Jefferson had set me up with a 25-year old he’d been fooling around with. He’d emailed me the link to a story featuring Aaron in Time Out New York. I read the article. “Has he been rehabilitated?” I asked Jefferson, then told him he could give Aaron my email address.
Aaron sent me an amusing email and his spelling was fine, so I was inclined to meet him, even though I hadn’t seen his photo. When Jefferson suggests something I generally do it — he’s my excuse to do kinda reckless things that often turn out surprisingly well. And, until I was waiting for him at the bar where we’d agreed to meet, I didn’t even feel nervous. Am I becoming blasé? I think the fact that he was 25 and clearly able to construct a joke reassured me.
The thing is, he lives in Dean’s neighborhood. The bar we met in was two blocks from Dean’s apartment. In fact, I’d had dinner here with Dean not too long ago (we meet for dinner. We make out. He tries to feel me up; I tell him to cut it out. You get the idea. More on this another time). My sense of place is very strong — one thing I never do in this blog is identify neighborhoods. I think I once indicated that Jeremy lived on the East Side, but that’s not even true. I feel like your NYC neighborhood is a very important clue to your identity. For instance, before I met Jefferson I guessed where he lived without much effort. I even narrowed down his former neighborhood with his ex and kids. Anyway, I was on Dean’s turf, a turf I’d been familiar with for most of my life, and one I thought was particularly suited to the life I wanted to live, and thought I might live, with Dean. That is: a settled, married life with a couple of kids and a co-op. I was half afraid I’d run into Dean, though we’d never been to this bar together.
Aaron was almost on time and just a little bit taller than I am. He wore jeans and a boiled wool blazer and the hipster style black-framed rectangular specs I find so irresistible. I thought Aaron was pretty cute, even without the specs.
And smart and nice. And, as it turned out, a native New Yorker (always a plus). I asked him where he went to high school, he told me, and, without thinking I said, “Oh, do you know Eric Martin?” Since my friend Polly’s brother went to the same high shool and is about his age.
Aaron frowned. “I think he was in my class. How do you know him?”
Oh God: “I used to baby sit him.”
We both sniggered, me a little self-consciously. Note to self: do not say the first thing that occurs to you. Polly’s brother was a bright, talkative kid. I saw him last year at Polly’s wedding. He’s married now, like almost everyone I seem to come across these days. He grew up nice.
We finished our drinks. “Would you like to come over?” He asked. Where was my sense of fear, of self-preservation? Nowhere to be found: “OK,” I said gamely. I was completely at ease in Aaron’s presence. We bought a bottle of wine and headed to his place. I’d walked past his building many times on my way from Dean’s place to the subway.
Aaron had a nice apartment — the building and neighborhood would have suggested he was an older, more financially established professional. His largish studio overlooked a park across the street. There were no shades on the windows. He put on some music and settled on the couch. There was a pile of Time Out New Yorks on the sofa. “Oh that one’s old,” Aaron said, a little self consciously. “I kept it cause I’m in it.”
I didn’t want to tell him I’d read all about the coming without warning and the mood music fiasco. “Really?” I said. “Wow.”
On the sofa we sat near each other, and I went so far as to slip off my shoes (mules anyway), but I wasn’t going to make the first move. My boldness apparently extends to going home with guys I’ve just met but no further. Taking the initiative on the first kiss? Never! Eventually Aaron leaned in and we sat there, making out. Nice.
It helped that it was a studio with a big bed in the center so it wasn’t an awkward trip to the bed. I excused myself to pee and when I came back his kiss had a mouthwash-y taste. He’d used Binaca! So cute. Also unnecessary. I hate the metallic alcohol tang.
He lay on top of me and as we kissed I peeled off most of my clothes; he followed. As his tongue slipped towards my nipple I lifted my head from the pillow: “I don’t sleep with guys on the first date.” I mean, I have, but in general I don’t. Not at the moment, anyway.
“That’s OK,” he said, and turned his head back to my body. His tongue slid rapidly down. I wriggled out of my underwear, as did he. Then he levered himself between my thighs and put his face close to my pussy, like he was inhaling me, which I guess he was. Then his tongue began to slowly circle my clit, starting with my outer lips and then moving to the fleshy plateau (I can’t write mons pubis in a sex blog) above. His tongue dripped inward. I swallowed, my pussy pulsing. Aaron looked up at me and grinned. When his tongue reached my clit I sighed aloud, straining my hips towards his soft mouth. I felt like I was sinking into the mattress.
While he ate me, he shook his head back and forth, pressing his face to either side of my cunt, like a dog shaking water from his coat. Like he couldn’t get enough. I stroked his hair.
This went on for a while. I thought he might feel compelled to make me come, which I knew was unlikely. “Hey,” I said at last. He looked up sleepily from my thighs. “Don’t feel obligated to keep going,” I said awkwardly. “I never come from oral sex.” Anyway, I wanted to go down on him.
“I like this,” Aaron said, his voice muffled. He went back to eating my pussy. Well, who was I to argue?
SIDEBAR
I think I’ve come from oral sex once. This is funny. In mid 2003, prior my career as a slut, I went on a date with this guy Marco. He was Brazilian. We met for coffee, and then agreed to dinner. I went to his apartment kind of wondering at myself – I was going to a strange man’s apartment! I don’t even like him that much! What was I doing?
Marco was staying in a small apartment with the sort of modular blond wood-and-fiberboard matching furniture you see in your better college dorms. We ate dinner, started to watch a movie on his laptop, then started fooling around on his extra long twin bed.
Anyway. He went down on me and his tongue was so light and fast. I have no idea what he did, maybe some secret Brazilian tongue trick, but I came, to my great surprise. Then I got him off and we tried to sleep in the narrow bed. When I left in the morning I knew I would never see him again, and I was relieved. But to this day whenever a guy goes down on me, I usually murmur “Um, faster… lighter…” at some point during the proceedings.
SIDEBAR ENDS
Eventually Aaron got on his back and I straddled him. “You could sit on my face,” he suggested. I’d never really thought about it but sit on my face definitely had a dirty, euphemistic quality that I really liked. I mean, got me hot. I pictured myself literally sitting on his face, grinding myself against his eager mouth. But wait: “I want to get you off,” I announced.
So it was my turn to slide my tongue down the landscape of his body, making pit stops to lick the mountain of his nipples, kiss the valley of his bellybutton. Then I scooted down between his legs and moved my tongue across the scoop between the veins in his inner thigh. I licked him.
He had a nice dick. I trailed my fingers up and down, then moved my mouth around the head. Aaron stretched closer. I did as I’ve been instructed by various guys: a firm hand at the base, tongue on the sensitive bit under the head, rapid up-and-down strokes with my hand and mouth. To no avail. He wasn’t hard. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked at last.
“Um,” said Aaron politely. “You could hold my dick a little tighter. You know, squeeze it.”
I obliged and his dick stiffened right away. I grinned and sucked on his cock some more, my mouth and hand pulling at his cock, now properly engorged. Very soon Aaron gasped, “I’m going to come,” (I guess that Time Out New York lesson had taken). Then his come spurted out at me while I leaned over him, enjoying his expression. Our eyes met, and I brushed my breasts against his cock, and stomach, then rubbed it on my tits. I licked a drop off his dick.
“Do you want me to lick that off you?” he asked.
Taken aback, I spoke without thinking: “Oh, that’s OK.” But I liked his eagerness, and the implicit salaciousness. Then we settled back against the pillows and made out some more. I turned onto my stomach and he lay against me, bucking slightly. He slid a finger inside me and he moved his hips back and forth so I could feel his dick against my thighs. His dick felt stiff, the skin silky. I felt my pussy start to pulse again, and I reflected that maybe having sex on the first date wasn’t such a bad idea.
But instead we stayed like that, me feeling hot and liquidy. Then we relaxed into not-fooling-around mode and Aaron got a bowl of chocolate ice cream, which I polished off quick. I got the impression he felt chocolate ice cream was the proper food to serve following sexual activity. But I was starving, so we ventured out to a café. We sat at a marble-topped table, and I ate all my granita and most of his chocolate cake. When we left he walked me to the corner, where I hailed a cab.
“I don’t have any more money,” Aaron said. He’d bought the drinks, the wine, and the desserts. I wouldn’t have taken cab fare from him, did he think I expected it? I’m 10 years older, perhaps I should’ve paid for him. Or not. “That’s OK,” I said, nonplussed. We kissed next to the taxi. I got in and as we pulled away I saw him cross the street, his figure illuminated by the streetlamps.
I leaned back against the leather seats of the cab. I was looking forward to fucking him.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Settling In
“Daniel?” I bleated. “I need your help.”
I surveyed my newly painted studio apartment: small, sunny, and mine alone, but currently jammed with cardboard boxes full of books, electronic equipment, clothes, and the Noritake dinner service for 12 that my grandfather bought for his mother in the 1930s, still wrapped in its original quilted cases.
Normally, when I’m overwhelmed I retire to bed with a bar of chocolate and a book. Unfortunately, my bed was currently under a pile of kitchen equipment. I whimpered. “Can you come over?”
Daniel was with his family, but promised to help me settle in during the week. When he turned up two nights later, much of my things were unpacked and put away. Even better, I had bought a bed.
For the past three and a half years I’d been sleeping (and, uh, other things) on a mattress on the floor, since when I’d moved into my last place the box spring wouldn’t fit through the door of the room and I had vowed not to buy another. I had meant to buy a platform bed, but never seemed to have the money or inclination. But now that I’d moved to an apartment with less space than my previous bedroom, I would buy a real, grown up bed. Wood, not metal frame. With a headboard.
When Daniel arrived, I had just ordered a cherry-stained pine bed (when it arrived at first I was puzzled by the antiseptic smell before I realized it was the untreated wood supporting the mattress) with three under-the-bed drawers and a headboard. And it was a bit cheaper than similar ones I’d priced online.
Daniel helped me organize some of my stuff (“Did you your closet door sticks?” he asked, shutting and opening it again. And again. “Don’t you have a night table?”) while I lined the shabby, sawdusty kitchen shelves with paper and tried to find a place for the spices I’d collected. Then I took him to dinner. I was very pleased with myself: I had an editorial job, my own apartment in a shabby chic neighborhood and, should I ever have need of it, a gravy boat (the Noritake service was pretty extensive) plus Daniel, my friend and sometimes sex partner. I remember the halcyon days of late 2006 and early 2007: playing The Settlers of Catan! Vigorous and satisfying sex! Attempts at swing dancing! I would have someone to bring to parties! We could —
“So, Ashley and I are probably going to date exclusively,” Daniel interrupted my reverie.
“Really?” I feigned enthusiasm. “Wow. That sounds great.”
I knew he’d been seeing someone, but I’d gotten the impression he wasn’t that interested in her. At one point, he’d been seeing another woman as well, one he’d seemed very taken with, but now she was dating someone else.
“What about you?” Daniel stabbed a shumai with a chopstick. “Are you interested in anyone?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I’ve decided I want to get married. Did I tell you about my tarot card reading?”
Daniel looked taken aback, as well he might be. I gulped my water. “Well, after Dean and I broke up, I went to see a tarot card reader. And she told me I was going to meet my soul mate within a year, and that he’d be a good dancer, and we’d have children and a swimming pool.”
I’d gone to see this woman in the college town where my writing program was held, less than a week after Dean and I parted at the train station. This woman, who had stringy gray hair and an earnest, hesitant manner, told me a lot of things. After she’d turned over the first card (the Five of Cups), she turned to me and said, “Did someone die?” When, after more sober cards appeared and I admitted that my boyfriend and I had just broken up she said, “Well, you’re not going to get back together.” Which I knew, but still. “He doesn’t want to,” she added. Unecessarily, I thought.
She turned over some more cards. “You haven’t met your soul mate yet.” I loathe that term. I mean, really. I don’t believe that there’s just one man out there for me, my other half, etc. If there’s just one person I’m destined for, what are the odds of us meeting? Isn’t it likely that my soul mate is a Mongolian goat-herder or something? So I prefer to believe it’s about timing, and, the ability to be happy. I like to think I have the latter, though I suspect my timing is off.
But she was a tarot card reader, so maybe soul mates were part of her stock in trade. “You have angel blessings,” she added, pointing to some smiling figures on another card. Needless to say, I don’t believe in angels, either. “You just have t be patient, and have some faith,” she said, pointing to the Two of Swords. She turned over a few more cards and said, “I’m seeing Florida here. Do you ever go to Florida?”
