Currently, Sweet Valentine and I are on a pause, taking stock of things. I need time and space to feel some griefs and manage some OCD/codependency stuff, and he needs time to think about what he really wants and can offer. Usually I would just let someone go at this point, good old "If it's a maybe then it's a no." from Cuddle Party rules. But I didn't want to let him go. I asked if we could be in touch in a month and see where we're at, and he agreed. I don't know if that decision is hopeful or just avoiding the inevitable, but I really, REALLY hope I get to kiss him again.
Back to the perfect coffee date. When it felt like we were wrapping up at the coffeeshop, I said "Well, should we take it slow and say goodbye here, or should we go to my place?"
He picked coming over, hooray hooray!
This all felt easy and natural in a way that's rare for me! Letting chemistry carry us forward like a slutty and helpful wind. No overthinking, no negotiations, just him on my couch. <3 <3 <3 Just pouring ourselves into each other.
He may not, in the course of the processings and ponderings, turn out to be the right one for me, but we kissed like we were absolutely meant for each other. His mouth tasted of nothing but mouth. He didn't mind when I bit his lip. Our tongues slid together and apart and around and across. His beard skritched and sanded my face in the most satisfying and life-affirming way.
It's hard to believe something so beautifully transcendent could happen on an ordinary Wednesday morning, in the middle of my ordinary couch nest. Surrounded by books and blankets and Squishmallows, with Younger Cat nosing her way in with typical comic timing. Home. Magic. Peace.
Every once in a while, there's just a transcendently good date. In this story, there are two!
I planned our first date for right after yoga, maybe that's why the vibes were so easy and flowy. He sat down beside me and there was instant cozy chemistry. He gazed at me and said "I'm just looking at your face." I put my head on his shoulder. I asked him if I could kiss him on the cheek and he said yes.
Oh friends! The talking was so good. We had so much in common spiritually, both grounded and floaty at the same time. Our separate lives felt like puzzle pieces clicking into place. I wanted to tell him every single thing and he was share-y too, an avalanche of getting-to-know-you. No small talk, just big talk. Home, safety, joy.
He has long, beautiful musician hands, and they were holding mine. We kissed right there in front of the vegan scones. The kiss was at the far edge of chaste, and it was JUST RIGHT.
"You're in," I said, with the biggest smile. In that moment, he felt absolutely meant for me! And, just for that moment, he was.
He knew I was still tender from Christmastime stuff, and I sort of meant to take this slow. But when I asked, "Should we take it slow and leave it here or should I just take you home?" He chose coming over. I'm so glad he did but I'm also wondering what would have happened if we'd left it there instead of having the most beautiful/sweet/hot morning and early afternoon.
Definitely watch Nobody Wants This, it's so cute!!!
I never wrote about my second date with The Southern Charmer, way back in 2022, because it spooked me all to heck. There was a thing that happened sometimes post-quarantine where a date would just get here and get immediately so relaxed that they were like human lofi, so calm and self-contained as to be unreachable.
The Southern Charmer had tried a new kind of gummy and it had just zapped him entirely! Now that I've spent a few Friday nights in a woozy D8 haze listen-dozing to the 99% Invisible breakdown of The Power Broker, I understand a little better, but that night, it was startling!
I lay with him chastely as he rode it out, scared and ashamed of how actually helpless this person in my bed was! Once he was alert enough, he went home. I thought he had taken an Uber, but it turned out that he drove.
So the next day, once I knew he was alright, I let him go with a few (I hope) gentle texts. His tuned-outness really freaked me out, and I felt ashamed and worried that I'd let him drive home in that state.
Since then, I've remembered him as beautiful and sweet and just not in the right place for me. Good job me, I guess? The eyes-on-the-prize recognition that he wasn't the one for me, amazing! Stars all around.
But a thing he said to me in his hazy time really stuck in my mind, probably unfairly. "This is all too much" he said, and he could have just meant *gestures widely* but it hit my heart as meaning that I was too much. I worried about that, not being too much physically but just being too intense or whatever to really be in relationships. I still worry about that all the time.
I wrote some blog posts about being part Kaiju, a regular refrain. "Too much" stuck with me like a splinter.
But when The Southern Charmer popped up again this year around my birthday, I had a different perspective--I'm a stoner now too! It was so appealing to bond over the 15-25 milligrams of peace I've been enjoying every night, and a nice fantasy to think about sharing that feeling with somebody pretty and kind.
And here we were! Making out on the couch without one single care in the world. My body, heart, mind, and soul were all aligned and ungrasping (except literally I mean), all together an open gate. I felt one wholehearted emotion and that was...welcome!
I felt so far outside the everyday concerns of dating, like all the baggage of these last thirteen years just clocked out for al little bit. I was innocent and free. I felt filled up with trust and happiness and ***friendship***. The Southern Charmer made me feel so safe and seen and embraced. It was a profound relief to rest in him. In us.
The kissing on the couch lasted so beautifully long. Kissing like nothing bad had ever happened to us. Kissing like we had all the time in the world, and we did.
