Proud Graduate of Summer Therapy!

 

“It really pisses me off that in like six months, I’ll be like oh, poor us, just a bad match. I hate magnanimous.”

--Me, a Little Over Six Months Ago

The last session I had with Summer Therapist, Tuesday before last, I’d given myself the assignment of telling her the whole fortune-cookie-Thursday-to “It’s Monday morning” Shy One breakup story without turning the frustration back on myself. I had the feeling she’d wanted me to get a little better at blaming him for what happened, and it seemed like a good experiment! It was!

I liked not stopping the story to empathize with TSO’s perspective, blame myself, or say for the millionth time “How did I let this happen?” or “Why couldn’t I have just made it til Tuesday?” (Or made it til our trip, or not sent so many needy texts, etc) Bargaining is a really powerful destination on the Billy Map of Grief!

Dear Young People Who Probably Don't Remember The Family Circus: This is what I mean by the Billy Map of Grief! He goes all over the place!

But when the experiment was over, there was something I had to admit to myself about my (dear!) Summer Therapist—she was really into the idea that TSO hadn’t really loved me! She even, in the midst of some advice about taking it slow heartwise, suggested that maybe I hadn’t really loved him either!

This seemed crazy to me, because I’d started therapy with the goal of taking the TSO experience on board, letting myself believe it had really happened so I could let it go! I was hanging on to him in my head and heart because I wasn’t sure it had happened, because maybe I thought he was the only one who could witness the fact that I’d been loved by a man. Of course, there was another witness there, the only one I’ll ever really need to check with: me.

I kindly typed this all into the therapy app and said a gracious and grateful goodbye to the Summer Therapist. Then I called BFF and sobbed. It was the kind of sobbing (I just mistyped it as “subbing”) that scrubs out my insides, that came up from my soul in a wail and a gust. And then I felt better.

I could see why ST wanted to downplay the relationship—it was a way of trying to make me be kinder to myself, to get me to expect more. But in wanting to assure me I deserve better, she ended up seeming dismissive of this experience that had meant a lot to me. I didn’t need it not to be love in order to let it go. I didn’t need to (as ST did) dismiss the realities of poly happiness in order to envision a partner all my own.

It made me realize that no matter how monogamous I get, and I think it might be quite monogamous indeed, I’ll never subscribe to the narrow, heteropatriarchal definition of love that my ST was (probably unintentionally) leading me towards. That’s because, no matter who or how I love, I’ll always be queer, I’ll always be silly, I’ll always be curious and expansive and wholehearted. I’ve never been more grateful for my adventures, for my weird heart, for the messy and ill-advised and beautiful alchemy I’ve always been able to lead myself into. And out of!

I realized a thing that maybe shouldn’t have been new at almost 49: I’m the only one I need to check with about what’s happened to me. I know when I’ve loved and been loved. I don’t have to run it by anyone. I don’t have to prove it.

Friends, it’s still a Billy map. Though I don’t visit the Hidden Folder much any more, there are days when my heart is full of him, of them, of bitterness, of what ifs. But there are also days when the banter is going well on the apps, or I get turned on by myself, or I start to picture what Boyfriend Life would be like, and I’m so, so grateful for all of it, for everything ever. Magnanimous is my heart’s default setting, mostly, and I hope that never changes.

He’s Not a Pet, He’s a Bird Who Flew in by Mistake: Part Two

 

Pink is for subbing, green is for domming. A looooot of pink on that romance bar! From Enough to Make You Blush: Exploring Erotic Humiliation by Princess Kali

“It just feels empty without the rest of the fantasy.” I said to The Song Sender, before we even got out of bed.

I felt stuck on whatever had shifted him from liking me to feeling obligated, from sweetness creeping in to not even trying to put the phone down when we were hanging out post-sex. (Yes, I did play Animal Crossing for 20 mins, but that was an anti-anxiety strategy. Maybe his constant checking was too.)

This was maybe the most talking I’ve ever done with him, just kept yammering while we put our clothes on, while I got some ice coffee to keep me up for the longish drive to his girlfriend’s house. (Dear Universe, I’ll take guys I don’t have to drive around next, please! I guess that’s up to me.)

Speaking of the girlfriend, I didn’t ask him the thing I’ve always wanted to ask, in 2011 and in 2022—why do other women get to be people to him, and I don’t? What is it about me? If he’s been with this woman for five years, he can’t have been distant and cruel and thoughtless the whole time, can he? So why is this kind of opportunist assholism reserved just for me? It probably isn’t.