Which tarot card symbolized Florida? “Ummm…” My aunt and uncle live there, but really, how could my soul mate be in Orlando? I imagined my soul mate/the hilariously funny and kind/British/Jewish/independently wealthy/dark-haired/tall/skinny/pediatric oncologist of my dreams somewhere more cosmopolitan. Somewhere with a lower obesity rate.
Then my tarot card reader took out an ephemeris (an astrological/astronomical calendar) and thumbed the pages. “I think you should go to Florida in March,” she said at last. “Sometime between the thirteenth and twenty-seventh.” I wrote this down. Then she told me that me and my soul mate would be very happy together and have several children, which is, of course, exactly what I wanted to hear. Then she told me I should wear a red hat and scarf in the winter.
I related all this to Daniel. “Now I’m supposed to be patient. But I don’t feel patient. I feel very ready.” I ate the last of my teriyaki. “I want to be in a serious, long term relationship. I want to get married.” The domestic and romantic nature of my mostly positive relationship with Dean had confirmed that for me.
Dating, on the other hand, horrified me: Scanning the crowd for a guy who somewhat resembled his photo. The awkward greeting, and the inevitable conversation about pop culture over a drink that I finished too quickly. The uncomfortable feeling that this fella was not very smart/over his ex/thinks I’m plain/doesn’t know how to talk about anything other than himself. The relief when I hug him briefly and say goodbye.
“Aww,” said Daniel. “You’ll meet someone soon.”
I hope so. Cause I don’t want to be that stereotypical single (Jewish) thirtysomething: urban, neurotic, anxious to wed, and unintentionally comic. I hope my comic-ness is always intentional, at least. I’ve always prided myself on being more amusing, more sympathetic, and smarter than average, but most people feel that way about themselves. Maybe my recent sluttiness has been a rebellion against the idea of myself as a Nice Jewish Girl. Or maybe I just like cock.
Anyway. Back at my apartment we repaired to my mattress, now free of books and covered with clean sheets. “I can’t stay tonight,” Daniel said.
“OK.” Daniel and I always spent the night together. Except for the last time, when a rogue bedbug left me covered in bites and I’d called a cab at 2 AM.
We kissed, and I decided to concentrate on the pleasurable feel of his mouth against mine. His breath was warm and sweet, and I nuzzled against the soapy tang of his neck.
I traveled my lips down his torso. When we pulled off our clothes I sighed at the sight of his dick, big and now stiff. I put my nose to his groin. “Daniel,” I said, sort of sultrily, “It’s been so long since I’ve had your dick in my mouth…” I licked the underside of the shaft, then glanced up to see his response. He smiled and lifted his hips. I bent my head and wrapped my mouth around his dick. He was so big and firm, it was a nice, filling sensation.
After I’d sucked and licked for a while, I remembered something: Daniel’s not very aggressive. I cleared my throat: “You want to fuck me?” this being about as dominant as I get.
“Sure,” Daniel smiled — or smirked — and I marveled at how easily Daniel and his dick respond to my demands.
He put on a condom and dabbed a little lube on my clit. I straddled him, arched my back, and tried to angle myself so that I could sit down right on his dick. “Aah,” I said as I felt his dick push up against my hole. I bent forward a bit, settling down. “How’s that?” I looked at Daniel. “Is that good?”
“That’s great.”
I rocked a little, trying to find the right spot… there. I rocked some more. “Like that?” I panted. “Hmmm?” I thrust my tits at his mouth: “Lick my nipples.” Daniel obliged. I watched him lap at my nipples, his eyes closed. “I love watching you suck my tits,” I gasped, cause frankly I think it is really hot.
It didn’t take much for me to come, and after a minute or so watching of Daniel’s eager tongue, I shuddered to a stop and sunk against his chest.
After a minute (“Thank you.” “My pleasure!”) Daniel pulled out, and sat up. He gestured for me to do the same.
Daniel crossed his legs and I sat in his lap, my legs wrapped around his waist swung. I don’t think I’d ever fucked Dean like this … and suddenly I remembered fucking Daniel in my old apartment, just like this, the two of us pleased with our athletic (and, we thought, possibly tantric) powers. Just like before, I could feel Daniel’s deep up inside me, poking me in the abdomen, it felt like. “Hey,” I said. “I can feel you right here.” Daniel smirked.
After a minute he slipped out and I slid onto my back. I fixed my eyes on his and breathed deeply as he pushed inside me once again. “Are you going to come for me?” I asked, like I always ask. He thrust faster.
“You wanted that?” I scraped my fingernails across his back — Dean loved this, it was guaranteed to raise a pleased shudder — but did Daniel? I couldn’t remember. I dragged my nails down his side, beneath his armpits. “Come on, Daniel.”
“Ahhh,” he grunted, his body stuttering. I looked at him but his gaze was fixed over my shoulder. With a “Nhuh!” his breathing changed, and he collapsed against me.
We lay with my head against his shoulder, and his arms around me. Very familiar and comfortable. So familiar and comfortable, apparently, that after a minute I heard Daniel’s breathing deepen; he had dozed off. I rested my cheek against his chest, and waited for him to wake up.
I surveyed my newly painted studio apartment: small, sunny, and mine alone, but currently jammed with cardboard boxes full of books, electronic equipment, clothes, and the Noritake dinner service for 12 that my grandfather bought for his mother in the 1930s, still wrapped in its original quilted cases.
Normally, when I’m overwhelmed I retire to bed with a bar of chocolate and a book. Unfortunately, my bed was currently under a pile of kitchen equipment. I whimpered. “Can you come over?”
Daniel was with his family, but promised to help me settle in during the week. When he turned up two nights later, much of my things were unpacked and put away. Even better, I had bought a bed.
For the past three and a half years I’d been sleeping (and, uh, other things) on a mattress on the floor, since when I’d moved into my last place the box spring wouldn’t fit through the door of the room and I had vowed not to buy another. I had meant to buy a platform bed, but never seemed to have the money or inclination. But now that I’d moved to an apartment with less space than my previous bedroom, I would buy a real, grown up bed. Wood, not metal frame. With a headboard.
When Daniel arrived, I had just ordered a cherry-stained pine bed (when it arrived at first I was puzzled by the antiseptic smell before I realized it was the untreated wood supporting the mattress) with three under-the-bed drawers and a headboard. And it was a bit cheaper than similar ones I’d priced online.
Daniel helped me organize some of my stuff (“Did you your closet door sticks?” he asked, shutting and opening it again. And again. “Don’t you have a night table?”) while I lined the shabby, sawdusty kitchen shelves with paper and tried to find a place for the spices I’d collected. Then I took him to dinner. I was very pleased with myself: I had an editorial job, my own apartment in a shabby chic neighborhood and, should I ever have need of it, a gravy boat (the Noritake service was pretty extensive) plus Daniel, my friend and sometimes sex partner. I remember the halcyon days of late 2006 and early 2007: playing The Settlers of Catan! Vigorous and satisfying sex! Attempts at swing dancing! I would have someone to bring to parties! We could —
“So, Ashley and I are probably going to date exclusively,” Daniel interrupted my reverie.
“Really?” I feigned enthusiasm. “Wow. That sounds great.”
I knew he’d been seeing someone, but I’d gotten the impression he wasn’t that interested in her. At one point, he’d been seeing another woman as well, one he’d seemed very taken with, but now she was dating someone else.
“What about you?” Daniel stabbed a shumai with a chopstick. “Are you interested in anyone?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I’ve decided I want to get married. Did I tell you about my tarot card reading?”
Daniel looked taken aback, as well he might be. I gulped my water. “Well, after Dean and I broke up, I went to see a tarot card reader. And she told me I was going to meet my soul mate within a year, and that he’d be a good dancer, and we’d have children and a swimming pool.”
I’d gone to see this woman in the college town where my writing program was held, less than a week after Dean and I parted at the train station. This woman, who had stringy gray hair and an earnest, hesitant manner, told me a lot of things. After she’d turned over the first card (the Five of Cups), she turned to me and said, “Did someone die?” When, after more sober cards appeared and I admitted that my boyfriend and I had just broken up she said, “Well, you’re not going to get back together.” Which I knew, but still. “He doesn’t want to,” she added. Unecessarily, I thought.
She turned over some more cards. “You haven’t met your soul mate yet.” I loathe that term. I mean, really. I don’t believe that there’s just one man out there for me, my other half, etc. If there’s just one person I’m destined for, what are the odds of us meeting? Isn’t it likely that my soul mate is a Mongolian goat-herder or something? So I prefer to believe it’s about timing, and, the ability to be happy. I like to think I have the latter, though I suspect my timing is off.
But she was a tarot card reader, so maybe soul mates were part of her stock in trade. “You have angel blessings,” she added, pointing to some smiling figures on another card. Needless to say, I don’t believe in angels, either. “You just have t be patient, and have some faith,” she said, pointing to the Two of Swords. She turned over a few more cards and said, “I’m seeing Florida here. Do you ever go to Florida?”
Which tarot card symbolized Florida? “Ummm…” My aunt and uncle live there, but really, how could my soul mate be in Orlando? I imagined my soul mate/the hilariously funny and kind/British/Jewish/independently wealthy/dark-haired/tall/skinny/pediatric oncologist of my dreams somewhere more cosmopolitan. Somewhere with a lower obesity rate.
Then my tarot card reader took out an ephemeris (an astrological/astronomical calendar) and thumbed the pages. “I think you should go to Florida in March,” she said at last. “Sometime between the thirteenth and twenty-seventh.” I wrote this down. Then she told me that me and my soul mate would be very happy together and have several children, which is, of course, exactly what I wanted to hear. Then she told me I should wear a red hat and scarf in the winter.
I related all this to Daniel. “Now I’m supposed to be patient. But I don’t feel patient. I feel very ready.” I ate the last of my teriyaki. “I want to be in a serious, long term relationship. I want to get married.” The domestic and romantic nature of my mostly positive relationship with Dean had confirmed that for me.
Dating, on the other hand, horrified me: Scanning the crowd for a guy who somewhat resembled his photo. The awkward greeting, and the inevitable conversation about pop culture over a drink that I finished too quickly. The uncomfortable feeling that this fella was not very smart/over his ex/thinks I’m plain/doesn’t know how to talk about anything other than himself. The relief when I hug him briefly and say goodbye.
“Aww,” said Daniel. “You’ll meet someone soon.”
I hope so. Cause I don’t want to be that stereotypical single (Jewish) thirtysomething: urban, neurotic, anxious to wed, and unintentionally comic. I hope my comic-ness is always intentional, at least. I’ve always prided myself on being more amusing, more sympathetic, and smarter than average, but most people feel that way about themselves. Maybe my recent sluttiness has been a rebellion against the idea of myself as a Nice Jewish Girl. Or maybe I just like cock.
Anyway. Back at my apartment we repaired to my mattress, now free of books and covered with clean sheets. “I can’t stay tonight,” Daniel said.
“OK.” Daniel and I always spent the night together. Except for the last time, when a rogue bedbug left me covered in bites and I’d called a cab at 2 AM.
We kissed, and I decided to concentrate on the pleasurable feel of his mouth against mine. His breath was warm and sweet, and I nuzzled against the soapy tang of his neck.
I traveled my lips down his torso. When we pulled off our clothes I sighed at the sight of his dick, big and now stiff. I put my nose to his groin. “Daniel,” I said, sort of sultrily, “It’s been so long since I’ve had your dick in my mouth…” I licked the underside of the shaft, then glanced up to see his response. He smiled and lifted his hips. I bent my head and wrapped my mouth around his dick. He was so big and firm, it was a nice, filling sensation.
After I’d sucked and licked for a while, I remembered something: Daniel’s not very aggressive. I cleared my throat: “You want to fuck me?” this being about as dominant as I get.
“Sure,” Daniel smiled — or smirked — and I marveled at how easily Daniel and his dick respond to my demands.
He put on a condom and dabbed a little lube on my clit. I straddled him, arched my back, and tried to angle myself so that I could sit down right on his dick. “Aah,” I said as I felt his dick push up against my hole. I bent forward a bit, settling down. “How’s that?” I looked at Daniel. “Is that good?”
“That’s great.”
I rocked a little, trying to find the right spot… there. I rocked some more. “Like that?” I panted. “Hmmm?” I thrust my tits at his mouth: “Lick my nipples.” Daniel obliged. I watched him lap at my nipples, his eyes closed. “I love watching you suck my tits,” I gasped, cause frankly I think it is really hot.
It didn’t take much for me to come, and after a minute or so watching of Daniel’s eager tongue, I shuddered to a stop and sunk against his chest.
After a minute (“Thank you.” “My pleasure!”) Daniel pulled out, and sat up. He gestured for me to do the same.
