Unicorn Stuff Part One: Less Than/Equal To

 

As I tiptoe back into playing/dating life, I have trouble getting my head around that one day. The day I thought I could have The Shy One for a boyfriend and Mrs. Shy One for at least a friend. I can’t overstate the fulfillment I felt in those 24 hours or so. Included. Appreciated. Was it over so quick because I wanted it so badly, because it scared me to death how badly I wanted it? Did I need to sabotage that happiness because it was too much to hope for?

Probably not. Probably what happened is what happened: Her overstep with the writing brought the truth out about my feelings, made the closet of it all more untenable, or made me see that it just was all along. I didn’t know how to make a boundary around my (broken, I hated to admit) heart, but I did know how to fiercely defend the writing. That part seemed clear—if it’s the writing or the cuties, it's got to be the writing.

But I did feel a DEEP fear around the happiness that was them, and only a fraction of that fear (maybe ¾? 5/8?) could be attributed to the present. I do have a unicorn chip on my shoulder. I “knew” I was going to be treated as less-than, vetoed, cast aside. I’m giving myself the assignment to read all my couple-trouble posts and see what exactly is wrong with me.

Confusingly, with The Shy Ones, my trouble wasn’t really with the hierarchy. I was more than ready to defer to the wife-and-kids of it all. I felt honored to put my desires on hold for Ramadan, to, in my own spiritual-not-religious way, submit to something higher. Even/especially since it wasn’t my something, even if the thing I was submitting to was just what time the sun set each day—that’s a lot. I liked letting myself be small, treating his life and his faith with honor and deference—it was one of the most meaningful relationship months of my storied life.

That lovely feeling of letting myself be small, the relief of bowing to him/them metaphorically if not literally, was possible because I felt equal as a human being. I was equally-but-differently valued, adored, and praised. When he momentarily balked at the idea of getting mail from me, that egalitarian feeling began to crack. When he told me I needed to pretend we were just friends if I posted pictures of him on my public feeds, the possibility of any kind of equal footing shattered.

Does that possibility of equal-not-the-same exist? I tried to make it clear to Mrs. Shy One that I knew the right role to occupy, but that I wanted to be seen as a whole person. I begged her not to see me as a threat (I should’ve been saying all this to him, I’m so sorry.) but I absolutely was a threat.

If I’d been allowed/allowed myself to love as much as I wanted to love him/them and if by some miracle he/they felt that big love back, all of our lives would have had to grow and change. They were years and years away from that kind of expansion, if ever.

In these lonely-then-less-so couple of weeks, I’ve asked myself over and over why I couldn’t fit, why being out of the closet with him was so important, why the deal broke when I really, REALLY didn’t want it to.

“I want my heart to be free.” I said, and I have compassion for myself about that, but what does it even MEAN? What good is a free heart when I’ve lost someone(s) so dear? I guess that’s what I aim to find out.

Knotty Thursday: Woven Corset and I Heart Dating Myself!

 

I had a very hot night with myself (Some important strategically-placed knots definitely aren't in the picture!) but the most special moment happened as I was turning off Downton Abbey and heading upstairs with my Complete Book of Knots and a half-finished glass of wine. A thought, clear as a bell: "I love you." Directed at myself!

Dating myself is often a tangle of frustrations and impatience, but it's beautiful to have the self-love proclaimed so clearly! Especially given that my brain isn't always cooperative with the good thoughts. This was so real and sincere, it felt like a big milestone!

I started from this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hoZhA9Xd6Rs and I think I did a pretty good job! The weaving could've been much prettier, but I started to have trouble concentrating toward the end.

And! I had a lovely and sweet at-least-a-friend to text the photos to after! I'll tell you his nickname once we meet in person.

So yeah. Though my heart is still full of The Shy Ones, I'm happy to be talking to a few potential rope pals. Where there is cuteness, there is hope.

Knotty Thursday: True Lover's Knot.

 

A dramatically named knot for a heartache week. I miss The Shy One so, so badly. I'm at the part of heartbreak where I question every choice I made that led me away from him. Where I wonder if there'll ever be anyone(s) so special again. The fancy teacup. The daily pictures of flowers. His sweet face. The month of sunsets. The kisses.

I've started flirting again, because it cheers me up to picture putting new cuties into my ropes, but I'm not sure what I can/should ask for. The Shy One told me I had every right to ask for what I need, but there's nothing in the universe that gives me the right to find it. I may never find it. I know I've had three good romances and some hot playpals in the past year, but each heartbreak still feels like it must've been my last chance.

All that aside though, I had a lovely time with myself last night. I started from two True Lover's knots and ended up with this harness. I love the way the colors go together, especially since these are the ropes I ordered after my first date with This Charming Man--it was a treat to see and feel that harmony, even/especially two loves later.

Goodbye to The Shy Ones

(art's a Rumi quote)
Time for me to take a little rest in the praise ocean.