(It’s not a great habit to wonder what secret to worth other women have that I can’t fathom, but it’s a very old habit, and he triggers it the worst. On good days, which is most days, I can be all neutral and just-a-bad-match about it, but inferiority to the other ladies is, I guess, a sore spot I can’t always help poking at.)

I kept yammering as he meekly navigated the way. I will very much miss his not-backseat-driving! Seriously one of the hottest things about him.

He wasn’t going to navigate my life, but I asked him to:

“Tell me what to do. I don’t want to let you go again.”

“You don’t have to let me go, just…”

“Well I have to let go of SOMETHING.”

What I was thinking was: Twice. Twice is how many times he gets to break my heart. No more.”

For such a toxic combination of people, it was a really sweet breakup. Re-break-up? Just a break-off since it was new? But also not? I pulled over twice during the drive, once to cry and say: “I tried so hard. Then and now. I just couldn’t get it right.”

“It’s not your fault.” He said, “None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know.”

(I should say, there were other, bigger, heavier things going on in his life besides the easier-sexting-girl. Or, he was doing a scam an I just wasn’t doing the offer-to-help-with-money part of the script. I do listen to too many scam podcasts.)

The second time I pulled over, it was to say a proper goodbye—I didn’t want to rush it with traffic coming up behind me on his girlfriend’s narrow street. I wanted a real moment, and he was kind enough to comply.

I gave him as big of a hug as the car would allow. His body still felt warm from afterglow and affection. He still had that smell I can’t resist.

“Well, sweets, I think I have to get over you again.”

We kissed. He held my hand. He held my hand over his heart and kissed it, which was either a dear sweet gesture or a thing a psychopath had learned from movies. Probably the former?

I got to do that thing where I told him he’ll always be in my heart, to warn him that it’s crowded in there.

When we got to his girlfriend’s, the seatbelt chime went off well before I stopped the car.

“You can’t wait to get away from me,” I laughed. This bird had flown.

The best case scenario after I hit on him at the movies would have been kismet, romance, and gothy playlists forever, but a lovely goodbye is something.

When I got home, before I got out of the car, I did the ritual: Delete the text thread. Block the number. Delete the contact. Block on Instagram. I was sad, but it was a beautiful sad. In that kind and very talky goodbye, he’d let me love him just a little. He let us out of the cage of our gorgeous violent fantasies and jangled, impatient minds, and he let us do part humanely.

Not the miracle I wanted, but a miracle nonetheless.

 

A Bad Date, Good Hookup, and a Helpful Google, Part Three

There was something about Hookup Guy having such a narrow window of time that made him seem a little sus. Sure, he could have just been horny and urgent (like, you know, ME) but it felt like he was on more of a cheating husband schedule than a divorced dad schedule. I knew I had to look him up before I let him come over anymore.

These moments never don’t remind me of Psyche bringing the lamp into Cupid’s room and wrecking everything. Darn lamp!

I couldn’t find anything under the name he’d given me, aside from a lower-rung Marvel actor. A facebook search turned up various not-hims. He’d told me that in addition to his teaching work, he had started doing real estate on the side, so I tried “fake name realtor” in the search bar and still found nothing. I know not everyone is an internet open book, but sheesh.

So I typed in his phone number and up came the same him with a different last name. He did seem divorced on his (mostly professional) facebook page. And there he was, a ways back, holding up his “I’m vaccinated” sticker, so at least he wasn’t lying about that? I suppose anyone could get a sticker though. Should I be asking to see vaccine cards? I mean, you can fake those too! Will this fall’s adventures land me in Deltaville?

It’s very Nineties to wonder if fucking is going to kill me. And also very now, very always, I guess.

I texted him to ask why he’d given me a wrong last name, but I knew there wasn’t any answer he could give that would change things. After a few skeptical-but-hopeful hours, I blocked and unmatched. People are just gone so fast sometimes.

I felt more off-balance from Hookup Guy’s lying than from the morning’s bad date, but the combination of the two left me feeling discouraged, self-slut-shamed, and generally turned upside down. The sense of unreality that permeates all of 2021 life and especially online dating descended like a not-cute cloud.

I talked it over with Pagan Boy’s Crush (I’ve come to think of PBC and Sweetie-Now-BFF, along with my new therapist, as my emotional board of directors. I stole that idea from someone, but I forget who.) and realized that I’d been handing out so much trust and generosity lately, and I needed to turn some of that towards myself.

Now, a week later, I’ve basically stopped swiping for the time being. New therapist referred to The Lovely Guy as my “regular (his name)” and I think I’ve got us into a nicely casual place. (knock wood) There’s This Charming Man who has nothing to do with The Smiths and everything to do with ropes and good texting! I should probably write about him soon.