We had a very important development around here last week! I had to crate the kitten during a work meeting, and she didn't even peep! She just curled up all nice with her crate-specific alien catnip toy. I rewarded her with gross wet food after, so happiness all around. One more step towards getting to practice my ropes more often, huzzah!
(A few weeks ago, I went over to the Water Ceremony at my neighborhood Unitarian church. The theme of the day was "Love is a River" and the pastor encouraged us to take down dams where we could and let the river do its thing. Maybe this is that.)
Anyway, back to mid-August and Reluctant Kisser. He was very un-reluctant otherwise! When he told me to turn over, I worried aloud about my newly-arthritic knee (I'm currently and always a symphony of bodily entropy),but he said that's okay, just lie flat.
"Ooh! I love being flat!" I lay on my belly and happily smushed my face into the pillow. This position always reminds me of Steampunk Guy, but whereas he was feral and rough, Reluctant Kisser was kind, deliberate, thorough.
His long dick went in far, even with all the padding. Though I felt a little abstracted from the proceedings, I reveled in scream-moaning into the pillow, yelping joyfully when he got brazen enough to land a few hard spanks. I loved it when he said:
"You're gonna make me come..."
and I huff-sighed "Yes, come on, come on, I need it, I need it."
The glow didn't last long afterward, he said he had a late-night shift, which felt like an excuse to me. He asked how often I'd like to see him, which was nice, and we talked a little bit more about herpes versus kissing. (Not quite as chummy as Godzilla versus Kong!) (That wasn't part of the convo.)
I have NEVER been so surprised when someone texted me the next day! But as we kept chatting on and off, I could feel him disengage. Or maybe it was me that was disengaging. I think I'll sometimes project a fear or a not-wanting-to onto somebody else because I still, after all these years and ALL these paragraphs, feel obligated to accept any and all attention that comes my way, whether someone is right for me or not. Sometimes I allow myself the not-wanting-to by projecting it onto the guy. Or maybe we both just didn't want to.
After a week or so, I texted kindly that I didn't think we were the right match. It's hard to keep the faith when I'm drowning in a sea of app-people who are beautiful but not the right ones.
My quest for a hot love story with someone other than myself feels futile almost all the time. But there's always a new glimmer, and as long as people keep being cute, there's hope that I'll eventually figure it out.
I have a problem I don’t know how to solve: I’m desperate
to be kissed. I’m SO scared I’ve lost kisses forever, that gentle little Herpes
1 has doomed me to a lifetime of cheek kisses, of soft mouth-deflections, of
down-the-neck avoidance. I LOVE a good kiss down the neck, but since the
diagnosis it’s been a pathway to shame, just like, oh no, this again. In
Codependents Anonymous speak, kissing and maybe all of dating has become
unmanageable.
I even Googled “Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous,” but
there’s no meetings near me and I don’t think my schedule can handle another
regular thing. Plus, it’s not ALL of it that I’m freaking about, literally just
the kissing.
I’ve had one really emphatic kisser since the
not-a-big-deal-but-apparently-it-is diagnosis. He was rough, too suctiony, but
absolutely ravenous. I’m so grateful for the hope and chafing he gave me. There
was a sweet-but-not-a-match kiss outside of a perfect-in-every-way lunch date. (Oh,
this whole kissing embargo thing might be just in my head. I mean, duh.) Then
there was Heart Emoji Guy, the connection that ended with a very scary “I know
where you live.”
Which brings us to mid-August, and the Reluctant
Kisser. After I finished my pretty harness despite the kitten’s best efforts,
RK climbed into bed with me, still shy but a little less so. He wrapped me up
in his long arms big spoon style, and I wiggled my butt cozily against him with
a happy sigh. One of my favorite parts of any first date, the venture, the pull-and-tingle
of a man’s hands inside my bra. He was gentle and playful, and I let out a bigger
moan than I meant to.
I turned over toward him and went for a kiss, and he
did the glancing-off thing—cheek, chin, neck, cleavage. I was so hungry for a
mouth on mine that it was hard to enjoy those sensations, but I was determined
not to let the fear get the best of me. I wanted to just let myself have nice
things, just be in the moment and reward this guy for all his very sweet
kitten-distracting.
But when he took out his gorgeous cock—so long, hard,
and perfectly cylindrical, so very very cozy to hold, to squeeze, to run my
thumb over the tip and feel the happy warmth of pre-cum—I just couldn’t make
myself get past the kissing thing.
“I can’t fuck without kissing,” I admitted, and we
talked for a little bit about the herpes situation. I’d disclosed before we met
in person—after Heart Emoji Guy I was scared to have anyone in my space without
telling them first. Here in bed, I tried to be factual, honest, and open to his
boundaries. I hope I did a good job, I’m so extra scared lately about not being
a good citizen of sex!
He did kiss me, and it was a good one. His tongue was
kind and expert, and I liked the way his beard enveloped my lips. But I still
felt like I was harming him, so I didn’t press for more kisses, just relaxed
into the next stages of a gorgeous fuck.