My desire to love and be loved by them, whether it was the platonic love that I was just beginning to feel for her or someday being able to be loved by both of them, was so powerful as to be unmanageable. It was so big I couldn’t even see it until I’d started to let it go. I knew (Or was afraid I knew, it amounts to the same in the end) that it was too big a want, too feral a need to fit into their lives as they’re constructed. I was so scared of that big desire. It felt like Kaiju want, Godzilla love. If I was a movie, you’d have to pretend the buildings had been evacuated before they got smashed. This is a terrible way to see myself, I’d like to change it.

Maybe Mrs. Shy One felt that fear too, because when I, last Friday, the day after all the texting joy, asked her permission to blog about her, she decided I needed to check with her every time I thought of writing about her. From potential friend and metamour to editor, just like that. For the sake of “healthy boundaries,” for “honesty and transparency.” (LADY. You pretend your girlfriend is just a friend on your socials. Your husband asked me to do the same. Come ON.)

Mrs. Shy One reaching out to grab my writing process was, to me, the exact opposite of healthy boundaries. To put it in Downton speak, she was putting her oar in. It was clear to me that the only boundary she/they cared about was the one around me.

The bottom dropped out from the whole plan then, and I saw the situation for what it was, for what I was. To keep playing with The Shy One, I needed to be controlled. Managed. Shrunk or at least stunted. Even, my now-panicking brain added, snuffed.

The box I’d agreed to, their affable and understandable closet, was not going to stop shrinking around me.

The part that was absolutely NOT her fault is that I felt completely submissive about the two of them. I knew that they probably didn’t mean to try and control me, but I felt helpless, without a voice to negotiate. I did have a voice. The so-big-I-couldn’t-even-see-it desire combined with the submissiveness I couldn’t talk through without crying, made it feel impossible to listen to them or advocate for myself. It shouldn’t have been impossible, I know. My body was telling me that the options were to fall at her feet or flee.

So I fled. More accurately, I blocked both of their numbers so I could stop crying long enough to get through my workday and get at least a little bit of the story into paragraphs.

The next day, seeing where the paragraphs were going and not wanting to break things off via blog post, I asked The Shy One to come over or call. He couldn’t do either, he said, so we broke up by text. I told him the closet feels bad, that I want them to be exactly them and exactly where they are, but that I just didn’t fit.

He was just as kind. He told me I deserve to love without guardrails or artificial limits. That made me feel appreciated for who I am, and not Godzillalike at all.

I know there’ll always be guardrails and limits because humans are involved and nobody needs to be falling off a cliff.

I’m sure I’ll have more to say about him, and I know I’ve got lots of Unicorn Stuff to paragraph out, but for now I’m just sad, grateful and quiet. I don’t think it’s kind or helpful to compare myself to Godzilla, but for now I’m happy to be back in the sea, at rest.

 

Texts With Mrs. Shy One: A Burst of Uncomplicated Joy

 

The Fourth Date Tears happened last Tuesday night. I woke up the next morning at five, antsy and bereft—of course I called BFF-Formerly-Sweetie. She was kinder than I deserved about having her last hour of sleep stolen. BFFFS said it sounded pretty clear that I wanted to break things off with The Shy One, but she was wrong, I didn’t. I fell back asleep after we talked and woke up with a completely flipped perspective.

Why should I reject him for not being out as poly? Our lives are so vastly different. Yes, outness is a thing I’ve worked and cried and given up social capital for, but it’s also built out of privilege. I have so much more leeway to move around in the world with my (mostly) fuck-off-if-you-don’t-like-it attitude. It seemed mean and against my values to fault a Black, immigrant, religious family for not being as comfortably publicly slutty as I am.

Most importantly, I knew that even though he’d asked me to be untruthful about our relationship, he did care for me very much. He’d been one of the most generous, kind, and loving partners I’ve had, so why should I let this mismatched aspect, however important, decide the whole thing?

So, another few days of good mornings, pretty flower photos, and sweet-if-guarded-on-his-part attention. Another rope design.

And THEN. Oh choir of angels! Oh butterfly swarm of happiness, Mrs. Shy One reached out and we made friends over text! I felt a flood of sure, ecstatic well-being. I copied her and put a crown on my Bitmoji (Hers is fancy and regal, mine is flowers) We bonded about being on Team Bi and about the general difficulty of girlfriends.

I felt so situated and so welcomed into their lives just from that little while of texting. She told me that The Shy One was smitten with me, that I mattered to her because I mattered to him a lot.

I felt so shiny and lucky and tuned-into-the-universe after that. I apologized to both of them for being so defensive on Tuesday night. I felt hopeful and brave, even ready to put on a full Lady Mary amount of reserve if he wanted me to on public dates. The keep him safe. To serve them. To honor these connections that had miraculously appeared out of the cold internet in a harsh world.

(Ummm I wonder how much less fraught this all would’ve been if I hadn’t been so deep in the Downton Abbey the whole time. Or if I would have cut it off sooner without all the Abbey’s fetishization of reserve.)