And there’s friends. And work. And sleep. And time’s almost up on my 2021 goals. I’m happier and less scattered than I was a week ago, so that’s good. And it’s only mostly because of the ropes. 😊

Perfectly 1993 Guy Part Five: The Quest for an Orgasm!

 

It’s taking me a long time to write these days, because Sweetie bought me a Switch and I don’t spend very much time not on Animal Crossing! The upside is, all of the imaginary flower-watering seems to have cut my anxiety score exactly in half! Hooray! I’ve missed writing to you, though—how have you been? I hope you’re well, happy, and registered to vote! Maybe you already voted!

 

Anyway, so. At some point that summer, I moved out of Beach Aunt’s beach house without even saying goodbye. She left me a modest bill of 170$ which I didn’t try to pay back until ten years later—by then she wouldn’t even cash the check! Beach Aunt was so kind before her Flat Earth/Anti-Mask/Openly White Supremacist phase kicked in! I miss her.

 

I ended up moving into First Bitchy Gay Guy’s apartment with him. Not too long after that I quit Great Adventure too. I’m pretty good at stretching a last paycheck (See also: shoplifting.) but I don’t know how I paid for my life that August! I sure didn’t quit smoking or diner-ing! Maybe the guys took care of me, who knows.

 

The apartment was nice, with pretty hardwood floors and wide windows overlooking a stone courtyard. It was sparsely furnished, though, and the toilet was perpetually clogging. FBGG and I had sort of a George and Martha vibe, part put-on and part real nastiness. It was both agitating and familiar, having come from such a fighty home. We had quite the snit one night when I spattered the pretty white patterned linoleum in the kitchen with RIT Dye red during a painful and harrowing hair-dying incident!

 

The kitchen was maybe only stocked with ramen, cereal, and pilfered diner coffee creams and sugars. Presumably also coffee?

 

So the stage wasn’t perfectly set for romance, but romance happened anyway. FBGG switched rooms with me so Perfectly 1993 Guy and I could have a little more snuggle room. The bed was a mattress on the floor, with bright yellow sheets. The walls were wood-paneled and unadorned. The rooms was warm and sparkly with love. He and and I didn’t know what we were doing in the very best of ways, and he was unerringly loving and sweet.

 

My body was cooperative in all the ways except that one. After years of indifferent/violent/cruel partners, I was really only able to come by myself, and not always that! Perfectly 1993 Guy was fiercely (But also somehow non-pressuringly) determined.

 

No one had ever gone down on me before, let alone someone so beautiful, let alone someone with whom I was so thoroughly smitten! Tenderly, kindly, with a gentle tongue and just the right amount of stubble, he made love to me with his whole cute face.

 

I so much wanted to let go for him, but I would feel the warmth and shudder recede almost as soon as it arrived. No matter how steadfast of tongue he was, I couldn’t convince my body to trust him all the way, to trust myself. I sure did love all the trying, though.

 

“Are you okay?” I asked. He seemed a little sad when he came up for kisses and air.

 

He sighed. ”I just want to be able to do this for you.”

 

Of all the parts of this story, that line makes me the most wistful. Will I ever hear that unconditional, sweet generosity from a partner again? I hope so.

Gold Star for Mr. Shiny Eyes—and Me!

Last Wednesday, something really horrible happened to one of my students. It happened outside school, but it was very upsetting and shook me all the way down to my bone marrow. She’s okay now, but it’s hard knowing that it happened to anyone, let alone to a student I love.

When Sweetie and I got back from trying to visit her in the hospital Wednesday evening, we were sitting on the porch discussing whether or not I should call into work the next day to process. Just as that conversation was winding down to a yes, my phone rang, and it was Mr. Shiny Eyes, asking what I was doing the next day—he’d found himself an opportunity to drive in from out of town and visit.

Glad to hear joy in my voice, Sweetie said of course a visit was fine with her.

For most of last Thursday, I couldn’t move. I felt broken and guilty and devastated for all that I have that my students don’t have—a safe home, a loving group of friends and family, the ability to change my circumstances. I called Sweetie and apologized for needing to schedule some couch time, an apology she found ridiculous. I felt weepy and not-good-enough, hardly a way to go into a second date with someone I’m excited about.

Cleaning the apartment to get ready for him and making dinner for both Mr. Shiny Eyes and Sweetie (yay!) lifted my spirits a little but I felt really fragile and off when he arrived. Just like Sweetie had the night before, Mr. Shiny Eyes listened and listened as I kept on looping back to sad subjects.

