Helpless, Not the Fun Kind

I wanted a release. I wanted an escape from softness, from the mossy melancholy that still muffles my days in this heartachey in-between. Thinking back to the absolute REFRESHMENT that The Song Sender brought me last summer, I wanted this new guy to spank the softness OUT, to kindly knock me into my heart’s next phase. This new guy seemed promising, with the good banter,  probably because, like three messages in, I responded to “How was your weekend?” with “Lovely but I didn’t get spanked!” (Three sobbing emojis)

It wasn’t the best news week for this, but when is it ever? E. Jean Carroll’s courtroom journey was milder than, say, the Kavanaugh hearings, but still. In clips from that hideous CNN “town hall” thing, I’d heard the Trump crowd’s laughter at her expense, at the expense of all survivors. That crowd is why my body has trouble moving through the world, moving at all sometimes.

Sometimes on Feeld, all there is to go on is a pretty smile and a vibe—guys, for the love of heck please write bios. But I did my screening questions and:

“We’ll get along if you listen,” he’d said.

“We’ll see.” (Angel emoji) I’d replied.

He was BEAUTIFUL in the selfie he sent me, broad, dark-skinned, silly/frowny Dom expression, cute glasses.

I was EXCITED.

I put on one of my favorite red first-date dresses and headed over to my favorite restaurant, the same one where I’d met the Princely Guy. (I’ve decided to become an in-person regular there as my summer hobby, regardless of dating. BFF and I are going this Friday before we go see Fast X!)

When I saw him already at the table waiting for me, I just started to GLOW from within. He smelled so good when we hugged hello that I wanted to skip dinner and drag him right home.

The conversation tumbled into politics like falling off a cliff, though! I’d screened for politics, I always do, but I suppose that “I hate politics but I’m a registered Dem,” does sound pretty moderate in retrospect.

He really dug in and tried to convince me that there’s blame on both sides. That the hate only came when Trump arrived and said it was okay. That “we have to be nicer to Republicans if we want them on our side.”

“You sound like my mom,” is not a thing I ever want to hear myself say on a first date! Or ever! But there it was—the “very fine people on both sides” vibe even though he insisted that wasn’t what he was saying. My brain started fizzing with alarm and I couldn’t remember the phrase “false equivalency” or anything else coherent.

“Victim blaming, it’s…bad.” I said. He agreed with me there but was so determined that I should just give up. When I said I’d always fight for justice, he said “How’s that working for you? What are you going to do when Trump wins again?”

 I was already on the move. I offered to pay for dinner but Prospective Dom insisted. As the waiter very kindly packed up my samosas and rice, (I was getting rice all over the table!) my date said:

“So this means we’re not talking anymore?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, and it’s too bad because you’re SO BEAUTIFUL.”

At least it was one date in instead instead of seven, like it was with This Charming Man, that fall when Dave Chappelle was ruining everything.

Before I blocked Prospective Dom, he texted “I apologize,” and I wrote back, “It’s okay, that’s what first dates are for.”

But my brain stayed fizzing. As I drove home, I heard rustling sounds that turned out to be the takeout bag I’d left on the roof of the car—I would have to face the night samosaless. I overshared with my neighbors outside my apartment and regular-shared with closer friends over text. I called BFF while I added a few pieces to my 1000 piece puzzle of dahlias.

Sometimes, the cloud of dread seems real and insurmountable, like tyranny has already won. The “behave and maybe they’ll stop hurting you” impulse that has followed me from childhood can seem like the realest thing, can cast a shadow over everything I know and everything I am.

But. That beautiful impulse to flee. The grace with which I carried myself to safety. Knowing who it’s safe to let in, and who isn’t. It’s unreliable sometimes but precious and hard-won, I’m so, SO grateful for it.

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Part Two)

As he was getting acquainted with my couch and my one cat who’s interested in visitors (The other was likely to have been hiding in the back of a closet or behind the dryer.) it somehow came up that he’s on the outs with the Maximum Fun crowd. I’m only obsessed earswise, but lots of people go and hang out with the podcasters a few times a year.

“It makes me look bad…” he cautioned, but I persisted and got the story out of him, mostly just for the sake of curiosity.

I paused Hulu and sat down to listen. I’m going to write his story in quotes, bearing in mind that I’m quoting imperfectly.

“A few years ago I had a text-thing with one of the women in the scene, and I guess I went too far. Then, instead of coming to me, she called me out publicly on Twitter. This just happened a couple months ago. Now people are talking about me—the word “creepy” has been used—and I’m not a part of it anymore. I looked back at the chat thread and I just don’t see what the problem was. It’s a big feeling of loss and grief.”