Yesterday it occurred to me while I was washing my
hands—the fear of disease, of infecting someone, of accidentally being some
kind of germ predator, is a pretty understandable reaction in the wake of not
just my Nineties coming of age, but of the bad Covid years. My body and heart
went through so much then and is still living in that time a little bit, the
death, the isolation, the heartlessness of some, the general eugenics vibe I
was getting from my brother, mom, and aunts—that’s so much for a body and mind
and soul to take in.
Plus I lost almost my entire sense of smell! Of all
the senses to lose, that’s the best choice, but it’s still a pretty painful
change to go through. I haven’t caught Covid since last December, but long
Covid still seems like a force of entropy living in my bones.
I’m still broken from all of it and I’m sure so is
everyone I might hope to kiss.
Unmanageable.
So I guess before part three wherein I tell you about
the good fucking, I just want to stop and say, oh bodies. How do we get through
any of this. How do we touch and kiss and risk and trust in the midst and the
wake of so much terror, so much needless destruction.
Thank you, bodies, you are miracles of generosity and
strength and tenacity and pleasure and beauty. I love you so, so much.
My date with Thoughtful Guy last Sunday was so lovely,
even if the naming was a little premature. We met on my Favorite Woodland Trail.
I instantly felt comfortable with him. By coincidence, we both wore pink. I saw
a fellow hiker smiling to herself as she passed us. We were CUTE. I took the
perfect selfie of us with the trail and bright trees and was sooooo excited that
he’s out as poly and I could post it! Probably even tag him!
I had wondered if the trouble with past folks hadn’t
been the poly at all, but the closet! This sweet connection seemed like a good
way to find out.
Telling Rainbow Pal about him earlier in the week, I said
“I listened to him talk about bringing his five partners home for Christmas. It
kinda made me want to join him like a cult.”
(I’m not saying polyamory is a cult. I’m saying that
there are tendencies there, just like there are with any ingroup that involves
humans and our tender need to belong. I definitely have a culty relationship to
poly. I’ll say more about that in Part Two.)
Since I’ve committed to the (Maybe long! Maybe futile!
Definitely worth it!) quest for Actual Boyfriend Guy, I’m not sure why I swiped
right on such a very poly character, but I absolutely could not resist the
face. In a long text thread before the date, he said he was very concerned,
rightfully so, that I was describing myself as “probably poly.” (And that was
probably rounding up. Today I’m landing on the admittedly wishy-washy “monagamish.”)
He didn’t just want to be a fling, he said. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “We’ve
already flung.”
(Why are we talking like this before we even met in
person? The word “lovebombing” has whispered through my brain all week, though
I don’t think it’s fair. Attraction. Hope. Affinity. Fate?)
Back to us being cute on Favorite Trail, it was humid
and buggy and I really wanted to take him home, so we didn’t walk far. Back at
the trailhead, as we parted to go to our respective cars, I kissed him on the
cheek and felt giddy and sexy and joyful.
Once I had him in my apartment, we kissed for real and
it was perfect. A kiss like this is a miracle all on its
own. A lifetime worth of goodness. Soft, wet, firm, emphatic. I was breathless.
“Okay, I’m ready to join your team,” I gushed. “Contact
HR. Send me the packet. When is orientation?”
(I’m just gonna stop and notice that Thoughtful Guy shares
a name with a famous cult leader. It’s not relevant, but it a little bit is.)
Upstairs, he was INTOXICATING. As we cuddled, kissed,
grinded, looked for tickle spots, I went from swoon to swoon. I felt both urgent
and stunned, an almost debilitating bliss. This guy. <3
He did a thing no other lover has ever done—he treated
the fat at my waist as part of the hotness! He grabbed and kneaded and I groaned
with delight and surprise. More of this please!
“Just lay there and be you,” he said, and I did. He
was like a day at the beach and I lay there, we lay there, still and sunny.
I bought this last summer as good luck for my Candyman date with The Coach. It felt like the perfect metaphor for all the lovely changes The Song Sender initiated me into eleven years ago.
We did catch up over dinner, but it pretty quickly
shifted to a friendly negotiation. Did it have to be mean? No. Could he praise?
Yes—he said he thought I might like it if he patted my head and called me a
good girl and I nearly offered him my head across the dinner table. Did he need
to do breath play? No. (Breathing! It’s great!) He talked about spanking and
hair-pulling and my smile was as big as the sun.
I took his hand across the table and he let me. Those gorgeous,
powerful hands could be so gentle out here in the world, I’d never known. He
paid the check and I was glad I’d driven instead of taking a train and a bus.
I’d never driven him anywhere. I was still sharing a
car with Sweetie-Now-BFF the first time around, and the car was always away on
her long commute. I was very pleased to have The Song Sender in my car. I put
on my CD of The National’s High Violet, the perfect sexy/gloomy summer
album.
About halfway home, just before we got to the most
winding part of the drive, I said:
“I kind of want to take your hand and put it into my
hair, but I’m, you know, driving.”