After Sweetie had left us alone for snuggle time, I apologized profusely and repeatedly for being such a bad date when he’d come all this way, but he seemed shocked and dismayed with every sorry.

“I came here because I like you, the real you, and this is the real you right now. I didn’t just come here to have sex. But I’m still pretty sure we’ll have sex.

And we did. In fact, he asked if it would be okay to just forget all the kinks and “make gentle love” to me and it’s a little sad how seldom I’ve had that with guys. (But okay, I get other good stuff.) I relaxed into him and it was sweet and hot and satisfying.

Plus, once the lovemaking was accomplished, he was nice enough to end the night with a pretty thorough flogging that buoyed up my spirits even more.

And yet, I didn’t stop apologizing. There’s an annoying almost geishalike part of me that wants to be nothing but cheerful and pleasant and uncomplicated for men. I try to keep a cheery guard up lest they should think I’m difficult or high-maintenance or (that dirtiest of dirty words) needy. I have no problem sharing vulnerability with friends or with Sweetie, but when it comes to men I’m attracted to, there’s this irritating compulsion to behave. It’s insulting to them and stifling to me.

I’m grateful that life kicked my ass enough that I had no choice but to show Mr. Shiny Eyes my sometimes-a-wreck of a self. (I’m also grateful to anyone who reads the full wreck of it here, for that matter!) No choice even, than to at one point put my clothes on and just cry for a bit. He took such nice care of me, and even though second date tears aren’t my favorite thing, I’m so glad for the depth and difficulty that I shared during my second evening with Mr. Shiny Eyes. It’s a step towards learning to actually trust men, and it made my hoo-ha happy too.

Photoplay Part Two: A Secret Room!

After Sweetie left, I drank a nervous beer and chatted with Q, and then it was time to go downstairs for pictures. E told me she was doing a Wal Mart run in a little bit and asked if I needed anything. Chocolate-covered strawberries, maybe? I laughed and said no thanks and told her again how adorable she was. And if we needed some cute food, I’d brought cupcakes.

While I’m walking down the stairs with a near-stranger to have my picture taken in his basement, a few words about being submissive. Most of the appeal of submitting, most of the intoxication of it, comes from trust. With Bill, that wasn’t it. It was more of a helpless feeling, like I couldn’t get away if I wanted to, and also he scared me/turned me on so much that it turned my brain into a test pattern. Fun, but not trust. With Sweetie, there’s mountains of trust that comes from knowing each other so well for so long, and plus it’s just kind of easier for me to trust a woman.

Walking down those stairs, I felt closer to the trusting-a-guy that’s been my goal for a while. It was just a simple matter of listening to my body telling me I was safe, or pure physical intuition. So even though it was kind of a scary/awkward situation, I relaxed into it, and it felt like a relief.

While Q set up the backdrops and such, he asked if I could find the entrance to the secret room. (Of course there’s a secret room…) I looked around and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary besides the table of various safe-sex things left over from the party and some lovely framed photos of people in various states of loving hurt. He said, “When there’s a secret passageway in a movie, how do people get in?”

Oh! The bookshelf! All I had to do was take one book off the shelf, just like in Scooby Doo! When I moved that book and the doorway opened, I was flooded with delight and optimism. It was seriously one of the best experiences I’ve ever had.

This was the room where we’d do the fire portraits later, he explained. It’s probably pretty close to what you’d imagine a secret room would look like. There was a massage table, a tool rack on the wall of paddles and various other spanking implements, loops on the wall to attach people to, and (for photography, I guess) a lot of outlets. And, offering a smile of encouragement, was big poster of Bettie Page dressed to kill in red leather and smiling like my heart’s desire. So happy to know about this room.

Author photos didn’t take long. I’d dressed in sort of a librarian-ish outfit—pencil skirt and a cute black and white cardigan, my favorite ribbon necklace. Also, fishnets and heels for no particular reason. I liked it when I took off my glasses and he told me I have beautiful eyes. Things started to get less author photo-y when I was standing in a doorway that happened to have a pair of bondage cuffs hanging down. He asked if I’d like to get in them and I was like “Um, yeah!”

They were fur-lined. “I like my subs to feel comfortable when I torture them.” It was hard to imagine feeling tortured, I was so darn happy. I never do too well at looking trapped and helpless because I’m generally so pleased about being restrained. I tend to have a big smile across my face when I’m in situations like this—not that I’m in many situations like this!

Next: A riding crop in my hand, submissive position number one, some musings about some spankings.