Daniel crossed his legs and I sat in his lap, my legs wrapped around his waist swung. I don’t think I’d ever fucked Dean like this … and suddenly I remembered fucking Daniel in my old apartment, just like this, the two of us pleased with our athletic (and, we thought, possibly tantric) powers. Just like before, I could feel Daniel’s deep up inside me, poking me in the abdomen, it felt like. “Hey,” I said. “I can feel you right here.” Daniel smirked.
After a minute he slipped out and I slid onto my back. I fixed my eyes on his and breathed deeply as he pushed inside me once again. “Are you going to come for me?” I asked, like I always ask. He thrust faster.
“You wanted that?” I scraped my fingernails across his back — Dean loved this, it was guaranteed to raise a pleased shudder — but did Daniel? I couldn’t remember. I dragged my nails down his side, beneath his armpits. “Come on, Daniel.”
“Ahhh,” he grunted, his body stuttering. I looked at him but his gaze was fixed over my shoulder. With a “Nhuh!” his breathing changed, and he collapsed against me.
We lay with my head against his shoulder, and his arms around me. Very familiar and comfortable. So familiar and comfortable, apparently, that after a minute I heard Daniel’s breathing deepen; he had dozed off. I rested my cheek against his chest, and waited for him to wake up.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
A Return to Form
When I arrived Sweetheart Daniel was engrossed in a solo game of Rock Band. “I see you’re rehearsing,” I said.
I myself have never been a video game player, though I can happily waste hours on computer solitaire. Not to mention minesweeper, which always inspires me to belt “MineSWEEPER! It’s the GAME, the game with the SWEEPING TOUCH!” in my best Shirley Bassey contralto.
I don’t understand the appeal of Rock Band—why not just learn the guitar? It can’t be harder than trying to keep up with those colored lights. … This is probably why I don’t actually play video games. But this is right up Daniel’s alley, along with comic books and cereals that turn your tongue blue. Once he told me without a trace of shame that he was “really looking forward to the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie.” But anyway.
We cooked dinner, then settled on the sofa to watch a movie. He put his arm around my shoulder, and we sat close together, with my hand on his leg.
When it was done, Daniel stood up, stretched, and said, “So do you have to go soon?”
“Uh,” I said. I averted my eyes. I looked like I was pouting, but really I was just mortified.
I had been planning to sleep with Daniel. But apparently my would-be partner had not read my mind, forcing me to have to proposition him. Daniel caught my eye and was unable to conceal a smirk. “I mean,” he said, and moved towards me.
I slumped back onto the sofa. “I can go,” I offered sulkily.
“No, don’t go, I just didn’t want to assume.”
I rubbed my hand over my forehead theatrically, to hide my embarrassment. “Well, I was thinking of breaking my fast,” I admitted finally. Then I mentally kicked myself for speaking in euphemisms, which I detest.
Daniel sat down and put his arms around me. I buried my face in his neck. Oh, his neck! When we were dating it was like catnip for me, this irreducible mix of pheromones and soap and sweat. But now, from lack of contact, I was sensitive to what I suspected was Irish Spring and something else I couldn’t identify. The smell, though nice, was no longer familiar: I was used to Dean’s smell.
“I don’t know if I can kiss you,” I mumbled. I was eager to have sex with Daniel, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready for kissing. Was my body free, but my lips still attached (metaphorically speaking) to Dean?
“That’s OK,” said Daniel, who is always accommodating. He touched his lips to my cheek, then stood up and tugged my arm. “Come on,” he said, and led me down the hall.
In his bedroom we lay next to one another on the bed we’d had so much sex in, played so many games of Guillotine. On one hand, I was nervous. I hadn’t had sex with anyone but Dean in almost a year, and I hadn’t had sex at all in over two months. On the other hand, Daniel always makes me comfortable and happy. So I cuddled up in his arms. And because he smelled so nice and has such a lean, strong chest and is so Daniel, soon enough my mouth found his skin and his hands slipped inside my shirt. And my lips roved across his chest and I realized that I was free to kiss whomever I liked after all.
I tentatively nipped his lips. He tentatively nipped back. I like this teasing; it gives me time to get turned on. I dislike it when a guy goes right for my tonsils or tries to vacuum my tongue, it takes all the anticipation out of it. Also, being mauled by a marauding mouth (dig the alliteration!) doesn’t feel good. But the tentative kissing was effective, and after a moment I opened my mouth and slipped my tongue inside his.
It felt great.
We climbed out of our clothes like it hadn’t been 18 months since we’d been naked together. Lying on the bed, my hand slipped down his torso and onto his dick; his fingers found my clit. It was so familiar: Daniel’s bed, his skin, the noises he made, the quickness of my response. I sighed and rubbed his dick. Gosh, he’s big. I mean, I knew that, it’s not like I had forgotten the fact, but my senses were surprised to stretch my hand around his girth, to trail my fingers along the length.
We fooled around for a while.
He lifted his eyebrows at me and I nodded. After he fitted the condom on his dick I straddled him. When his dick poked at me I felt pushed open in a way I hadn’t been pushed open in, well, two months. My cunt resisted before slipping open, slowly, against him. “Ooooh,” I said, not very eloquently.
Our eyes met. “Is that good?” I prompted.
He smiled. “That’s great.”
I rocked against him, getting used to the big bluntness of him inside me. I rode up and down his dick, trying to keep my breathing even. He felt solid and heavy and deep inside me.
The bed creaked. I remembered how Daniel’s bed had always squeaked when we had sex; it was a sort of boasting bed. Wendy (Daniel’s then roommate, that’s how I met her) told me that she and Daniel’s other roommate had once applauded us, we were so noisy (and, evidently, riveting). Anyway.
I lowered myself against him so we were chest to chest, and we kissed some more. The room was warm and dark and we were so close all I was aware of was his skin, his close-together dark eyes and brown-black sideburns, his pale collarbone.
My legs started to twitch, which is a prelude to orgasm for me, but I wanted to make it last (it had been a while, after all), so I slowed myself down.
This was a mistake, because soon enough I wanted to come, but I couldn’t. My legs shook (“I like it when you quiver,” Daniel whispered, grinning) and I felt the frantic tension build all along my groin and thighs and abdomen, but I couldn’t quite get over into the delicious completeness of orgasm. After a bit I abandoned my attempt, and indicated to Daniel that he could give it a whirl. As it were.
We tried to maneuver ourselves so that he could flip me onto my back while staying inside of me, but this proved too acrobatic, so he slid out of me for a sec and I leaned against the pillows, pleasantly drained.
Then Daniel loomed up over me and slid inside me once again. I pushed up against him and met his eyes: “You want to come?” I breathed. “Hmmm?”
He bore down on me and smiled, absently, as he pumped at me. After a minute his body sped up, and twitched, so I encouraged him: “You going to come for me, Daniel? You going to come?”
He face looked fierce and private, and after a minute, he came. Some deep breaths later he shifted out of me, and I slid onto my side, into the fetal position. Daniel curled up next to me. “That was nice,” I murmured.
He clutched me to him and kissed my forehead. I felt this wash of relief: relief that I’d been able to have sex and to enjoy it so thoroughly; that my sadness at my breakup with Dean had not consigned me to a sex-free ghetto; that I was (apparently) capable of having healthy, casual sex; all that stuff.
Daniel put an arm around me and I snuggled up against him. His heartbeat steadied to normal, and I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder. When he turned out the light I lay in the dark, not sleepy, but thinking about where I had been, and where I was headed.
I myself have never been a video game player, though I can happily waste hours on computer solitaire. Not to mention minesweeper, which always inspires me to belt “MineSWEEPER! It’s the GAME, the game with the SWEEPING TOUCH!” in my best Shirley Bassey contralto.
I don’t understand the appeal of Rock Band—why not just learn the guitar? It can’t be harder than trying to keep up with those colored lights. … This is probably why I don’t actually play video games. But this is right up Daniel’s alley, along with comic books and cereals that turn your tongue blue. Once he told me without a trace of shame that he was “really looking forward to the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie.” But anyway.
We cooked dinner, then settled on the sofa to watch a movie. He put his arm around my shoulder, and we sat close together, with my hand on his leg.
When it was done, Daniel stood up, stretched, and said, “So do you have to go soon?”
“Uh,” I said. I averted my eyes. I looked like I was pouting, but really I was just mortified.
I had been planning to sleep with Daniel. But apparently my would-be partner had not read my mind, forcing me to have to proposition him. Daniel caught my eye and was unable to conceal a smirk. “I mean,” he said, and moved towards me.
I slumped back onto the sofa. “I can go,” I offered sulkily.
“No, don’t go, I just didn’t want to assume.”
I rubbed my hand over my forehead theatrically, to hide my embarrassment. “Well, I was thinking of breaking my fast,” I admitted finally. Then I mentally kicked myself for speaking in euphemisms, which I detest.
Daniel sat down and put his arms around me. I buried my face in his neck. Oh, his neck! When we were dating it was like catnip for me, this irreducible mix of pheromones and soap and sweat. But now, from lack of contact, I was sensitive to what I suspected was Irish Spring and something else I couldn’t identify. The smell, though nice, was no longer familiar: I was used to Dean’s smell.
“I don’t know if I can kiss you,” I mumbled. I was eager to have sex with Daniel, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready for kissing. Was my body free, but my lips still attached (metaphorically speaking) to Dean?
“That’s OK,” said Daniel, who is always accommodating. He touched his lips to my cheek, then stood up and tugged my arm. “Come on,” he said, and led me down the hall.
In his bedroom we lay next to one another on the bed we’d had so much sex in, played so many games of Guillotine. On one hand, I was nervous. I hadn’t had sex with anyone but Dean in almost a year, and I hadn’t had sex at all in over two months. On the other hand, Daniel always makes me comfortable and happy. So I cuddled up in his arms. And because he smelled so nice and has such a lean, strong chest and is so Daniel, soon enough my mouth found his skin and his hands slipped inside my shirt. And my lips roved across his chest and I realized that I was free to kiss whomever I liked after all.
I tentatively nipped his lips. He tentatively nipped back. I like this teasing; it gives me time to get turned on. I dislike it when a guy goes right for my tonsils or tries to vacuum my tongue, it takes all the anticipation out of it. Also, being mauled by a marauding mouth (dig the alliteration!) doesn’t feel good. But the tentative kissing was effective, and after a moment I opened my mouth and slipped my tongue inside his.
It felt great.
We climbed out of our clothes like it hadn’t been 18 months since we’d been naked together. Lying on the bed, my hand slipped down his torso and onto his dick; his fingers found my clit. It was so familiar: Daniel’s bed, his skin, the noises he made, the quickness of my response. I sighed and rubbed his dick. Gosh, he’s big. I mean, I knew that, it’s not like I had forgotten the fact, but my senses were surprised to stretch my hand around his girth, to trail my fingers along the length.
We fooled around for a while.
He lifted his eyebrows at me and I nodded. After he fitted the condom on his dick I straddled him. When his dick poked at me I felt pushed open in a way I hadn’t been pushed open in, well, two months. My cunt resisted before slipping open, slowly, against him. “Ooooh,” I said, not very eloquently.
Our eyes met. “Is that good?” I prompted.
He smiled. “That’s great.”
I rocked against him, getting used to the big bluntness of him inside me. I rode up and down his dick, trying to keep my breathing even. He felt solid and heavy and deep inside me.
The bed creaked. I remembered how Daniel’s bed had always squeaked when we had sex; it was a sort of boasting bed. Wendy (Daniel’s then roommate, that’s how I met her) told me that she and Daniel’s other roommate had once applauded us, we were so noisy (and, evidently, riveting). Anyway.
I lowered myself against him so we were chest to chest, and we kissed some more. The room was warm and dark and we were so close all I was aware of was his skin, his close-together dark eyes and brown-black sideburns, his pale collarbone.
My legs started to twitch, which is a prelude to orgasm for me, but I wanted to make it last (it had been a while, after all), so I slowed myself down.
This was a mistake, because soon enough I wanted to come, but I couldn’t. My legs shook (“I like it when you quiver,” Daniel whispered, grinning) and I felt the frantic tension build all along my groin and thighs and abdomen, but I couldn’t quite get over into the delicious completeness of orgasm. After a bit I abandoned my attempt, and indicated to Daniel that he could give it a whirl. As it were.
We tried to maneuver ourselves so that he could flip me onto my back while staying inside of me, but this proved too acrobatic, so he slid out of me for a sec and I leaned against the pillows, pleasantly drained.
Then Daniel loomed up over me and slid inside me once again. I pushed up against him and met his eyes: “You want to come?” I breathed. “Hmmm?”