He went ahead and put his hand on the back of my neck,
tugging at the hair just hand enough to elicit a gasp/sigh. It didn’t distract
me at all, quite the opposite—a clean whoosh though my brain making me all the
way centered and calm.
“Oh actually I think this makes me an AMAZING driver,”
I said, silly with happiness.
Because I hadn’t been sure if it was a date, I hadn’t
tidied the apartment or shaved any kinds of hairs, but he didn’t show signs of
caring about either. I was standing next to the cluttered dining room table,
chattering away and offering fizzy water, when he pulled me into a kiss.
It was decisive and forceful, hungry and sweet. It
felt so easy and natural to be bent over the couch, dress pulled up, ready for
spanks. His caress-to-spank was tender and sure. I felt right at home.
After my week of phone adventures with The Coach, I
guess I decided to play a little more like he plays. (Or I guess, the way he
looks like he plays, I really don’t know his life!) I switched my very sensible
37-57 settings on Bumble to a more playful 26-57. I stopped automatically
swiping left on anybody who looks like he goes to the gym a lot. I realized
(!!!!!) that dating apps could just be for looking at cute people instead of
steadfastly looking for The Right One. I slutted up my opening lines by a
little bit, which means a lot of kissy-talk and emojis that involve hearts because!
If they’re scared of hearts they could just not say hi back!
Note to self: They are NOT afraid of emoji-hearts.
What have I even been doing with my life?
It is a whole. New. WORLD in my inbox now. Which was
good because Friday night I was antsy, and I was (for basically no reason, it
turns out) trying not to text The Coach, and I was trying to just read my
library book but it was in my phone where all those guys were.
There were a few dating-y guys in the mix, but when Casual
Guy was like “What are you doing right now?” I didn’t tell him about the library
book I was trying to read or about looking for a Real Relationship. I didn’t
even ask if he was allergic to cats (no) and if he was vaccinated (yes) until
he was already on the way.
(Let me just stop and give credit to The Coach,
because he could have said he was fully vaccinated too and been done with me like
two weeks ago.) (I mean, kind of a low bar, but being a good citizen of both
Covid and sex is superhot.)
I didn’t believe that Casual Guy would come, or that
he would like me (well) or that he would look the way he looked in his picture.
He did show up and he WAs beautiful. He was dark-skinned, dressed dapperly, and
had pretty that’s-how-they-get-you eyes. A softly West Indies accent. A round
tummy but/and jacked arms. (I believe that is the first time I’ve described someone
using the word “jacked” on this blog and it sort of makes me feel one hundred
years old, but it IS the right word.)
I poured us some wine. My supersweet lesson-planning
Pink Moscato was the only one I had cold but it didn’t matter because nobody
drank any wine.
OH MY GOODNESS I DID NOT EVEN STOP TO PUT MUSIC ON!
Scream emoji!
He had told me to put on something sexy for him and I,
because I am lazy and it was all-the-way after ten already, decided that meant
cute PJs, a lacy purple bra, and no underpants. No things were shaved or even
trimmed. He could not have given less of a fuck.
I thought it was really sweet that he didn’t want to
move my cat from her spot on the couch. I scooted the cat over and sat as close
to Casual Guy as I could without touching. I thought there would be…banter?
Time to drink wine and settle in a little bit?
Instead he was like, oh, you’re shy? Let me help you.
He took my hand and put it on his knee. He gently put one hand on the back of
my neck and pulled me into a kiss as the other hand went right up my pajama-top,
roughly (but not too roughly) pulling my nipple up and out. OHboy, the lace and
nipple and his rough hand gathering me up with expert pressure, that’ll stick
with me. I’ll picture and feel it for so many alone-times to come. He put my
nipple in his mouth and sucked sweetly. I groaned and lay back, disrupting the cat.
“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.
The Cool Room in Favorite Aunt’s house is still one of
the most comforting rooms in the many-roomed house of my heart. It was where
the air conditioning lived in that sweltering, old-fashioned house. It was perfectly
Eighties and all the way comforting, wood-paneled walls, small, curtained
windows, deep-turquoise-blue couch with some kind of white print, maybe
flowers. Pleasantly cavelike, with a glass pocket-door that maybe we slid shut.
It was where the TV lived, and where The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow and I
somehow found ourselves alone. (I still
don’t quite understand how that happened, can’t decide if it was kind of
Favorite Aunt to leave us alone or if it was weird creepy matchmaking—it’s
occurring to me that I never experienced non-sneaky, non-naked kids-being-attracted-to-each-other
situations so I really have no idea how it’s supposed to go.)
How it went was, chaste, beatific, awkward, sweet. I
lay snuggled in his arms for long, quiet stretches of time.
Until him, I had only been kissed by selfish,
careless, insistent (and, by 2019 standards, sometimes pretty rapey) men and
boys, so there is a very good chance that I was a terrible kisser.
My new friend may have had less experience at kissing
than I did, but I think he had much more experience treating others like human
beings. If my kisses were terrible, hungry, aggressive things, he took it in
stride. I can hope that he eventually mellowed me to a more loving and
thoughtful pace. Or maybe we were just teenagers doing our best.
