman who was getting demo-ed on left her clothes on. She had the prettiest smile, and it was fun to watch her settle in under the presenter’s hemp ropes. She built her a harness and then showed everyone how awesome it in to yank someone around by a rope in the middle of her chest. The presenter crab-tied the demo-lady and said “Wouldn’t you like to fuck someone like this?” Then she climbed on and pantomimed it.

The impressive thing about this lady is that she does a lot of self-bondage and even self-suspension. “I do this a lot at home,” she kept saying, but she stressed the need to keep your hands free, for safety and for other reasons. “I’m not Houdini,” she said. I’d always thought of ropes as being so dependant on finding the right top, but I like thinking of it as something I might be able to play with on my own.

When the demo was over, it was time for us to play. “What’s gonna happen now?” I asked the Gentleman, and he said he wanted to put a harness on me. Okay!

I put my arms up and smiled, relaxed, let him loop the rope around me. He has a soft, slow touch, and soon enough the ropes started to feel like they were hugging me, and I started to simmer down into subspace. What I love about a harness is the ways it feels on my back—like support, like someone’s holding me up so that I don’t have to for a while. It’s such a concrete way of feeling cared for.

He commented on how amazing my boobs are, how could he not? Remind me to tell him to try and compliment other things as well—sometimes I feel like a floating set of breasts, the way guys fixate on them. But the tricky thing about that is, I fixate on them too. I WANT them to have lots of attention, to be seen, showcased, enjoyed, played with, adored. I physically love the way that feels.

But the problem is, I don’t like worrying that they were the only reason I was invited. That is a Catch-22 about fetishes in general: How can I know that I am a person and not a thing, that he likes me as me and not just as a collection of fetishes? My nice pal Bo Blaze said a few weeks ago to look within and ask myself, but clearly my instincts are warped.

This gets back to my deepest fear, one of the convictions I have that’s hardest to fight: That there is no reason a man will ever want me for anything other than sex, and that the only thing sexy about me is my breasts. That idea has been in my head at least since I was 14, maybe longer. I am not sure where it comes from, but I know it’s really damaging. I think it leads me into situations that don’t just objectify me; they objectify my partners as well. I know that that fear keeps me from being able to feel the closeness I so desperately want to be able to feel.

Anyway, back in the rope class, I wasn’t thinking of any of that. When other folks stopped what they were doing to gape and exclaim, I just felt playful and seen. I did feel like a person. It’s weird how a positive situation can still unearth negative emotions. Today I’m just feeling conflicted about boobs.

Next Time: Even More Swoony

Beginning Rope Class FTW Part One: Playpal Ex Machina

“So take what you can from your experiences of heartbreak, yes. But be careful not to take too much, or you’ll wind up letting it define you. Don’t create new generalized fears that make it hard to hear your intuition—and hard to find the love you want and deserve.” Jaclyn Friedman, What You Really, Really Want

At the end of last week, I felt like I really had to give up a lot of my kinky dreams, especially submissiveness and public play. I was worried that there just wouldn’t be a safe place for them or any way to express them without being objectified. But a new friend came along at just the right time, like Playpal Ex Machina.

When I saw him (let’s say the Gentleman) seated at the diner table with his adorable wife, he was exactly as geeky-cute-tall-big as I remembered from the Poly Living conference, when he went upstairs to fetch me a pillow for the snuggle party. Plus, he had that thing I go bonkers for: really big hands. Long, wide, meaty, with a plain silver wedding band on his left hand.  The four of us had a nice lunch. He was kind of shy, and so was Sweetie, so I chatted mostly with the wife. I don’t have a nickname for her yet. I told them a little (but hopefully not too much) about my recent adventures and they didn’t run away screaming.

I also let him know (as opposed to asking) that I’d be writing about him here, without using names or cities, and that maybe someday I’d tell him where to find it. I’m thinking maybe like...eighth date for that? After that little spiel, I breathed a sigh of relief—I guess I have a creepy little fear now of being rejected for blogging, but in this case, he didn’t seem to mind at all.

Anyway so the rope class was in a conference room at a hotel. The Gentleman paid my admission, and after we signed our waivers, they gave us membership cards for next time. I liked that in a nerdy way—kinda like being in a superhero fan club.

A lot of the folks there seemed like they might be in a superhero fan club—it wasn’t a crowd that would’ve looked out of place in a comic shop, that’s for sure. While the presenter was setting up, one of the party organizers gave a demonstration. I was superpleased to see my new friend pull a set of bright, shiny, peacock-blue ropes out of his bag. We were learning a one-column tie. A column is any part of the body that you are isolating. The leader pointed out that if someone is working on one of your columns (in this case, our arms) then you could let someone practice on the other. Why is life so awesome sometimes?  As the gentleman worked on one arm, a nice little middle-aged lady with shortish purple hair worked on the other one. Standing there with my wrists out for them I felt a little burst of joy, like this is something I was made for.

I loved watching them work the rope, put it in the right place above my wrist, check the evenness of the tie. Other times with ropes, I hadn’t been allowed to watch, and that’s a shame. Learning with my eyes open, my clothes on, with someone who feels like an equal and not a pursuer or a mentor, this might actually work. In my education classes there’s something called the Zone of Proximal Development: that’s when learning is just challenging enough to be interesting but not so hard as to cause excessive frustration. That seems like a good place to be, and so is this.

Next: A Little Snuggle During the Demo