He bore down on me and smiled, absently, as he pumped at me. After a minute his body sped up, and twitched, so I encouraged him: “You going to come for me, Daniel? You going to come?”
He face looked fierce and private, and after a minute, he came. Some deep breaths later he shifted out of me, and I slid onto my side, into the fetal position. Daniel curled up next to me. “That was nice,” I murmured.
He clutched me to him and kissed my forehead. I felt this wash of relief: relief that I’d been able to have sex and to enjoy it so thoroughly; that my sadness at my breakup with Dean had not consigned me to a sex-free ghetto; that I was (apparently) capable of having healthy, casual sex; all that stuff.
Daniel put an arm around me and I snuggled up against him. His heartbeat steadied to normal, and I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder. When he turned out the light I lay in the dark, not sleepy, but thinking about where I had been, and where I was headed.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Celebrities About Whom I Never Fantasized Until They Appeared in My Dreams and Who I Now Kind of Want
1. Michael Cera
2. Samantha Ronson
Yes, Michael Cera, of Superbad. What’s up with that, subconscious? Ever since this dream which I barely remember, I’ve found him more and more attractive. Which is, frankly, so weird. In fact, I may insist Sweetheart Daniel accompany me to a showing of Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist.
As for Samantha Ronson, well, if she was a guy and I was 15, she’d definitely be my type: scrawny, slouched, rebellious-looking. But really. How could I fancy a girl who's in love with Lindsay Lohan? I would think any lesbian crush I might have would have more refined tastes.
Note to brain: Cut it out!
2. Samantha Ronson
Yes, Michael Cera, of Superbad. What’s up with that, subconscious? Ever since this dream which I barely remember, I’ve found him more and more attractive. Which is, frankly, so weird. In fact, I may insist Sweetheart Daniel accompany me to a showing of Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist.
As for Samantha Ronson, well, if she was a guy and I was 15, she’d definitely be my type: scrawny, slouched, rebellious-looking. But really. How could I fancy a girl who's in love with Lindsay Lohan? I would think any lesbian crush I might have would have more refined tastes.
Note to brain: Cut it out!
Friday, August 29, 2008
Love Train!
I got an apartment! It’s small, and has a miniscule kitchen, but then, my literary hero, Laurie Colwin, once lived in a place “approximately the size of the Columbia Encyclopedia,” and if she could do it, so can I. And thanks to the generosity of my friend Marc, I am able to clear out my bank account and pay the first month’s rent, last month’s rent and broker’s fee! I move in October 1.
I watched the Democratic National Convention roll call the other night—it was like the Miss America pageant. Each delegate announced, “Madam Speaker, I’m from the great state of __[Montana, Missourah]___, home of the ______ mountain range [cheers]; _______ [nineteenth century politico or writer nominated for a Pulitzer in 1986] and _______ [really bad for you regional food]! Here with me are _______ [name of state comptroller, local officials who haven’t been indicted, etc.] And we cast _____ votes for Hillary Rodham Clinton and _____ votes for the next president of the United States, Barack Obama! [Cheers, cheers, cheers,as Molesworth sa.]
When Obama was nominated by acclamation, the O’Jays’ “Love Train” came on. Is that the campaign theme or just a CNN invention? Either way, I felt a little shivery watching Democrats wave their arms about and elderly civil rights leaders from Mississippi choke back tears. I mean, if I were running for office, I'd want the support of The O’Jays’ Philly soul, myself.
Then later I went to Jefferson’s shindig at Happy Ending. I was booked to sell raffle tickets, which I did not realize would involve me wrapping my arms around the waists, bosoms, etc. of strangers (the “around the world” option—$10 got you as many raffle tickets as your girth could supply). For a once and future slut, I’m a little uneasy about having my hands all over people. But I did my best. All for the cause, man.
It was lovely to see Viviane, Lolita, Boymeat, Callie, Wendy, Selina, and lots of others including a cool girl who told me all about this neat Neil Gaiman project. I also enjoyed two cheap and delicious Mr. Gingers (vodka, ginger ale, and lime juice, and I’d love the recipe). The very cutest boys there were, alas, friends of the bartender, but on my way out, I saw Mmmark, and, and I am sorry to say my intentions were not just tawdry but obvious:
Mmmark: (tapping me on the shoulder): Hey there.
Me: Hi! Hi!
We hug.
Me: How are you?
Mmmark: I’m good…. I’m moving….
Me: (thinking: Gosh, Mmmark looks great! Did he cut his hair?) Really? My best friend lives around the corner! He’s having a barbeque this weekend. You should come!
Mmmark: Hmmm. How have you been?
Me: Oh, well, my boyfriend and I broke up, so I’m dipping my toes in the water again… (thinking: Jesus, that’s subtle. Not.) I’d love to see you. (thinking: You are throwing yourself at him! Shut up, shut up, shut up!) Well, it’s late, I’ve got to run. Byeeee!
I run out before I actually start slobbering.
But I’m glad my libido is showing signs of life.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Whinge, Whinge, Whinge
I spent the weekend apartment hunting, which was completely demoralizing. I’ve been in my current apartment for three and a half years, and it is cheap, cheap, cheap. But I have two roommates, who are not particularly neat, and I’m desperate to get my own place. In most cities, working people can afford to do this before the age of 35. OK, in New York City, most people can afford to do this before the age of 35, too, but not me. It’s only in the last year that I finally got a full time editorial job and paid off my credit card debt. Anyway, I decided that at last I would get a small studio or one bedroom in a quiet neighborhood in an outer borough—I wasn’t aiming for anything too desirable. It didn’t even have the have a laundry room, just be reasonably near a subway station and not disgusting, in a basement, or the size of a cubicle.
But even though I’m out of debt (I mean, except for my student loans, natch), I’m still poor, and I discovered that my budget had been very optimistic. For what I wanted to pay, I was eligible for very little. So I resigned myself to paying close to half my salary in rent, but even with that, I’ll be lucky to get a cramped fourth floor walkup studio.
I’m too old for this.
I’ve always hated August. When I was a kid, I think I had my first depressive episodes at the end of the summer. One August, every time I heard a plane overhead I was sure a nuclear war was about to start. I lived near two airports.
August is almost over, and I’ll find a place I can afford and be comfortable in eventually, it’s just that I have so little patience these days. I’m cranky and maladjusted and resentful. I don’t even cry. I just check my email and mope. And wait. For what, I don’t even know. To grow up, probably.
But even though I’m out of debt (I mean, except for my student loans, natch), I’m still poor, and I discovered that my budget had been very optimistic. For what I wanted to pay, I was eligible for very little. So I resigned myself to paying close to half my salary in rent, but even with that, I’ll be lucky to get a cramped fourth floor walkup studio.
I’m too old for this.
I’ve always hated August. When I was a kid, I think I had my first depressive episodes at the end of the summer. One August, every time I heard a plane overhead I was sure a nuclear war was about to start. I lived near two airports.
August is almost over, and I’ll find a place I can afford and be comfortable in eventually, it’s just that I have so little patience these days. I’m cranky and maladjusted and resentful. I don’t even cry. I just check my email and mope. And wait. For what, I don’t even know. To grow up, probably.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Cycle of Grief: Boring and Probably Lengthy
It’s been just over three weeks since Dean and I broke up. After the first four days, I didn’t even cry. Which is unlike me. For about two weeks my emotional state would best be described as detached. I thought of him, but it was along the lines of “Well, this is for the best, now I can date someone with an actual job.” Or: “He doesn’t want kids.” Then a few days ago I thought of him, and I decided he probably wasn’t thinking of me. This made me angry.
I remember what he said to me the night we broke up, regarding our future: “I’ve been meaning to talk to my shrink about this…” meaning, he knew that I’d been thinking about the future, and he wanted to discuss his feelings with his shrink and then bring it up with me. Only he never did, and all of a sudden, this statement infuriated me. He’d been meaning to discuss it? It just never came up in conversation with the person he discusses his emotional life with? Of course not, he was too busy talking about poker! It just underlined how low on his list of priorities I was. And to top it all off, then he went and told me he hadn’t gotten around to talking about it, like I would understand that this was a chore he’d been putting off. And I think of him now: maybe missing me a little, but mostly just relieved that it’s over and he can go back to playing poker online and trying to stop his mother from decimating the family fortune.
He emailed me a week after we broke up. He wrote, “I don’t know if you want to hear from me right now, but I’m thinking of you…” and signed it Love, always, Dean. I was relieved, pleased to hear from him. We exchanged a few emails but then I stopped—it didn’t seem like a good idea. Then, that weekend, I forwarded him a New York Times article I wanted him to see, because that’s the kind of thing I’d done in the past and it seemed harmless enough. He didn’t respond. I hope he didn’t get it, because a) it’s not like him to ignore an email and b) that would really be mean, wouldn’t it? We haven’t been in touch since.
But he has some of my clothes and I have several books and a power strip of his. And I know, just know, it will be up to me to initiate this exchange. He’s not going to contact me, because he’s in the process of putting me away. This is what I started thinking a few days ago. And now tears well up in my eyes and I want to wring his neck and although I haven’t actually wept, I’ve come close.
I looked up the cycle of grief during a breakup and it goes like this:
I remember what he said to me the night we broke up, regarding our future: “I’ve been meaning to talk to my shrink about this…” meaning, he knew that I’d been thinking about the future, and he wanted to discuss his feelings with his shrink and then bring it up with me. Only he never did, and all of a sudden, this statement infuriated me. He’d been meaning to discuss it? It just never came up in conversation with the person he discusses his emotional life with? Of course not, he was too busy talking about poker! It just underlined how low on his list of priorities I was. And to top it all off, then he went and told me he hadn’t gotten around to talking about it, like I would understand that this was a chore he’d been putting off. And I think of him now: maybe missing me a little, but mostly just relieved that it’s over and he can go back to playing poker online and trying to stop his mother from decimating the family fortune.
He emailed me a week after we broke up. He wrote, “I don’t know if you want to hear from me right now, but I’m thinking of you…” and signed it Love, always, Dean. I was relieved, pleased to hear from him. We exchanged a few emails but then I stopped—it didn’t seem like a good idea. Then, that weekend, I forwarded him a New York Times article I wanted him to see, because that’s the kind of thing I’d done in the past and it seemed harmless enough. He didn’t respond. I hope he didn’t get it, because a) it’s not like him to ignore an email and b) that would really be mean, wouldn’t it? We haven’t been in touch since.
But he has some of my clothes and I have several books and a power strip of his. And I know, just know, it will be up to me to initiate this exchange. He’s not going to contact me, because he’s in the process of putting me away. This is what I started thinking a few days ago. And now tears well up in my eyes and I want to wring his neck and although I haven’t actually wept, I’ve come close.
I looked up the cycle of grief during a breakup and it goes like this:
- Shock and Denial
- Great Emotion
- Acceptance, Reorganization, and Reintegration
I guess I was in shock and denial and now I’m inching towards Great Emotion (in my case, anger). For a while I felt OK, knowing that I will never sleep with him again, never have him pull his fingers through my hair; call me sweetie; insist I snuggle with him; drink kirs with his father and stepmother; listen to him complain about his brother; play Scrabble; trade entrees; hear his name on my voice mail. But maybe that was the Shock part. And now I’m furious that he couldn’t love me enough to even think about marrying me. Or pretend to. Furious that his priorities didn’t really include me, even though we made each other happy. I thought that our romantic contentment ought to be appreciated as a rarity. I mean, it is in my life. I’ve had a number of boyfriends and have loved several of them, but we’ve rarely made one another happy. At least not on a regular basis.
But I bet Dean’s not going through any Great Emotion now. He’s not thinking about me when he can’t sleep, he’s not considering under what circumstances he could possibly call me in the middle of the night. (Last night while I wasn’t sleeping I determined that if one of my parents died, I would feel comfortable calling him. He’d be good about that.)
I have to avoid his neighborhood. I was there recently, and of course there were memories attached to every store, ever street corner. Unfortunately my therapist’s office in on the edge of neighborhood, and my shrink’s office is literally three blocks from his apartment. Luckily I only have to see my shrink once a month. Still, I think. Still.
Monday, August 11, 2008
New Blogroll
I added a few sites (and deleted one; sorry, Google News) from the blogroll. Check them out. Especially I Can Has Cheezburger. Come on! LOLcats are awesome, man.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
I'm an FOJ (Friend of Jefferson)
Yikes. I copied this from Viviane's Sex Carnival. Jefferson could use your help:
An important member of the sex-positive community urgently needs our help.