After what seemed like hours of making out but
probably wasn’t, he said “No thank you” and backed his face away. That hurt and
felt like a mystery, but I think (I hope) I just put my head on his heart and
gave it a rest. There were eventually more snuggles and more kisses, but I’ve
always wondered if I or society or Favorite Aunt or all three of those things
pressured him into continuing to kiss me. I didn’t think about any of that at
the time. My heart was floating and selfish and somehow also generous with joy.
I was a blooming little flower of love.
I forget where we were going or coming home from, but
I have a powerful image of laying in his lap in the backseat of Favorite Aunt’s
van, in another highway sunset. Pink sky, low-flying airport planes, lots of
toll booths. I gazed up at his face feeling both blissful and disjointed—was this
the face I would love forever? The answer, as with most faces I’ve been that
close to, is both absolutely yes and not at all.
Unable to stop taking their unease with the Big Trauma
out on me and on each other, my parents, near divorce and overflowing with
violence, sent me to stay with my Favorite Aunt at her beautiful Colonial-era
home, about six hours away from my immediate family’s cramped and feral
suburban home. Favorite Aunt had always been the person who most vocally liked
me when my parents, clearly and emphatically, did not. She was an oasis of hugs, praise, and affection, in a
childhood full of coldness, contempt, and turning to teachers as my only daily
source of grownup approval.
She was also, though, Catholic. That part of the story
makes it hard to not become incoherent with rage. Favorite Aunt’s spirtuality
felt like a bright white escape hatch, a way to clean and simplify myself of
such a dirty and complicated life, a way to escape the pain, trauma, abandonment
and fear of the previous months. Of course now I understand that in being pulled
(temporarily, I’m relieved to say) back into the religion of my upbringing I
was both victim of and complicit in a more effective and insidious factory of
rape than any teen party, no matter how out of control, could ever be.
At the time though, it seemed that the best way to
regain control after a brutal rape and subsequent assault by my dad (https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2018/10/metoo-letter-dear-dad-stfu-about.html)
was
to blame myself, my sluttiness, my sense of adventure. That seems heartbreaking
now, but at the time it felt self-explanatory. Such is the power of an adult
willing to dole out affection. I don’t think my Favorite Aunt was
rape-culture-gaslighting me on purpose, because at the time, blaming myself seemed
as natural and as life-giving as air.
Favorite Aunt’s charisma and generosity of affection
means she often has children as friends. (I share this quality, for which I am
very grateful.) She thought one of these friends, the artsy, quiet son of one
of her church families, would be a perfect match for me, and he was. (All these
years later, she still ships us, in spite of a lifetime mostly apart and a mountain
of evidence. This doesn’t bother me as much as maybe it should.)
I don’t remember how he and I got together, whether we
were pushed or drawn, probably both. I can’t clearly remember my first kiss
with The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow (also, the first truly kind or loving kiss I’d
known) but I know it was postcard perfect. Favorite Aunt and I went to visit
him and his family where they were camping for a week, on a vacation island not
too far ways from Favorite Aunt’s home. We walked (maybe I was holding his
hand, seems like something I would do…) down the beach a little ways away from
the families. We stood beside the water, the tall waves making for the closest
approximation of privacy we were likely to get.
I remember the sea as rough but kind that day, the
dizzy feeling in my throat, the sense of finality, of accomplishment. Having a
sexy feeling that was also loving, with anyone besides myself, was a new and
blissful sensation, as big and reliable and all-encompassing as the ocean itself.
The day went by fast. Favorite Aunt and I had made
homemade poptarts for him and his family (how Emily Gilmore of us!) and we gave
the container to him out the car window as Favorite Aunt prepared to drive us
away. He kissed me on the forehead and said, not unkindly, “You have really big
dandruff.”
All of the beach days and other excursions with
Favorite Aunt meant that my scalp was sunburned and peeling. I was only a
little bit embarrassed. I was a jumble of salt and skin and hot-pink feeling,
riding away from the beach and towards a sunset as pink as my cheeks.
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.
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.
“Even if you feel overcome with nihilistic thoughts, your body
is still alive with an optimism of its own.
Join the thoughts of your body.” –Yoko Ono
When I first
started adventuring way back when, I decided to use cuddle parties as a
benchmark for how far I’ve come in inhabiting my body and letting go of grief.
The first one, way back in 2012, I spent crying over my struggling marriage and
unexpressed bisexuality. The second one, I spent mostly on my own despite the
puddle of people, enjoying all of the lovey vibes in a very surprising new
self-contained way. This time, I dove all the way in, tapped into my body’s
optimism as Yoko suggests, and was blessedly immersed in the easy, soft
connections with and among my fellow lovey-dovey souls.
Still,
sadness did need to have its moment. As I lay curled up and relaxed in the
afterglow of The Kind Ma’am’s sweet/hurty attention, the loss I’d been trying
to deny for months crept in and I just ached
for Mr. Makeout Music, for all of the November grief. Since one of my New Year’s
resolutions is to ask for help when I need it, I asked the Cuddle Facilitator
to disentangle herself from a beautiful-looking embrace so we could talk for a
minute. (I’m not a monster, it’s part of her role. But I still feel bad for
interrupting snuggles!)