There’s one more tearful installment to come, but I’m glad I spent even a little time with that perspective flip. I’m glad to have lived that shining hopeful day of home and welcome. Even though the connection still came undone, I’m glad I pushed myself to change and let them in.

Fourth Date Tears, Part Three

I kind of knew I had to say goodbye, but when we got back to my apartment, I asked him to come up to bed to cuddle. I hoped, like I always hoped in these moments, that the warmth and attraction would fix things, might help me ease open my snapped-shut heart.

He sat with his back against the bed frame and I cried into his lap, big gulping not-cute sobs. We both kept apologizing, a tangle of apologies, a squeezing spiderweb of apologies.

In moments like this, I feel so far from the role I’m supposed to be playing, the easy, sexy playful person I could be before I asked the outness question, when I was sure I had a place in his world. When I was hopeful and free.

I figured if I had to let him go, I might as well let him know how I feel. I looked into his sweet face and said “You know I already love you, right?”

Saying it gave me a wisp of relief, a relaxing of all my tiiiiiiired holding-back-feelings muscles. I think two months is a reasonable “I love you” time, but I still felt dangerous, radioactive with need and want and wishes.

He didn’t say it back, but he was kind. He smiled down into my sniffling, sheepish face and said “Isn’t it good to love people?” That smile.

I did try to say goodbye then. I said, “I have to let you go.” But he took that to mean just timewise and said, “Why? It’s barely eleven?”

“That’s not what I meant, “I said, but I let him settle back into bed after his time-checking. The saying goodbye would’ve been easier if it hadn’t been for the kissing.

“Do you want to look for that other person?” He asked.

“I guess I don’t really have a choice.”

“Do you want me to be with you while you look? The most important thing is to be your friend, but I can be more if you want me.”

“I want you,” I said, and then his hand was under my dress, resting on top of my long-wet undies and then sliding his fingers underneath. I was breathless with want. I wanted him to hold me there like that forever, open and warm, together.

I asked him to fuck me and he did, leaving the dress on, sliding into me slow and sweet, smiling big as he reached over me to close the window so I could go ahead and scream.

Except. Also. I grabbed his hand and placed it over my mouth, careful not to cut off breath but relaxing into the dominance. It felt good, a relief and a release, but also I wanted to tame myself to him. I wanted to make myself still, soothe all my hesitation, be his in whatever way he had room for. I wanted to be the right girl.

Midnight came too fast and I pulled him back to me a few more times before letting him go. I asked if I was still his girlfriend and he said yes. We had plans to go to an art installation on Saturday. We said goodnight and I felt desperate, lonely and lost.

Fourth Date Tears: Part Two

In my neighborhood, there’s a little woods. I don’t get to walk there in the daytime too much because people let their dogs off leash and then I get mad at the people with the dogs off leash and then I feel like a monster.

They’re really pretty woods though, lit enough by the edge-of-city light that we didn’t need a flashlight. I steered The Shy One through, wishing I could feel the romance of the moment. Instead, the leashless dogs info came out, and I felt truly lost about how to be human.

“I’m sad, I said. “I want to be a real girlfriend. I want to be free. I want my heart to be free to go where it wants.” (I’m sure I didn’t say it this articulately.)

It’s been too many tears already in such a new connection, that’s for sure. He held me there, in the middle of the little woods, crying onto his shirt, both of us sorrying again and again.

“Are you still dating?” He asked, as I was wiping my face and starting up the path again.

It’s probably unfair, but my heart broke some more. I remember this feeling. I HATE this feeling—the feeling of not being fast enough, poly enough, TAKEN enough to be a safe bet. I don’t think that’s what he was saying, but I felt pushed to move on from him, whether we broke things off or not.

I haven’t been dating for a little while. Even during Ramadan when we were confined to texts and calls, he felt like a lot. He felt like enough. I’ve been working on a local primary campaign, building up my business for summer, and spending as much friend time and taking-pictures-of-flowers time as I can. Getting settled in with The Shy One and getting ready to meet Mrs. Shy One was a lot on top of all that. It wasn’t that I was suddenly monogamous, it’s just that people take time  for me to learn, especially when I really like them.

In the grief that was layering itself onto the evening, the not-dating felt like another way I was failing him, failing them by not having enough chill, not feeling able to sink into the warmth of Things As They Are, feeling like I was both too much and not enough.

The little woods has a kiosk where I like to put street art, woods art I guess, it always stays up a long time there. The Shy One held my bag while I tidied the old art and put up some new.

The story of The Good Boy came out after that, as unwelcome as my petty ramblings about the leashless dogs. (It’s an important bird area, people!) I felt wretched and stupid and not-nice, unable to find my way to the present with the beautiful man next to me, who seemed devoted to me in his own way, who, if I wanted (at least for a few hours) wasn’t going anywhere. I really wanted my body and spirit to stop hovering with heartbreak and panic. I wanted to come down to earth and be with him. I wanted to be with him.