Jefferson—blogger, educator, and dear friend to so many of us—is at this moment fighting a court battle with his ex-wife, who is seeking full custody of their three children.
Jefferson’s love for his children has been well-documented on his blog One Life, Take Two for years. His ex-wife has stated in court that he is a “great” father who loves his children.
However, among her claims is that his bisexuality makes him an unfit parent.
An important member of the sex-positive community urgently needs our help.
Jefferson—blogger, educator, and dear friend to so many of us—is at this moment fighting a court battle with his ex-wife, who is seeking full custody of their three children.
Jefferson’s love for his children has been well-documented on his blog One Life, Take Two for years. His ex-wife has stated in court that he is a “great” father who loves his children.
However, among her claims is that his bisexuality makes him an unfit parent.
Jefferson needs our help now. As a writer, his resources are limited. The costs of fighting this case are mounting quickly—and will certainly run into the tens of thousands of dollars.
As of today, there is an urgent and immediate need for at least $20,000 to cover costs associated with attorney fees and those of the law guardian who has been appointed to represent the children.
If he is unable to pay these fees by August 11, he will be forced to relinquish custody of his children.
This case is of concern to anyone whose sexuality does not fit the standard mold—because it could happen to you. This case is of concern to all writers, because Jefferson’s blog is being used as evidence against him—and that could have repercussions for our First Amendment rights.
Here’s how to help:
Make an ANONYMOUS, TAX-DEDUCTIBLE contribution to Jefferson’s legal defense by visiting the Sexual Freedom Defense and Education Fund at:
www.sfldef.org.
www.sfldef.org.
There you will find out how to donate to Jefferson’s Defense Fund via PayPal or if you prefer, check or money order.
Please note that you MUST mention that your donation be used for the JEFFERSON LEGAL DEFENSE FUND.
In the coming days, www.onelifetaketwo.com will be relaunched with information about Jefferson’s ongoing case. Be sure to visit his blog for updates. In the meantime, you can contact Jefferson directly at friendsofjefferson@gmail.com.
Feel free to copy this and post it to your blog or any email lists, or link back to this post. More graphics may be found here.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Reunion
To GMG
The train platform looked right out of a movie – a romance set in the 1940’s, maybe, where women with hairsprayed curls and tailored suits fling themselves into the arms of tall, handsome men with crew cuts.
The train was late, but last it chugged up, and its honk was the exact same bullhorn whine that I remembered from the Long Island Railroad and the Metro North, the sound of commuter dads arriving in Croton-on-Harmon on a summer evening. I forced myself not to run to the platform.
He was one of the last to get off the train, and he looked just as I’d imagined, in his red sweatshirt, blue jeans and baseball cap, lugging a bag over his shoulder. Our eyes met and I waved, and when he reached me I wrapped my arms around him and he picked me up.
“Dean,” I said. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks. I’d missed the smell of his neck. He kissed me, and then he kissed me again.
***
I was attending a writing program at a college some hours’ drive from New York. Dean and I had parted in Las Vegas after the 4th of July weekend, which we’d spent sneaking into hotel swimming pools and wandering through air conditioned lobbies. Dean had played poker in tournaments and cash games, while I’d visited the hotel gym, read novels, and won a cool $45 at blackjack.
I don’t think we had been apart this long since we started dating. In fact, we’d be dating a year this weekend.
We checked into the bed and breakfast decorated in Early English Tchotcke, and then I drove us into town, where we had a few drinks at the lavish old hotel on the main street. The college was in a Victorian spa town, and it was heavy on the charm, with gingerbread houses and expensive antique stores.
After a late dinner I drove back to the B and B. I undressed and I climbed into the queen-sized bed with its many, many throw pillows.
Dean slid on top of me and it was such a relief to have his body against mine, the long, lean length of it. I buried my face in his shoulder.
Often when he kisses me he mashes his mouth against mine, but this time he kissed me softly, teasing me, and I was grateful as well as excited. He bent over me and instead of plunging his tongue inside me, his nose just brushed against my clit. I gasped, and wriggled up against him. Thank God Dean has such a long, aquiline nose. “I love you, Lily,” he said in hoarse, tender voice he gets when we’re having sex.
“I love you, too,” I whispered. He held my hands down as I shook beneath him. I missed you, I thought, but I didn’t say it. After all, he hadn’t.
***
On Saturday morning I rubbed my head against his shoulder, like a cat. We lay facing one another, blinking at the sun slanting through the too-thin curtains. He slid inside me.
“Can I put my finger in your ass?” he whispered.
I nodded. “Go slow.” He did and we lay with our legs entwined, fucking. “You like to penetrate me?”
“Uh huh!” When he came I felt a little cheated. Huh!
“Let me get on top,” I said, and we rolled over. I pushed myself against him. “Lick my nipples,” I ordered, thrusting my tits at him.
He started to buck beneath me. “No,” I said. “You already came. Now it’s my turn.” I rocked back and forth, measuring my breath. “That’s right, suck them. Like that.” I came almost immediately, and we lay clasped together in the bed, my face clamped against his chest.
***
In the afternoon we went to a nearby county fair. I beat him at the whack-a-mole and we spent close to $20 on an addictive arcade game in which you insert quarters, which are supposed to then push previously inserted money over the edge of a metal ledge and into your hot little hands. We found this game terrifically compelling. We were the only adults on the bumper cars, and a foray into a partially-closed house of mirrors ended after just a minute when we easily picked our way through the maze. We stood outside the fun house, dazed at how easy it had been. “As a metaphor,” I said, mindful of all the short stories whereby couples get lost in the fun house, “That sucked.”
We got on the ferris wheel, and I was reminded of our first trip to Atlantic City, soon after we met last summer. We’d held hands on the boardwalk, which I’d found disconcerting, though I’d liked it, and I’d gone on my first ferris wheel. We kissed in the pastel-colored car as it gently swung back and forth. We kissed on this ferris wheel, too, and I looked out at the green fields below.
In the evening we drove back into town and ended up at the same Victorian hotel we’d had drinks at the first night. We headed out to the back garden, seated ourselves in Adirondack chairs, and ordered drinks. Dean studied the paper while I read one of my classmate’s short stories.
On my second planter’s punch I took the plunge, figuring I’d rather bring this up when drunk. “Dean, I have to talk to you about something,” I said. It was a beautiful evening, dusk just falling, the air mild and clear.
“I know,” said Dean. “You’re afraid I’ll give you advice about your writing at the reading on Sunday.” Writing students had been invited take part in a reading the following afternoon. In a fit of boldness, I’d signed up. And I’ve been very wary of having Dean read my writing. He can be a harsh critic—I’ve seen the notes he’s written on other people’s work, and I’m not anxious to submit myself to his tutoring, however good or well-meaning it is. My feeling is that as my boyfriend, he should keep to a cheerleading role. As in: “Lily, your writing is great!” rather than “No, sweetie, this doesn’t make any sense.” That’s what editors and instructors and writing classes are for. Honeys are for unmitigated moral support. In my opinion, anyway.
“No, no,” I said. “It’s not that.” I swallowed.
“Do you want to talk about it back at the B and B?”
As I was drunk and feared my nerve would not withstand the onslaught of sobriety, no. “Let’s talk about it now,” I slurred. He put down The New York Times.
I gulped more of my drink. Dean’s face blurred. “You know,” I dipped my head, meeting Dean’s eyes and then looking away, “We’ve been dating for almost a year now…”
Oh, God, I was actually saying it. “I love you, and I’m really happy with you, but, I want. I want,” I paused. “I want to have children.” Lest he get the wrong impression, I rushed on: “I mean, not now. I’m not ready now, but in, like, five years, and I want to know…”
Dean took my hands. “I know,” he said. “I know you’ve been thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it too, and I’ve wanted to bring it up, too.”
Seriously, he had thought about it? Had he discussed it with his therapist? I’d had the distinct impression that I did not come up much during the course of Dean’s four-times-a-week therapy sessions.
On one hand, this galled me. I talk about Dean all the time with my sainted therapist, Caroline. On the other hand, Dean had a lot of stuff to work on, in part because he’d apparently spent the first 35 years of his life avoiding therapy. I figured I was a source of happiness for him, and he wasn’t bringing me up with his shrink because our relationship didn’t need the help of a licensed psychotherapist. I mean, Dean does have serious issues to deal with. Like his mother, who, in my wholly unscientific opinion, suffers from one or more Cluster B (dramatic, emotional, or erratic) personality disorders, as per the DSM-IV. Like his father, whom Dean resents. Like his older brother, who is successful and not very interested in Dean, and whom Dean really, really resents. (I suspect his brother dominates a good portion of Dean’s sessions). Like the sister with a lot of problems. Like his stalled career. Like his poker strategy, the discussion of which also allows him the opportunity for personal reflection. For instance, if Dean loses money at poker, does it mean he’s sabotaging himself because he doesn’t have enough self confidence? Does his future lie in tournaments or cash games? And other interesting questions.
“I mean, I’m not ready for kids now,” I reiterated, in case he hadn’t got that part, “But I want to be in a relationship with someone with whom that can happen…”
“Lily,” said Dean. “I love you, too, and I want you to be happy.” And then I realized what was happening. “I’m not going to be ready to have kids in five years. And maybe not at all.”
Our heads were bent close together, and our hands were clasped. I was close to tears. “Dean,” I said.
“Sweetie,” he said, and his face kind of collapsed. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Then I covered my mouth with my hand, as though this would keep me from talking, or crying. “I know you love me, but I’m not a priority for you.” He nodded. “I want to be a priority.” Dean’s current priorities include trying to become a professional poker player and dealing with his mother. I wanted our relationship to be more than a pleasant distraction to him.
“Don’t cry,” I said, and then I started to cry, too. This had not been how I planned this discussion, not how I planned it at all. Then I changed my mind: “Thank you for crying,” I wept. “I didn’t think you’d have any tears for me.”
“I’m ambivalent,” Dean wiped his eyes. “And you deserve to be with someone who’s not ambivalent.”
“Oh, Dean.” I clung to him, and the garden swam in front of my eyes.
Thus our breakup.
We left the hotel and walked along the main street. It was dark but warm, and people were everywhere. I felt raw and stiff, like my chest was sandwiched between two pieces of plywood. I was afraid if I breathed too deeply, or moved too much, I would start to cry again. I gripped Dean’s hand, and he gripped back. We swam among the crowds. “What’s that noise?”
A crowd had gathered outside of a Borders, where a young boy stood in the lamplight. I squinted; he was playing the guitar. “Layla,” he cried in a heartfelt, off-key tenor, “You’ve got me on my knees!”
Dean and I looked at each other. The crowd appeared impressed, not by his singing, which was atrocious, but by the very fact of a kid not more than 14 crooning Eric Clapton’s heartbreak classic with technique-less abandon, and playing with some skill. “He’s got a terrible voice,” said Dean, with some admiration.
“But he’s a good player.” And, indeed, if he wasn’t just playing Guitar Hero but was instead really strumming, he was a talented guitarist. After a moment, we started walking again. It occurred to me that there were lots of literary metaphors here, after all.
We were seated at an outdoor café, where I promptly started to weep again. “Sweetie,” Dean began, then bent over, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose into a paper napkin. I was relieved not to be the only one crying. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the meal without breaking down every five minutes, but I only cried intermittently, which was something.
Afterwards Dean drove us back to the B and B. I took a shower, letting my tears mingle with the cool water, and then I climbed into bed, naked. Dean showered. I thought we’d have break up sex. In fact I was looking forward to Dean being inside of me one last time, of him whispering, “I love you, Lily,” while I tearfully clung to him, but instead I lay chaste and sad underneath the chenille bedspread. I thought I might go to sleep early. I turned off the light, while Dean stared at his laptop.
I turned onto my side but tears leaked out of my eyes. “Sweetie, don’t cry,” murmured my ex-boyfriend.
“I wish,” I sniffled, turning on the light, “I wasn’t quite so in touch with my emotions.” I started to cry in earnest once again.
“Lily,” said Dean. “Lily.” He wrapped his arms around me. His voice cracked. “You know we’re going to have a lifelong friendship.”
That sounded very, very unappealing, as well as weirdly formal. “I don’t want to be your friend,” I wept. “I love you.” I wanted him to be jealous of other men I dated. I didn’t want us to be companionable.
“I love you, too.” He stroked my hair.
“I guess I think that if you loved me more, you’d want to try.” And that, to me, was the crux of the matter. He hadn’t even had to think about it when I brought it up. I hadn’t gotten a chance to say the rest of my spiel, which was, This isn’t something you have to decide now. Think about it, and let’s talk in a few weeks. And what that meant was: I love you. I don’t want to break up. But as soon as I brought up the idea of the future, he jumped right to the break up, like he was relieved. He’d already made up his mind. He’d sooner break up with me than even consider the possibility of us getting married and having a family. That hurt.