I
told her the story, the story my friends and I are all sick of, and she had an
idea: “Let’s try this. I’m going to hold you, and you’re going to just feel it
all. Feel it as deeply as you can, and then we’ll see if you’re ready to go
back to playing.”
So
she put her arms around me, and as she held me, her heart against mine felt
like MM’s heart, from those twice-a-day hugs that I missed so much. The
connection I still felt to him was keen and wrenching and real, and I loved it
so much. (I still do, though thankfully it feels much less
claustrophobic/painful now.)
I
almost cried, but didn’t. I thanked her mistily and went back to the party,
joining a cuddle pile with a few nice strangers who’d seemed fun during consent
practice.
I was
blissed out and petting the hip of a nice woman from Colorado when (Hooray!)
The Professor appeared above me and asked if he could join us. I was spooned in
behind the nice woman, and he spooned in behind me, a friendly wall of warmth.
I asked if he would pull my hair (or he asked me, I don’t remember) and he was
such the perfect balance of gentle and forceful that I whooshed down into subspace, for the first real time in years. The
weightless, beatific feeling of being relieved from control, turns out I’d
missed it so much. I feel like I’m using the word “blessed” too many times in
this story, but it keeps being necessary.
I
asked if I could turn over to face him, and the resulting embrace was one of
the most comforting places I’ve ever been. I’m trying superhard not to get
carried away here, of course he’s maybe just really good at hugging, but the
way he fit with me had a teensy bit of destiny to it.
At cuddle
parties, you’re supposed to look for specific permission every step of the way,
and for every request he made, I gave an emphatic “Yes!” especially the “May I
kiss you?’ part—the Professor is really, really good at kissing. Just like with
the hair pulling, soft and urgent, emphatic and sweet. There’s nothing like
being really just thoroughly kissed.
“Will
you put your leg between mine?” He asked and oh yes, I just wanted to find a
cuddle party loophole and just give him permission to do every. Single. Thing.
“May
I put my hand of your chest?” He asked, and that meant heart, not boob, and
yesyes, it’s time to go ahead and believe in Energy, because this guy has ALL
OF IT.
While I was lying there in The Professor’s arms, Mr.
Shiny Eyes crawled over and asked for a kiss and I was happy to give it. The
three of us chatted until it was time for The Professor to go have a late
supper with The Kind Ma’am. I kissed him goodbye and settled into a new cuddle
configuration with Mr. Shiny Eyes and the interesting strangers.
Next: More cuddles, more kisses, and saying goodbye
lying down.
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.
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.
On the night after the long date, I slept a deep, sad sleep
and dreamed that I was on the island from
Lost, but there was a huge old city at the center of the island with lots of
art to explore. I went into the biggest museum chamber and found the shadow of
a statue of Perseus. This seemed especially important since our flower date was
during the Perseid meteor showers, which were also a part of my shared
traditions with Sweetie. I decided it meant that it was time, past time,
really, for me to slay my own monsters.
After I wrote out that dream and its various implications
that Monday morning, I found myself deeply grateful to J and wanting to, if
possible, leave behind the fears that were getting in the way of enjoying this
messy, complicated, beautiful man and the fun we had to offer each other. So I
did the most me thing possible: I sent him a thank-you note, for my early birthday
dinner and all of the ways he made me feel good. That day as I went about my
bookstore routines and filled in Sweetie (not in too much detail) on the
weekend’s events, a little flower of happiness bloomed in my nether regions and
in my heart. I decided it was okay to just go ahead and like him.
The next day, I got something in the mail back, an early
birthday present he’d clearly sent the second he had my address: a blue canary
night light for the birdhouse in my soul, for the song we’d sung together in
the garden that night. I hadn’t had such a romantic gesture from a man in the
past two decades, if ever. I shrieked and danced around and nearly swooned from
touched-ness. I put on Flood and belted
out the whole thing and got caught up on the dishes, even fantasized about him
maybe wanting to be the only bee in his bonnet. I decided right then and there
to let go of all the things that stop me from not being an Argonaut-murdering
lighthouse. The little bird was too bright to sleep with him on (I was having
horny insomnia and bad headaches.) but I kept him by my bedside.
After a day or so I simmered down and realized that although
it really was a lovely present, I couldn’t be sure about what it meant. J. was
having a vacation week with the kids and therefore (?) wasn’t as frequently in
touch and I started to feel vulnerable, to wonder if maybe I’d been letting my
imagination run away with me too much.
The following weekend was our nondate weekend (apparently he
was unaware of the concept of babysitters) but I was craving closeness so I
proposed that we sext that Friday night. He was hemming and hawing, leaving it
up in the air and being not sure if he had time, and my heart fell. I braved up
and said: “I’m not an afterthought, not someone to be fit in to the margins of
your life.” I admitted that what I was really after was connection, rather than
just sex(t). I am so proud of myself for saying that, and I think that
admission alone proves that I’ve come a long way since being Steampunk Guy’s
“Thing that Happens Sometimes,” his number ten or eleven or whatever I was. Go
me for miles and miles of progress.