I don’t think an Aziz-Ansari-level #metoo story is necessarily a dealbreaker. (However, AZIZ, devoting huge swaths of comedy special time to R. Kelly IS. Ugh how did I even ever.) I felt sympathetic towards Comedy Guy in some ways—groups, especially scene-style groups, can be terrifying in the way that they close ranks. I also wondered if the lady might have been predisposed to find him creepy because of the fat—though who knows what his Twitter avatar is…)

I tried to listen without judgement--we’re all going through a process and I certainly don’t put myself above it. I have a couple of nondefensive apologies on reserve in case the people I’ve harmed come for them. But the more he talked, the more it became clear that:

1.      He saw himself as the victim in the situation.

2.      He expected me to take care of him about it, even though MAYBE he knew that was wrong.

But despite my knee-jerk empathy (DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME, HIMPATHY QUEEN HANNAH ROSEN!) for the sincerely regretful guy before me, I knew our focus was in the wrong place. My heart and mind shifted to that unnamed Twitter lady, a lady in comedy on Twitter, such a perilous person and place to be. Even being a lady who likes funny things feels prickly and dangerous sometimes, so I found the Max Fun response in Comedy Guy’s story to be a comfort.

I didn’t tell him to call a Lyft, though. I put Bob’s Burgers back on and moved closer to Comedy Guy on the couch. I fit perfectly next to him and the warmth of his body soothed the triggered fear enough to settle back into the date. It’s hard to stay jangled while relaxing in Linda’s songs and Gene’s inexplicably dated pop culture references.

Lady Work Crush, 2010: A Story of Cultural (In)competence (Part Two)

            At the time, Sweetie was working an hour and a half from home, on a good traffic day. It was a sacrifice she’d made so we could move to our new city, a sacrifice which my mother reminded me semi-daily was my fault and mine to correct.  Sweetie and I usually talked on the phone during her long commute, but the guilt and all of the dinners alone, combined with my insufficiently examined white lady issues, added up to a toxic soup of guilt and loneliness.

            While I was feeling this emptiness and longing to connect, Lady Work Crush developed a deep connection with the Mean Boss Girl, and they started to call each other sisters. Of course I would never want to begrudge anyone friend- or sister-love, but their bond made me feel even more alone, especially since their friendship included the detailed reiterating of SVU plots and I had to ask them to tone it down, to their great annoyance.

            We had a long series of snow days that February, during which my AmeriCorps hours got hopelessly behind and during which I wrote a love poem about Lady Work Crush. I mentioned it in passing and she said that she would love to read it. I hemmed and hawed and then sent it via facebook. I cringe every time I think about that decision, how it made things uncomfortable for her and unsafe for me.

            The next day at work, I saw contempt flash across Mean Boss Girl’s face as she took a call from LWC. There was another meeting. LWC said I’d been “taking it out on” the kids because I was upset that she didn’t like me back. I didn’t think that was accurate but it still gives me so much shame just to type it. She stated and reiterated that she prefers men in a way that still looks a little bit like protesting too much.

            I said that I understood and accepted her rejection, but that I also felt like I wasn’t being treated fairly, that this wouldn’t have had to be a meeting if I were a man. I said I thought they were making me into the bad guy in a way that made me feel unsafe and unwelcome at work. I’m not sure if that was true or if I was just embarrassed and hurt and trying to diffuse the shame and rejection like I always do. Probably it was both.

            LWC was LIVID at the end of this conversation, and that work night ended with her getting in her car, turning up the radio all the way, and speeding in the direction of my closeted male coworker and myself. I don’t want to be too dramatic, she only KIND OF aimed the car at us.

            There was a meeting with the boss’s boss the next day, wherein I was asked to sign a paper saying that I wouldn’t make any more advances on LWC. Now that I’m thinking about it, I only made one advance and accepted her “no,” so it seems crazy that there was a paper. I said again that this wouldn’t be happening if I were a man, but I signed it. I also told the bosses that this was a homophobic workplace and I didn’t quite understand how to fit in there anymore.

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years: Part Four

Back during my divorce summer, when I swam away from Sweetie and came to the realization that what I really wanted was a husband, what I wanted more than anything was a man to play with me in the waves. Wherein Sweetie was grumpy at the prospect of fighting the surf, I wanted someone strong and vital who would change into the water the way I did. I had a vision of being picked up and carried and kissed in the water. This night came so close to that picture that no wonder I ended up diving into him.

When we got back from dinner, it was dark and a huge orange moon was rising over the pretty/samey houses on view from his back yard. He’d told me many times that I didn’t need a bathing suit, but I’m still in my privacy phase. I wore my pretty blue one printed with hydrangeas. I am at my heaviest right now so I felt a lot of worry that he wouldn’t be attracted to me anymore when he saw my thighs.  We sat at the edge of the pool with our feet in the water on the little swim-out seat.

He said, “I think you’re scared of what’s gonna happen after this.”

“After the pool?”

“I’m scared too. I’m out of practice.”

“Me too, high five!” I may be more shy in some ways, but at least I’m still a high-fiver. “What I’m really scared of are the bonding chemicals that are gonna come afterwards. Because science.”

He didn’t seem to object to the bonding chemicals. Honestly, every step of the way, I was sure that he liked me. I still kind of am, though that doesn’t explain how things turned out. When I stepped into the pool, I put my foot down weird, so that the edge of the seat smashed me between my toes. My middle toe hurt so badly that I wondered if it was broken. Nonetheless, I jumped the rest of the way into the deep end, a little conscious of the nondainty splash I probably made.