“It’s because I love you that I don’t want you to miss the boat on this. Having a family.”
“I know.” And that’s true. But. “It wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t convinced you’re going to get married and have kids.” Because I am. I think he’ll do just as his brother did: meet a woman 15 or so years his junior when he’s close to 50 and grown up enough. And because she’ll be so smart and beautiful and accomplished and he’ll be so aware of how lucky he is, when she says, “I want to have children,” he’ll realize he’s onto a good thing and ought to land her quick. So they’ll get married and have children. And I swear to God, if he does this before I do, I won’t be responsible for my behavior.
He shook his head. But I think that’s what’ll happen. “I wish I could have made you happy,” I said in a small voice.
“Don’t say that,” he said, almost harshly, and then he started to cry again. “Don’t say that. You’ve made me really happy.”
What I meant was: I wish that you’d loved me enough to be unwilling to let me go. I wish having children with me didn’t seem like too high a cost for keeping me by your side. I wish keeping us together was your priority.
Here’s a story. I work with this woman named Lara. She’s 42. She met her now-husband a few years ago. She told me that after they’d been dating for six months, she asked him, “Where are we going?” He’s ten years her senior, childless, and divorced. He said to her: “I don’t love you, I don’t want to marry you, and I don’t want any kids.” (How incredibly harsh!) So Lara said, “Well, you’re giving me nothing to work with. I guess we’re breaking up.”
Two days later he showed up on her doorstep, red-eyed, and begged her to take him back. “So he got some therapy,” concluded Lara—the optimistic ending to most healthy modern romances, it appears. They wed a year ago, and last month she had a baby.
The point isn’t that she got her way, or even that what Lara wanted wasn’t too high a price for Jim who, despite not seeming to want anything that Lara did, eventually agreed to everything Lara desired. The point is that Jim seems really happy now. She had to convince him, but he seems pleased with how things turned out.
“I’ve just broken up with two women who made me happy,” Dean continued. “Lily, I’m fucked up.” Well, I knew that already, and plus, I wanted to say, This isn’t about you! This isn’t about your issues! And anyway, how could his ex have made him really happy? She wouldn’t sleep with him! Of course, she is younger and prettier than I. And I think she went to Harvard. But anyway, what was the point? Maybe, for Dean, this was just another anecdote on his journey to adulthood. Maybe this would be a stick he could beat himself with in therapy. Maybe, for Dean, the real point was why, as a fortysomething with a degree from an Ivy League college and no serious drug problem, he lives the life of an independent teenager.
***
The next morning we checked out of the bed and breakfast. “Did you have a good stay?” asked one half of the polite, mustached male couple who ran the place.
“We had a great time,” Dean said.
“Except for the breaking up part,” I whispered as we edged out of the chintzy living room towards the door.
Outside, it was overcast. I was glad; I didn’t want to see the sun today. We walked to the car and once more, tears welled up in my eyes. “Sweetie,” Dean said helplessly. “Sweetheart.”
I blinked. He’s called me Sweetie since the night we met. He won’t call me sweetie anymore, I realized. Or if he does, it will only make me want to cry.
**
When I pulled up in front of the train station it was raining lightly, and I followed him to the entrance to the station house. He put his hands on my shoulders, and I burst into tears for what felt like the twentieth time in less than 24 hours. “Sweetie, sweetie,” Dean said again, earnestly, and I could see my tears might get a little wearing. “I love you. You’ll be fine. I’ll call you in a week or two,” he said firmly, kissing me, and I knew I’d be waiting for his call.
He went into the station and I went back to the car but I didn’t drive away. I sat there, watching the rain beat on the windshield. What if his train was really delayed, like it had been on Thursday night? Maybe I should offer to drive him back to the B and B. Only now I was no longer his girlfriend, and there was no rationale for me to think like that, to take his comfort and convenience into consideration. Eventually I turned the engine on and drove around to the parking lot, where I watched the train pull up.
Dean was easy to spot – he was undoubtedly the tallest person there; he is probably the tallest person wherever he goes. I watched him climb on board, and then there was nothing else to do, nothing else to wait for. I turned on the engine on again and edged the car towards the exit. And it occurred to me that for weeks I’d hear his laugh from stranger’s mouths. Then I drove off into the rain, waiting until I started to cry again.
The train platform looked right out of a movie – a romance set in the 1940’s, maybe, where women with hairsprayed curls and tailored suits fling themselves into the arms of tall, handsome men with crew cuts.
The train was late, but last it chugged up, and its honk was the exact same bullhorn whine that I remembered from the Long Island Railroad and the Metro North, the sound of commuter dads arriving in Croton-on-Harmon on a summer evening. I forced myself not to run to the platform.
He was one of the last to get off the train, and he looked just as I’d imagined, in his red sweatshirt, blue jeans and baseball cap, lugging a bag over his shoulder. Our eyes met and I waved, and when he reached me I wrapped my arms around him and he picked me up.
“Dean,” I said. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks. I’d missed the smell of his neck. He kissed me, and then he kissed me again.
***
I was attending a writing program at a college some hours’ drive from New York. Dean and I had parted in Las Vegas after the 4th of July weekend, which we’d spent sneaking into hotel swimming pools and wandering through air conditioned lobbies. Dean had played poker in tournaments and cash games, while I’d visited the hotel gym, read novels, and won a cool $45 at blackjack.
I don’t think we had been apart this long since we started dating. In fact, we’d be dating a year this weekend.
We checked into the bed and breakfast decorated in Early English Tchotcke, and then I drove us into town, where we had a few drinks at the lavish old hotel on the main street. The college was in a Victorian spa town, and it was heavy on the charm, with gingerbread houses and expensive antique stores.
After a late dinner I drove back to the B and B. I undressed and I climbed into the queen-sized bed with its many, many throw pillows.
Dean slid on top of me and it was such a relief to have his body against mine, the long, lean length of it. I buried my face in his shoulder.
Often when he kisses me he mashes his mouth against mine, but this time he kissed me softly, teasing me, and I was grateful as well as excited. He bent over me and instead of plunging his tongue inside me, his nose just brushed against my clit. I gasped, and wriggled up against him. Thank God Dean has such a long, aquiline nose. “I love you, Lily,” he said in hoarse, tender voice he gets when we’re having sex.
“I love you, too,” I whispered. He held my hands down as I shook beneath him. I missed you, I thought, but I didn’t say it. After all, he hadn’t.
***
On Saturday morning I rubbed my head against his shoulder, like a cat. We lay facing one another, blinking at the sun slanting through the too-thin curtains. He slid inside me.
“Can I put my finger in your ass?” he whispered.
I nodded. “Go slow.” He did and we lay with our legs entwined, fucking. “You like to penetrate me?”
“Uh huh!” When he came I felt a little cheated. Huh!
“Let me get on top,” I said, and we rolled over. I pushed myself against him. “Lick my nipples,” I ordered, thrusting my tits at him.
He started to buck beneath me. “No,” I said. “You already came. Now it’s my turn.” I rocked back and forth, measuring my breath. “That’s right, suck them. Like that.” I came almost immediately, and we lay clasped together in the bed, my face clamped against his chest.
***
In the afternoon we went to a nearby county fair. I beat him at the whack-a-mole and we spent close to $20 on an addictive arcade game in which you insert quarters, which are supposed to then push previously inserted money over the edge of a metal ledge and into your hot little hands. We found this game terrifically compelling. We were the only adults on the bumper cars, and a foray into a partially-closed house of mirrors ended after just a minute when we easily picked our way through the maze. We stood outside the fun house, dazed at how easy it had been. “As a metaphor,” I said, mindful of all the short stories whereby couples get lost in the fun house, “That sucked.”
We got on the ferris wheel, and I was reminded of our first trip to Atlantic City, soon after we met last summer. We’d held hands on the boardwalk, which I’d found disconcerting, though I’d liked it, and I’d gone on my first ferris wheel. We kissed in the pastel-colored car as it gently swung back and forth. We kissed on this ferris wheel, too, and I looked out at the green fields below.
In the evening we drove back into town and ended up at the same Victorian hotel we’d had drinks at the first night. We headed out to the back garden, seated ourselves in Adirondack chairs, and ordered drinks. Dean studied the paper while I read one of my classmate’s short stories.
On my second planter’s punch I took the plunge, figuring I’d rather bring this up when drunk. “Dean, I have to talk to you about something,” I said. It was a beautiful evening, dusk just falling, the air mild and clear.
“I know,” said Dean. “You’re afraid I’ll give you advice about your writing at the reading on Sunday.” Writing students had been invited take part in a reading the following afternoon. In a fit of boldness, I’d signed up. And I’ve been very wary of having Dean read my writing. He can be a harsh critic—I’ve seen the notes he’s written on other people’s work, and I’m not anxious to submit myself to his tutoring, however good or well-meaning it is. My feeling is that as my boyfriend, he should keep to a cheerleading role. As in: “Lily, your writing is great!” rather than “No, sweetie, this doesn’t make any sense.” That’s what editors and instructors and writing classes are for. Honeys are for unmitigated moral support. In my opinion, anyway.
“No, no,” I said. “It’s not that.” I swallowed.
“Do you want to talk about it back at the B and B?”
As I was drunk and feared my nerve would not withstand the onslaught of sobriety, no. “Let’s talk about it now,” I slurred. He put down The New York Times.
I gulped more of my drink. Dean’s face blurred. “You know,” I dipped my head, meeting Dean’s eyes and then looking away, “We’ve been dating for almost a year now…”
Oh, God, I was actually saying it. “I love you, and I’m really happy with you, but, I want. I want,” I paused. “I want to have children.” Lest he get the wrong impression, I rushed on: “I mean, not now. I’m not ready now, but in, like, five years, and I want to know…”
Dean took my hands. “I know,” he said. “I know you’ve been thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it too, and I’ve wanted to bring it up, too.”
Seriously, he had thought about it? Had he discussed it with his therapist? I’d had the distinct impression that I did not come up much during the course of Dean’s four-times-a-week therapy sessions.
On one hand, this galled me. I talk about Dean all the time with my sainted therapist, Caroline. On the other hand, Dean had a lot of stuff to work on, in part because he’d apparently spent the first 35 years of his life avoiding therapy. I figured I was a source of happiness for him, and he wasn’t bringing me up with his shrink because our relationship didn’t need the help of a licensed psychotherapist. I mean, Dean does have serious issues to deal with. Like his mother, who, in my wholly unscientific opinion, suffers from one or more Cluster B (dramatic, emotional, or erratic) personality disorders, as per the DSM-IV. Like his father, whom Dean resents. Like his older brother, who is successful and not very interested in Dean, and whom Dean really, really resents. (I suspect his brother dominates a good portion of Dean’s sessions). Like the sister with a lot of problems. Like his stalled career. Like his poker strategy, the discussion of which also allows him the opportunity for personal reflection. For instance, if Dean loses money at poker, does it mean he’s sabotaging himself because he doesn’t have enough self confidence? Does his future lie in tournaments or cash games? And other interesting questions.
“I mean, I’m not ready for kids now,” I reiterated, in case he hadn’t got that part, “But I want to be in a relationship with someone with whom that can happen…”
“Lily,” said Dean. “I love you, too, and I want you to be happy.” And then I realized what was happening. “I’m not going to be ready to have kids in five years. And maybe not at all.”
Our heads were bent close together, and our hands were clasped. I was close to tears. “Dean,” I said.
“Sweetie,” he said, and his face kind of collapsed. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Then I covered my mouth with my hand, as though this would keep me from talking, or crying. “I know you love me, but I’m not a priority for you.” He nodded. “I want to be a priority.” Dean’s current priorities include trying to become a professional poker player and dealing with his mother. I wanted our relationship to be more than a pleasant distraction to him.
“Don’t cry,” I said, and then I started to cry, too. This had not been how I planned this discussion, not how I planned it at all. Then I changed my mind: “Thank you for crying,” I wept. “I didn’t think you’d have any tears for me.”
“I’m ambivalent,” Dean wiped his eyes. “And you deserve to be with someone who’s not ambivalent.”
“Oh, Dean.” I clung to him, and the garden swam in front of my eyes.
Thus our breakup.
We left the hotel and walked along the main street. It was dark but warm, and people were everywhere. I felt raw and stiff, like my chest was sandwiched between two pieces of plywood. I was afraid if I breathed too deeply, or moved too much, I would start to cry again. I gripped Dean’s hand, and he gripped back. We swam among the crowds. “What’s that noise?”