I asked for a call instead of sexting and that’s what we
did—as soon as he got the kids to bed, he called and I knew I had to say all of
the things. I told him I didn’t have time to like someone who didn’t like me
back, and he assured me that he did. He told me he couldn’t believe that
someone as perfect for him existed and if he had, he would have gotten up the
courage to divorce sooner. Right now, that sounds like me being rebound girl,
but at the time, it convinced me that we were on the same page, that this
really was a thing. It’s hard to go back through this story and think that he
didn’t like me back; I may have to accept that he did.
That phone call was WONDERFUL, I loved it so much. We stayed
up talking about all different things, about his kids and their adventures that
week, about my birthday plans (He’d convinced me to invite my church friends to
do a birthday brunch, even though I’d been shy to ask since I’d missed the
regular brunch the week before. He did push me to do some very good things.)
all the things we might hope to do together. I gently told him that babysitters
should maybe be a thing, and he said he did want to see me more often and would
look for ways. He offered phone sex near the end but I liked the just talking
so much that I said no. Just like I used to do during long-distance snuggles
with Mr. Sweetheart, I doodled the whole time we were talking and sent him the
drawing afterward.
And I felt brazen enough to send my favorite emoji
Which he diplomatically ignored.
We did sext on my birthday night (after Sweetie had gone home from having cake,
Chinese food, and Bob’s Burgers
episodes) and it was a really good one. He was an excellent sexter, I’m sure
that his erotic novels have their merit! It ended romantically, with us writing
about listening to each other’s heartbeats.
“Is my heart doing a better job of telling you how I feel
than I can?” He asked, and I still don’t know what that meant, but I know that
I liked it. It just turned my insides to mush—I
was officially bonkers about him.
Monday, when I was at the beach saying goodbye to summer
with my cousins and aunts, he sent me a picture of the boys, on a picnic by a
pond. What family-oriented girl could stay cool with something as adorable as
that in her phone? I’m only human.
On the Tuesday after my birthday, in the interest of slaying
my own monsters, I met with a potential new therapist. When I finished the Big
Therapy Project, a lot was left undone. there was another memory that needed
attention, a trickier, more childlike version of me who needed some love. I put
off working on that for all kinds of reasons, mostly being too tired from
teaching to think of anything else. Eventually, though she stuck around long
enough to help me quit the school district, my old therapist moved away and
sent me a list of referrals that sat in my inbox for four months, until J.
became the incentive/trigger that made me realize I needed help. If it works,
I’ll be forever grateful to him. Probably I’ll be forever grateful to him
anyway.
The therapist’s office building was next to a Tiffany’s and
across the street from a pastry shop, which I considered to be a very good
sign. I liked her immediately and she gave me a lot of hope for healing. We
both are people who like to geek out on happiness and wellness, and the
bossiness of her seemed like it could propel me off the Lost island, when I was done exploring, of course. The best part,
though, was that instead of wanting to go home and crawl into bed after
therapy, I wanted to go jump in the pool and make out in the sunshine with J. I
knew he was still off from work so I called and asked, and he said yes, with
the caution that I‘d have to be gone before the kids got home from school.
That afternoon, though so short that we had to set a timer,
was absolutely magical.The sun was hot and bright and the sky
was blue and we played in the pool like kids, like people who had no baggage,
no fear. He kept swimming under me, lifting me up, and kissing me, and I felt
so happy and peaceful and swoony and whole
in his arms. He looked so handsome, healthy, and virile in the sun, and I felt
like a goddess. I pushed him to the edge of the pool, grabbed the wall, and
pinned him there in the most delicious, picture-postcard of a kiss. Right then,
those bodies were in love, I don’t see a way around it.
When it was time to go, it almost seemed like he wanted me
to accidentally meet the kids. His older son had recently stated unequivocally
that he didn’t want J. dating, but J. was slowly trying to warm him up to the
idea, an effort I found encouraging. When it had somehow gotten to be ten after
three, I ran out to my car and was getting in quick but he insisted on saying a
proper kissy goodbye. It felt like he was proud of me, like he wanted to rip
the band-aid off and make me part of his life, and though it was certainly too
soon for that, I took it to heart.
Writing that afternoon makes it so difficult to not to call
him, to try and find a way. I know there isn’t a way, but still. The sunny
optimism of that hour and a half in the pool, the unabashed connection, was
real and I just love it so much.
After the chair snuggles, he untied us from each other and
we went downstairs to sing and cuddle everybody some more. Dancing around in my
ropes and singing with The Lady of the House reminded me of her awesome Nude Years
party—I hope she has one this year!
Pretty Slave was singing some hard rock hits and being
extremely hot, so I had to climb all over her a little bit. CM and PS seemed a
little reserved with me that night, so I was as unslutty as a naked lady who’s
kissing somebody can manage.