After a few minutes of watching me swim (I loveloveloved when he watched me swim. I love the satisfied way he admired me—it’s been a long time since I’ve been looked at like that.) he jumped in too and it was like something I’d already lived, like I was fitting into one of my life’s puzzle pieces. The water was cold and it was a breezy evening, but the shivers came from somewhere down deeper. He held me and kissed me gently until I said “I’m torn between being really turned on and really cold, do you want to go in?”

I borrowed his shower to rinse off the chlorine and he lent me his scratchy grey robe. I wished I had nice warm pajamas to change into, but instead, I had nice warm him.

It hurts to remember how right our bodies felt (one of my poets wrote in a poem once that bodies are the easiest ways to fit), how well he kissed me, the softness of his skin, the scratchiness of his beard, the strength of his arms. More than anything, I loved remembering how sometimes sex just runs itself, how at first we knew what to do with each other like it was destiny, and in its own way, it was. I’ve never been more ready to have someone inside me, never this sure that what I was doing was real. I felt free to look in his face, in his eyes, and saw only kindness there. The barriers I’ve almost always felt to connecting with men were not there. It felt solid and sweet.

There were hardness issues at first, which he explained by saying that he had trouble with condoms, that he wasn’t used to them. It seemed bonkers to be talking about not-condoms at this (or any) stage of things and I felt a little surge of impatience. I was kind of like “Well, welcome to my world” but sympathized/rationalized that maybe he was just missing married sex. It tugged at my heart strings but at the same time I was (in my head) like dude, just grow up.

The hardness issues worked themselves out in good time, he lost all tentativeness and hard and long and perfect—that feeling that’s so delicious that I can’t even deal with how much I want it, how much I miss it. He pulled my hair and pinned me down and went deeper and I looked up at him and saw someone who was mine, not somebody else’s boyfriend whom I’d have to turn in at the end of the night like in the poly days. In that teensy spate of time, he belonged to me, there was nothing and no one else, and the inside of me was (just for right then) sated and quiet.

This happened a few more times until we ran out of condoms, at which point he mentioned again that what he really liked going without. He said that, although he didn’t like blow jobs (You guys! Was I really willing to give up blow jobs for someone? Yes, I was.) (Also, did he really not like them or just want a bargaining chip? Gross line of thought.) he might “Let me try it,” but I said no thanks, there were plenty of things he was enthusiastic about for me to do. (This turned out to be perfectly not the case in the end, but we’re still several posts away.) Because he kept perseverating about the no-condom thing after I’d said no a couple of times, I told him I was scared of him again. I asked him about his fantasy of being sleep-ravished, he wouldn’t do that to me, would he? “Not if you don’t want me to,” he said,

“Because then I wouldn’t be able to say yes…” I honestly wasn’t sure he saw the problem.

I slept badly. He snored and my body was so far beyond awake. Although he’d brought me an ice pack for my toe, it was throbbing. If it had been up to me, we’d have stayed up fucking and snuggling and chatting all night. I tossed and turned and apologized for tossing and turning. I got him to turn off the radio and all of the devices that beeped at random intervals.

I had maybe two hours of sleep and was awakened at six AM by an alert-in-every-way J. listing off the things we could do about being out of condoms. “We can not have any more sex today, we can go without, or we can go to the drugstore and get more condoms. Are you coming with me?”

All I wanted was to be asleep and I had this creepy obligated feeling-- he was treating his morning wood like a contract I’d already signed, possibly in my sleep. And I was PISSED that he mentioned going without again. I was beyond trying for patience and snapped “Not unless you want BABIES,” knowing he didn’t. Now I can’t help but wonder—did he not know how this thing works? How could he be married with kids and still seem like he skipped seventh grade health class?

“Just because I said it doesn’t mean it’s a real option. I honestly don’t think not having more sex is an option either.”

I jumped out of bed, found his robe, and ran down the steps. “Help me find my glasses, I need to get out of here now.”

“Wait, what? So you’re not going to my U.U. fellowship with me?” (Oh for Christ’s sake, just fucking call it church!)

“I’m not going anywhere with someone who says I have no fucking choice.”

I was too tired and upset to drive home so I lay down on his couch in the scratchy robe and cried. His golden-eyed black cat came over to see me, rubbed his ears against my hand. J. didn’t even bring me a blanket until I sniveled for one. He went out to get me some coffee and I simmered down.

When he got back, we talked and somehow made it back to cuddle mode. I had to give him credit for staying calm and weathering the triggers—I still couldn’t be sure if it was him or my baggage causing them, probably a combination of both. We went and got condoms, a picnic breakfast, and a toothbrush for me so I could make myself more comfy. We fucked through the morning and then dragged ourselves out of bed to go jump in the pool. It was a sunny, dazed feeling of fear, judgment, and bliss.

I wanted to accept him, to embrace him without fear, to honor his (sometimes) generosity and the eagerness of his gorgeous penis, but I couldn’t stop finding reasons to be afraid.

Next time: My heart opens and I let him in.