A crowd had gathered outside of a Borders, where a young boy stood in the lamplight. I squinted; he was playing the guitar. “Layla,” he cried in a heartfelt, off-key tenor, “You’ve got me on my knees!”
Dean and I looked at each other. The crowd appeared impressed, not by his singing, which was atrocious, but by the very fact of a kid not more than 14 crooning Eric Clapton’s heartbreak classic with technique-less abandon, and playing with some skill. “He’s got a terrible voice,” said Dean, with some admiration.
“But he’s a good player.” And, indeed, if he wasn’t just playing Guitar Hero but was instead really strumming, he was a talented guitarist. After a moment, we started walking again. It occurred to me that there were lots of literary metaphors here, after all.
We were seated at an outdoor café, where I promptly started to weep again. “Sweetie,” Dean began, then bent over, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose into a paper napkin. I was relieved not to be the only one crying. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the meal without breaking down every five minutes, but I only cried intermittently, which was something.
Afterwards Dean drove us back to the B and B. I took a shower, letting my tears mingle with the cool water, and then I climbed into bed, naked. Dean showered. I thought we’d have break up sex. In fact I was looking forward to Dean being inside of me one last time, of him whispering, “I love you, Lily,” while I tearfully clung to him, but instead I lay chaste and sad underneath the chenille bedspread. I thought I might go to sleep early. I turned off the light, while Dean stared at his laptop.
I turned onto my side but tears leaked out of my eyes. “Sweetie, don’t cry,” murmured my ex-boyfriend.
“I wish,” I sniffled, turning on the light, “I wasn’t quite so in touch with my emotions.” I started to cry in earnest once again.
“Lily,” said Dean. “Lily.” He wrapped his arms around me. His voice cracked. “You know we’re going to have a lifelong friendship.”
That sounded very, very unappealing, as well as weirdly formal. “I don’t want to be your friend,” I wept. “I love you.” I wanted him to be jealous of other men I dated. I didn’t want us to be companionable.
“I love you, too.” He stroked my hair.
“I guess I think that if you loved me more, you’d want to try.” And that, to me, was the crux of the matter. He hadn’t even had to think about it when I brought it up. I hadn’t gotten a chance to say the rest of my spiel, which was, This isn’t something you have to decide now. Think about it, and let’s talk in a few weeks. And what that meant was: I love you. I don’t want to break up. But as soon as I brought up the idea of the future, he jumped right to the break up, like he was relieved. He’d already made up his mind. He’d sooner break up with me than even consider the possibility of us getting married and having a family. That hurt.
“It’s because I love you that I don’t want you to miss the boat on this. Having a family.”
“I know.” And that’s true. But. “It wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t convinced you’re going to get married and have kids.” Because I am. I think he’ll do just as his brother did: meet a woman 15 or so years his junior when he’s close to 50 and grown up enough. And because she’ll be so smart and beautiful and accomplished and he’ll be so aware of how lucky he is, when she says, “I want to have children,” he’ll realize he’s onto a good thing and ought to land her quick. So they’ll get married and have children. And I swear to God, if he does this before I do, I won’t be responsible for my behavior.
He shook his head. But I think that’s what’ll happen. “I wish I could have made you happy,” I said in a small voice.
“Don’t say that,” he said, almost harshly, and then he started to cry again. “Don’t say that. You’ve made me really happy.”
What I meant was: I wish that you’d loved me enough to be unwilling to let me go. I wish having children with me didn’t seem like too high a cost for keeping me by your side. I wish keeping us together was your priority.
Here’s a story. I work with this woman named Lara. She’s 42. She met her now-husband a few years ago. She told me that after they’d been dating for six months, she asked him, “Where are we going?” He’s ten years her senior, childless, and divorced. He said to her: “I don’t love you, I don’t want to marry you, and I don’t want any kids.” (How incredibly harsh!) So Lara said, “Well, you’re giving me nothing to work with. I guess we’re breaking up.”
Two days later he showed up on her doorstep, red-eyed, and begged her to take him back. “So he got some therapy,” concluded Lara—the optimistic ending to most healthy modern romances, it appears. They wed a year ago, and last month she had a baby.
The point isn’t that she got her way, or even that what Lara wanted wasn’t too high a price for Jim who, despite not seeming to want anything that Lara did, eventually agreed to everything Lara desired. The point is that Jim seems really happy now. She had to convince him, but he seems pleased with how things turned out.
“I’ve just broken up with two women who made me happy,” Dean continued. “Lily, I’m fucked up.” Well, I knew that already, and plus, I wanted to say, This isn’t about you! This isn’t about your issues! And anyway, how could his ex have made him really happy? She wouldn’t sleep with him! Of course, she is younger and prettier than I. And I think she went to Harvard. But anyway, what was the point? Maybe, for Dean, this was just another anecdote on his journey to adulthood. Maybe this would be a stick he could beat himself with in therapy. Maybe, for Dean, the real point was why, as a fortysomething with a degree from an Ivy League college and no serious drug problem, he lives the life of an independent teenager.
***
The next morning we checked out of the bed and breakfast. “Did you have a good stay?” asked one half of the polite, mustached male couple who ran the place.
“We had a great time,” Dean said.
“Except for the breaking up part,” I whispered as we edged out of the chintzy living room towards the door.
Outside, it was overcast. I was glad; I didn’t want to see the sun today. We walked to the car and once more, tears welled up in my eyes. “Sweetie,” Dean said helplessly. “Sweetheart.”
I blinked. He’s called me Sweetie since the night we met. He won’t call me sweetie anymore, I realized. Or if he does, it will only make me want to cry.
**
When I pulled up in front of the train station it was raining lightly, and I followed him to the entrance to the station house. He put his hands on my shoulders, and I burst into tears for what felt like the twentieth time in less than 24 hours. “Sweetie, sweetie,” Dean said again, earnestly, and I could see my tears might get a little wearing. “I love you. You’ll be fine. I’ll call you in a week or two,” he said firmly, kissing me, and I knew I’d be waiting for his call.
He went into the station and I went back to the car but I didn’t drive away. I sat there, watching the rain beat on the windshield. What if his train was really delayed, like it had been on Thursday night? Maybe I should offer to drive him back to the B and B. Only now I was no longer his girlfriend, and there was no rationale for me to think like that, to take his comfort and convenience into consideration. Eventually I turned the engine on and drove around to the parking lot, where I watched the train pull up.
Dean was easy to spot – he was undoubtedly the tallest person there; he is probably the tallest person wherever he goes. I watched him climb on board, and then there was nothing else to do, nothing else to wait for. I turned on the engine on again and edged the car towards the exit. And it occurred to me that for weeks I’d hear his laugh from stranger’s mouths. Then I drove off into the rain, waiting until I started to cry again.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
My Brush with Greatness
So last night I was at this restaurant with Dean. It’s near his apartment, and we go there a lot. And next to us is a couple, clearly on their first date. And then an older woman enters and goes up to a man I’ve just noticed — he’s sitting parallel to me on the banquette, so I can't really see him. She leans over to say something to him and I think, “How nice. Two old folk on a blind date, we’re all on dates here...”
But instead of sitting next to the man, this older woman then goes to another table by herself and starts reading a magazine. It’s then that what she said to him finally registers with me. It was, “Are you Philip Roth?”
Unfortunately I hadn’t heard his response, so I nudge Dean and ask him if he thinks the oldish man with graying dark hair is Philip Roth and we both surreptitiously sneak a look. We’re pretty sure it's him, and then we're really sure a few minutes later, when he's joined by a very pretty, very young woman.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Say it Again
We were lying in Dean’s bed, having just exhausted ourselves in the approved-of manner. I was feeling sex-dazed and sleepy. It was, as usual, late for me (after midnight). At Dean’s, I always make a bid to get to bed early, and it never works.
I smirked at Dean. But then he looked at me in a funny way and before I could get much further than raising an interrogative brow, he said, “I love you, Lily.”
My skin went hot and I thought, Say it again. I said, “I love you too.” I felt flooded with a rich, sad tenderness, as if I might cry. Then I added, “But you can say it again.”
So he said, again, “I love you.”
I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder, and he stroked my hair. “I love you, too. But you knew that, right?” I mean, it was pretty obvious how much I dote on him. “Didn’t you?”
I smirked at Dean. But then he looked at me in a funny way and before I could get much further than raising an interrogative brow, he said, “I love you, Lily.”
My skin went hot and I thought, Say it again. I said, “I love you too.” I felt flooded with a rich, sad tenderness, as if I might cry. Then I added, “But you can say it again.”
So he said, again, “I love you.”
I rubbed my cheek against his shoulder, and he stroked my hair. “I love you, too. But you knew that, right?” I mean, it was pretty obvious how much I dote on him. “Didn’t you?”
Friday, April 18, 2008
Ah, Romance
Interior: Dean’s bedroom, late at night. I collapse on top of my boyfriend in post-coital exhaustion.
Dean: Why, young lady, if I didn’t know better, I would say you just came.
Me: (panting) Nah, I was faking it.
Dean: Why, young lady, if I didn’t know better, I would say you just came.
Me: (panting) Nah, I was faking it.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Your Good Deed
Hey there.
Most of you found my blog via Jefferson, charming orgy host and mentor of sluts throughout the U.S and abroad.
As you probably know, he's in a jam at the moment and is hurting for the bucks.
Since Jefferson has been so good to me, what with the orgasms and cute indie boys and amusing anecdotes, I sent him some cash. I bet he's been good to you too, what with the nekkid Australian girls and erotica and songs. Not to mention the stories. So please do your best, and send him some lovin' (and by lovin', I mean money).
And next week, it's back to my slut beginnings in the far-off days of March 2006....
Most of you found my blog via Jefferson, charming orgy host and mentor of sluts throughout the U.S and abroad.
As you probably know, he's in a jam at the moment and is hurting for the bucks.
Since Jefferson has been so good to me, what with the orgasms and cute indie boys and amusing anecdotes, I sent him some cash. I bet he's been good to you too, what with the nekkid Australian girls and erotica and songs. Not to mention the stories. So please do your best, and send him some lovin' (and by lovin', I mean money).
And next week, it's back to my slut beginnings in the far-off days of March 2006....
Sunday, February 10, 2008
My Year in Review
As Lou Reed once noted, “Sorry it took awhile.”
2007 Round Up: The Year in Living Somewhat Dangerously
Most “Holy Smokes, I Can't Believe this is Happening!” Moment: My First Orgy. Well, duh. Was it the writhing crowd on the bed? Jed’s dick? Jefferson’s unflappability? The cookies Callie baked on the living room table? At any rate, just attending made me feel cool and subversive. Hooking up with Mmmark and then Jed, both of whom are so cute and nice, was likewise thrilling.
Things About Jefferson that Made Me Laugh: The sight of him, naked, in lace up black leather boots with a pink ribbon around his balls; his “Daddy Likes” t-shirt; and that when I, worried that a mutual acquaintance had slept with almost 100 people, making him, in my opinion, sorta out of my league, Jefferson said, “Yes, but when you hit 100, the odometer goes back to zero.”
Dumbest Thing I Did (a tie): Stalked Jeremy/Revealed my secret identity as Sex Blogger Girl to Dean on our first date.
Most Ridiculous Conversation:
Me: How's Mmmark?
Jefferson: I don't know. And I should. After all, I publish the fanzine.
Me: The fanzine! What a great idea.
(I am picturing something akin to J-17, with headlines like, “Mmmark: What He Thinks About Global Warming!” and “Mmmark's Tips for Getting Along with Your Parents.”)
Me: It could be full of Mmmark news and tips! Like, “Boys and girls, don’t be afraid to approach Mmmark at an orgy! He’s really nice!”
Jefferson: Or, “How's Mmmark? Still Hot!” And, “What's Mmmark's favorite color? Still purple!”
Me: (chanting): “What's Mmmark's favorite food? I have no idea!”
Biggest Firsts for Me:
My First orgy!
My First Anal! (thanks, Jed)
My First Threesome!
My Second Threesome (etc.)!
My First Foursome!
My First Girl!
My First (and Second) Fisting! (Jed again).
It was a busy year.
Sex Aid I am Most Grateful For: BabeLube.
Most Surprisingly Satisfying Casual Sex: Paul. I was sorta dreading seeing him, but we were well-matched. Sadly, he went AWOL in November.
Most Surprisingly Unsatisfying Casual Sex: Alejandro. The most noticeable thing about it was how unmoved I was.
Nicest Surprise: That I'm still friends with Sweetheart Daniel. Oh, and the poem Jim wrote me.