Before too long, I ended up back upstairs with the
Sweetfaces, each of us girls bent over a red reclining chair. Probably the
worst 90s hit of all, “I Saw the Sign” came on and now I sort of have to like
it a little because it’ll remind me of her, naked and bent over, shaking her
hair and singing it out. “No one’s gonna drag you up, to get into the light
where you belong.”—It’s weird where one finds poetry.
Mr. Sweetface got out his flogger and I got happy. He went
back and forth between us, hitting us sparingly and specifically, each move
aimed and considered. I felt waves of joy and relief with each smack, wiggled
myself to giddiness.
And he had these special gloves. They had teensy little
spiky things on them, kind of like those special gloves they use to brush
horses. He ran his gloved hand over my hips, my waist, my boobs, giving me
shivers.
When he was done, he pulled my face up into a kiss, sweet
and deliberate, soft. Then we all went back down to the party for more songs
and goodbyes.
The weekend before last, triggered and heartsick, I lost
faith, and I’ve lost count of how many times that’s happened, to the point
where losing faith is kind of meaningless. Amidst all of those tears over SG, I
realized that for every player with whom things are hard, there are, like, tens
of players with whom it’s easy, where things just fit and flow and I don’t have
to try at all. There have been so many nights of feeling perfect in my skin and
not compelled to change anything about my thoughts or feelings. It’s the
sensation of play that’s actually just that, play. Baby animals play in order
to learn how to thrive in the wild, and that’s exactly my plan, play and
thrive.
Every since my first munch when Fireguy put the idea into my
head, I’ve wanted to be tied to another girl, so when I found out that Mr. and
Mrs. Sweetface had a rope scene in the works, I didn’t hold back a single
little ounce of my eagerness to join them. (Hard to believe I recently spent a
couple of days crying about being called pushy…it seems to serve me okay.) They
were getting ready to play in the tiny living room on the red plush recliners
and when he came to invite me over, I said “Yesyesyesyes ohyes!” and had my bra
off before I crossed the room. (Surprised it had stayed on as long as it did!)
I couldn’t believe my luck. She’s so cute and bubbly and has
a goofy sense of humor just like I do and I! Was going! To be! Tied to her! She
left on her shiny dark-silver bra and panties, and I was down to my peach and
purple polka dot undies. While he started her harness, she scrolled through the
radio stations on the TV, landing on “Hits of the Nineties” And by “Hits of the
Nineties,” they did not mean dignified alt-hits like “Cut Your Hair,” or
“Cannonball,” we’re talking full on “Oops, I Did It Again.” I don’t know why, but this made things more
awesome.
I loved dancing around and singing with her while
occasionally being admonished to be still by our top and watching the comings
and goings of the party guests. Cacophony kept coming up from the karaoke-ing
basement, lending to the overall atmosphere of joy and mirth.
Once he finished weaving her into her shiny purple harness,
it was my turn. The ropes he used on me were peacock blue. I was soready. My
nipples were alert in that ultrasensitive way they only get for ropes, sending
tingles all through me ever time the rope or his hand even lightly brushed
against them. I didn’t get all surrender-y the way that I sometimes do for
ropes, but sometimes he’d tug at them in just such a way that peace would
radiate through me from that spot, and aah, sigh, a reunion, oh ropes, I always
miss you.
Much was made of the fact that I like to have an ass-knot in
addition to the clit knot, thank you very much!
I wasn’t subby-dreamy-drowsy, I was exultant, and when he
looped another length of rope underneath both of our crotches and started tying
us together, I got intoxicated by the smell of her—there are never adequate
adjectives to describe the smell of a girl’s hair, and besides that sweetness
there was sweat, and alcohol, and some girly soap, the smells of happy
aliveness. I put my arms around her and we danced around like slumber party
girls, to the tune of “Roller Coaster of Love,” which I don’t think I ever
properly appreciated before.
We sat together on one of the two big red recliners, the two
of us girls in Mr. Sweetface’s lap. I was the boldest and most handsy character
in that chair. As we settled into cuddling and petting, many hands were many
places, but my fingers went right for her panties, found her clit beneath them,
toyed with it alternately with hand and rope. She moaned and rocked, and I
worked my way inside her bra, first with my hand and then my face, licking and
nuzzling, finding what I was looking for. I reached around and unhooked her
bra, and even though I couldn’t get it all the way off, I made her just as
naked as I possibly could. It was a good long time until I finally kissed her
on the mouth, soft and perfect, and then kissed him too. They kissed alike,
searching and cautious, friendly and sensual. She told me later that I’d been
her first girl kiss, and I was honored. I should stop going around assuming
everybody’s always kissing everybody, I guess.
She grabbed the ropes at my hips so that the crotch rope,
with its lovely knots, did just what it was meant to, which was turn me into a
moany writhey animal-thing. They both looked a little taken aback.
“Ohyeah, I’m really loud.” I explained, super-unnecessarily,
and I didn’t get any quieter when they went for my boobs, a mouth on each one,
my favorite, favorite thing. Well, one of the favorites.