Most Terrifying Moment: Realizing I was about to seduce a virgin (Jim).
Worst Part of Living Somewhat Dangerously: Brooding/crying over Jeremy.
Second Worst Part: Wondering if the Evan (Mr. Cult) affair was indicative of a total lack of judgment/normalcy on my part.
Best Part of Living Somewhat Dangerously: Having a secret when you’re bored on the subway feels good. I also met so many great people and got nice emails from readers. Thank you.
Things I Like About Dean: His terrible puns, his kindness and the funny Pillsbury Doughboy squeak he makes when I poke him in the ribs. Also he's really smart and tall and cute and likes to stroke my hair and hold my hand and takes me out for nice meals.
Worst First Date: Mr. Knucklehead. What a jerk.
Best First Date: Dean. He still has a scar by his eyebrow from when we fell off the stoop.
Sluttiest Episode: Ahem. I went for a drink with Jefferson, and ended up having sex with him, Anna Smash and Anna Smash’s hot boyfriend, Nick. The following night Jim came over and I fucked him, too.
Sexiest Sex: Riding Dean (sans condom!) while Sam Cooke sang “Bring it on Home to Me.” Usually I can't listen to music while I'm fucking as I find it distracting, but I came really fast and really hard – I mean, it was Sam Cooke. Then I sucked Dean off and he came in my mouth really fast and really hard. So that was nice.
Runner Up: Jed muttering dirty things to me.
Who I Had Sex With:
Sweetheart Daniel (sex partner #10)
Jefferson (sex partner #12)
Jeremy (sex partner #13)
Mmmark (sex partner #14)
Evan (sex partner #15)
Jim (sex partner #16)
Jed (sex partner #17)
Will (sex partner #18)
Jacob (sex partner #19)
Alex (sex partner #20)
Dean (sex partner #21)
Jessica (sex partner #22)*
Anna Smash (sex partner #23)*
Nick (sex partner #24)
Alejandro (sex partner #8)
Paul (sex partner #25)
*Oral sex only. As I've mentioned, like Clinton, I think this doesn't really count.
Who I Hooked Up With:
1. Simon.
2. The Other Jake. According to Jefferson his dick is “like a jackhammer, and it's total porn star sex.” Which I did not get to experience. Though I guess that was just oral sex, too.
4. My Friend Jake.
5. Jessica's adorable boyfriend Sean.
6. Thomas (we just kissed, alas).
Other Notable Facts about 2007:
I got a full editorial job. And some freelance assignments! Hallelujah.
I became an aunt for the second time.
I started revising my novel.
I would like to continue this blog, but frankly I think it's a bad idea to write about Dean since he could, if he chose, read everything I post. It gives him an access to me that is both more and less than honest, and I'm not comfortable with the idea. I think whatever I want him to know I should tell him.
Besides, this is supposed to be a sex blog, and the more I have sex with someone, the less I have to say about it. I think it's because when I'm fucking someone I don't know well, the whole experience is exotic and frequently hilarious. But when I'm having sex with someone on a regular basis, I'm less observant because I'm not thinking about the sex as a blog entry. There's more room for emotion. What I mean is this:
“I too, if I may mention myself, have always known that my destiny was, above all, a literary destiny—that bad things and some good things would happen to me, but that, in the long run, all of it would be converted into words. Particularly the bad things, since happiness does not need to be transformed: happiness is its own end.”
Jorge Luis Borges wrote that, and the last part, in particular, has always applied to me. That is, I tend to write more when I'm unhappy. Right now I'm enjoying myself a lot. I am superstitious and suspect that by writing about my life, I will ruin it. If things start to go pear-shaped, I will certainly record it.
On the other hand, I started my year of living (and writing) somewhat dangerously in March of 2006. Which means I have several months' worth of unpublished adventures sitting on my hard drive. Stay tuned.
2007 Round Up: The Year in Living Somewhat Dangerously
Most “Holy Smokes, I Can't Believe this is Happening!” Moment: My First Orgy. Well, duh. Was it the writhing crowd on the bed? Jed’s dick? Jefferson’s unflappability? The cookies Callie baked on the living room table? At any rate, just attending made me feel cool and subversive. Hooking up with Mmmark and then Jed, both of whom are so cute and nice, was likewise thrilling.
Things About Jefferson that Made Me Laugh: The sight of him, naked, in lace up black leather boots with a pink ribbon around his balls; his “Daddy Likes” t-shirt; and that when I, worried that a mutual acquaintance had slept with almost 100 people, making him, in my opinion, sorta out of my league, Jefferson said, “Yes, but when you hit 100, the odometer goes back to zero.”
Dumbest Thing I Did (a tie): Stalked Jeremy/Revealed my secret identity as Sex Blogger Girl to Dean on our first date.
Most Ridiculous Conversation:
Me: How's Mmmark?
Jefferson: I don't know. And I should. After all, I publish the fanzine.
Me: The fanzine! What a great idea.
(I am picturing something akin to J-17, with headlines like, “Mmmark: What He Thinks About Global Warming!” and “Mmmark's Tips for Getting Along with Your Parents.”)
Me: It could be full of Mmmark news and tips! Like, “Boys and girls, don’t be afraid to approach Mmmark at an orgy! He’s really nice!”
Jefferson: Or, “How's Mmmark? Still Hot!” And, “What's Mmmark's favorite color? Still purple!”
Me: (chanting): “What's Mmmark's favorite food? I have no idea!”
Biggest Firsts for Me:
My First orgy!
My First Anal! (thanks, Jed)
My First Threesome!
My Second Threesome (etc.)!
My First Foursome!
My First Girl!
My First (and Second) Fisting! (Jed again).
It was a busy year.
Sex Aid I am Most Grateful For: BabeLube.
Most Surprisingly Satisfying Casual Sex: Paul. I was sorta dreading seeing him, but we were well-matched. Sadly, he went AWOL in November.
Most Surprisingly Unsatisfying Casual Sex: Alejandro. The most noticeable thing about it was how unmoved I was.
Nicest Surprise: That I'm still friends with Sweetheart Daniel. Oh, and the poem Jim wrote me.
Most Terrifying Moment: Realizing I was about to seduce a virgin (Jim).
Worst Part of Living Somewhat Dangerously: Brooding/crying over Jeremy.
Second Worst Part: Wondering if the Evan (Mr. Cult) affair was indicative of a total lack of judgment/normalcy on my part.
Best Part of Living Somewhat Dangerously: Having a secret when you’re bored on the subway feels good. I also met so many great people and got nice emails from readers. Thank you.
Things I Like About Dean: His terrible puns, his kindness and the funny Pillsbury Doughboy squeak he makes when I poke him in the ribs. Also he's really smart and tall and cute and likes to stroke my hair and hold my hand and takes me out for nice meals.
Worst First Date: Mr. Knucklehead. What a jerk.
Best First Date: Dean. He still has a scar by his eyebrow from when we fell off the stoop.
Sluttiest Episode: Ahem. I went for a drink with Jefferson, and ended up having sex with him, Anna Smash and Anna Smash’s hot boyfriend, Nick. The following night Jim came over and I fucked him, too.
Sexiest Sex: Riding Dean (sans condom!) while Sam Cooke sang “Bring it on Home to Me.” Usually I can't listen to music while I'm fucking as I find it distracting, but I came really fast and really hard – I mean, it was Sam Cooke. Then I sucked Dean off and he came in my mouth really fast and really hard. So that was nice.
Runner Up: Jed muttering dirty things to me.
Who I Had Sex With:
Sweetheart Daniel (sex partner #10)
Jefferson (sex partner #12)
Jeremy (sex partner #13)
Mmmark (sex partner #14)
Evan (sex partner #15)
Jim (sex partner #16)
Jed (sex partner #17)
Will (sex partner #18)
Jacob (sex partner #19)
Alex (sex partner #20)
Dean (sex partner #21)
Jessica (sex partner #22)*
Anna Smash (sex partner #23)*
Nick (sex partner #24)
Alejandro (sex partner #8)
Paul (sex partner #25)
*Oral sex only. As I've mentioned, like Clinton, I think this doesn't really count.
Who I Hooked Up With:
1. Simon.
2. The Other Jake. According to Jefferson his dick is “like a jackhammer, and it's total porn star sex.” Which I did not get to experience. Though I guess that was just oral sex, too.
4. My Friend Jake.
5. Jessica's adorable boyfriend Sean.
6. Thomas (we just kissed, alas).
Other Notable Facts about 2007:
I got a full editorial job. And some freelance assignments! Hallelujah.
I became an aunt for the second time.
I started revising my novel.
I would like to continue this blog, but frankly I think it's a bad idea to write about Dean since he could, if he chose, read everything I post. It gives him an access to me that is both more and less than honest, and I'm not comfortable with the idea. I think whatever I want him to know I should tell him.
Besides, this is supposed to be a sex blog, and the more I have sex with someone, the less I have to say about it. I think it's because when I'm fucking someone I don't know well, the whole experience is exotic and frequently hilarious. But when I'm having sex with someone on a regular basis, I'm less observant because I'm not thinking about the sex as a blog entry. There's more room for emotion. What I mean is this:
“I too, if I may mention myself, have always known that my destiny was, above all, a literary destiny—that bad things and some good things would happen to me, but that, in the long run, all of it would be converted into words. Particularly the bad things, since happiness does not need to be transformed: happiness is its own end.”
Jorge Luis Borges wrote that, and the last part, in particular, has always applied to me. That is, I tend to write more when I'm unhappy. Right now I'm enjoying myself a lot. I am superstitious and suspect that by writing about my life, I will ruin it. If things start to go pear-shaped, I will certainly record it.
On the other hand, I started my year of living (and writing) somewhat dangerously in March of 2006. Which means I have several months' worth of unpublished adventures sitting on my hard drive. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
I Handle Uncertainty With a Certain Aplomb. Not Really.
It was the day I was to hear from Dean regarding my proposition. He was to consult with his therapist and give me an answer. And then I might have a boyfriend! Alternatively, I might spend the next few weeks convinced that I was a love pariah, in the words of my favorite diarist.
I felt kind of queasy, though perhaps it was all the Swedish fish I'd had for breakfast. I keep my email account open on my desktop at work, so every time a new message hits my inbox there’s a ping! As soon as I heard the sound I would click on the window, only to find annoucements from The Body Shop or a newsletter from my college.
When did Dean see his shrink, anyway? The later it got, the worse my odds, I figured. If he wasn't interested, he might put off writing to me, whereas if the answer was yes, he had no reason to wait. I thought the earliest I might hear from was about 12:00 noon.
Noon came and went. At two o'clock I had decided if he hadn't contacted me by 5:00, the answer was no.
Time passed. I read other people's blogs. I read The New York Times. For variety, I did a little work. Just before 3:30, my computer pinged.
He had emailed me. The subject line was Very Well, Young Lady!
I thought, !!!
I opened the email: Yes, Dean had written, he thought it would be a good idea if we were to see one another exclusively. I read the words again. I guess his shrink had approved. I pictured Dean's shrink, seeing him with a beard and a strong resemblance to Sean Connery. I really, really liked his shrink, I decided.
I was happy, but also incredibly relieved I wouldn't have to spend the next few days valiantly trying not to be upset.
So I wrote back to say that I was really pleased.
Then I emailed Jefferson to give him the news.
I felt kind of queasy, though perhaps it was all the Swedish fish I'd had for breakfast. I keep my email account open on my desktop at work, so every time a new message hits my inbox there’s a ping! As soon as I heard the sound I would click on the window, only to find annoucements from The Body Shop or a newsletter from my college.
When did Dean see his shrink, anyway? The later it got, the worse my odds, I figured. If he wasn't interested, he might put off writing to me, whereas if the answer was yes, he had no reason to wait. I thought the earliest I might hear from was about 12:00 noon.
Noon came and went. At two o'clock I had decided if he hadn't contacted me by 5:00, the answer was no.
Time passed. I read other people's blogs. I read The New York Times. For variety, I did a little work. Just before 3:30, my computer pinged.
He had emailed me. The subject line was Very Well, Young Lady!
I thought, !!!
I opened the email: Yes, Dean had written, he thought it would be a good idea if we were to see one another exclusively. I read the words again. I guess his shrink had approved. I pictured Dean's shrink, seeing him with a beard and a strong resemblance to Sean Connery. I really, really liked his shrink, I decided.
I was happy, but also incredibly relieved I wouldn't have to spend the next few days valiantly trying not to be upset.
So I wrote back to say that I was really pleased.
Then I emailed Jefferson to give him the news.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
