Officially, Intermittent

I did *try* to write every day. And mostly, I did actually write at least something. And then was felled at the knees by lack of internet, lack of privacy, and much mental time occupied by being The Boss.

So yeah. This is now an intermittent blog. I can't keep letting you down, Gentle Readers, by saying I'm going to do something and then not doing it. So when I do, I'll make it as good as I can. And I'll also not kill myself by saying, oh, don't post that until it's perfect, because that way inaction lies.

Where am I now? In a secret location (let's note that it's a major honeymoon destination), shacked up with the Ex. I know. Dumb, dumb Mandy. So far there's only been minor shortness of breath. And really, who knows? The part of me that says, hmmmm, you're* kind of self-involved and a little bit boring and really, the sex had been going downhill, is strongly considering making this a last hurrah. The part of me that thinks, hey, never know when you'll be hit by a bus, would rather not end without closure. I'm working on having Part A strangle Part B but then the thought of choking just turns me on.

Where will I be Thursday? Possibly in a Midwestern City with Big City Lover. We're texting it out.

Where will I be the first weekend in June? With Fucked-Up Guy, plotting and planning to give my team-members and his fiancee the slip so we can shag intensely and silently in shared lodging.

Where will I be all year? Why, on the road, of course. That big beautiful pond full of fish, maybe one of whom will touch the thing in me that needs it beyond my control...

* * *

Quote of the week: "I never learned in health class that wiping front to back thing, and that's why I got a gall bladder infection that almost killed me..."

Words to live by.

* * *

*note intentionally ambiguous pronoun

Text Interlude

I have just finished 28 days of fairly vigorous work without a day off, (highlights included 78 children, David Duke, two oyster bars, the Lincoln Monument and believers speaking in tongues, not all at the same time) and skipped out on my plane ticket for the sake of warm weather for a few more days...I'm getting caught up, including here. Thank you for your patience.

***

I text: Flying into Midwestern City, where shall we meet?

He texts: Meet you Wed night in Hometown.

I text: Spend the night or just hang out?

He texts: Spend night

I text: OK. I have a conspicuous car. Any chance of a city further from home? Makes me jumpy.

He texts: Lol. You pick.

I text three more times trying to figure out where is good, and then: It s like planning the invasion of Normandy.

He texts: You make plans as you need. I be when/where you need me.

I text: You re the best :) How can I ever repay you...?

He texts: Tee hee hee

Yum.

Yum, yum, yum.

Fourth Base

The apartment is cold, I cradle the coffee cup in my hands, my girly mix of half milk and lots of sugar coursing through me while we make small talk about our job. He’s funny, he’s honest, he doesn’t have a deal with his on-again girlfriend and he makes sure I know that.

I like knowing where I stand.

And where I stand right now is on the brink. The Dread’s been coursing through me for some days now, I step to the edge of the dock and step back, step to the edge of the icy water and let it lap my toes. This is what I need.

He says, “So I was hoping maybe we could hook up.”

I say, “That’s why I’m here.”

“Come over here.”

I cross to the other couch, he kisses me, first with the firmness of a confident often-lover (though he’s not, this is the first time he hasn’t fucked it up, if he was more than ten minutes off the highway I’d have thought twice) then wrapping his arms around me and placing my body under him on the couch, kissing my face, my neck, my hair, sometimes my mouth, I use my hands in his hair and he groans and sweeps me up, standing, carrying me to the bedroom, so tall and strong and fit that for once I don’t care how much I weigh in his arms.

The bed is made. Points, I think, and then I’m on my back and he’s on me like a wolf, his hands on my neck, my back, my breasts, under my shirt, my shirt is off and his mouth is on my nipples, sucking hard, biting softly, his other hand squeezing not too hard and then he’s reaching for my zipper. Jeans off, he pauses for a moment to admire my panties (yes, chosen). “Nice,” and then they’re off and his mouth is on my pussy, his fingers fucking me hard in a way that walks up to the edge of pain and observes there, though he’s not trying to hurt me, not like…

And then his fingers are in my ass and this accelerates oral to a whole new place, a place where if I wasn’t shy with new people, wasn’t worried about taking too long, I could come. I nearly do. I can’t ask for more, I’m not in that place, and this is so overwhelming my senses almost shut down. He comes back to kiss me and that taste is me on his lips, so familiar and yet so foreign on a different mouth. His fingers are in me again and if this keeps up the pain will be the wrong pain, the wrong person, so I push him back and take off his shirt, take down his pants, and good grief, new record, his cock nearly as thick as my wrist rising from clean shaven skin, sweet-smelling, sweet-tasting, and I suck him with all my desire to please him. Tongue around the head, wet mouth around him, draw him into my mouth, my throat, only able to go halfway before I gag, draw back, force down again. He’s loud, he likes it, I slide one hand up and down his cock, gently pinch his scrotum, press into his perineum with the other. He pulls me off, rolls me over, slides into me I brought condoms, I’d really prefer… and fucks me hard, the feeling is not pain but intensity so hard tears well up, coming from release of tension, release of waiting, release of The Dread. His sweat drips onto my breasts, I’m loud, he’s loud, high and low-pitched grunts and moans, I can’t tell whose voice.

I roll him over and slow down a little, rubbing my clit on his body in the way that makes me come, knowing I have to come, and when I do – the slow build, the burning in my thighs, the burning in my belly, the burn that starts in the center and spreads out, pushing back for that little pain, forward for the drag of pleasure, back for stretching and spreading around his cock, forward to release a little, catching like a rachet, never slipping back completely – the tears flow down my face, I come hard, opening and burning, shaking and weeping.

He is not freaked out by this. Or at least does not tell me if he is.

We roll over again, back to mish, he pulls my legs over his shoulders and starts to fuck me so hard I know I can only take it for a little while, he’s too big for this to be easy. He comes in me, almost as loud as me, and we roll over and laugh, lie together, warm enough.

He says, “Your body is so young. So smooth and white. I feel like a teenager again.” I’m pleased to be thin and pale, pleased to not worry about a flattering angle when I get up and walk to the bathroom and back. I pinch his nipples, suck on one, move down to his cock and start again, feeling him harden in my mouth. He takes me from behind, first on hands and knees and then pushing me down into the pillows, my legs together, thrusting into me so hard my body checks out to observe for a moment, noting how intense this is, and yet it does not right now register as pain. He pulls out, he’s soft, it’s been awhile for him, too. He’s rueful, wants to fuck me with his fingers, but I’m fine, this is enough. We lie on the bed and tell each other one-liners. We talk about doing this again sometime. The phone rings, his son’s Christmas pageant starts in a few minutes, and I need to get back on the road. We shower. We dress. I am sore, I am content, I am Dread-free for a little while.

Home run, no. But a respectable fourth base.

Strikeout

This is the end of the story: I walk back to the hotel alone, the snow now a fine, driving crystalline miasma that pierces through my jeans, my leggings, hunches me down to the narrow vision of the sidewalk of the next six feet, the hurried glance at the crossing signal, the white man still flashing go-go-go as I cautiously run the last fifty yards, all grace gone in the effort to achieve, at least, the door.

***

Kieran is the most enthusiastic dancer in the room. His hands on my waist, on my ass, draw me into the leg-straddling grind that passes for dancing these days (old enough to say “these days,” old enough to not recognize most of the songs) but also twirl me in and out of his arms, speak to me with his fingers that sing along, mouthing money and booty and all my ho’s as well as I love you and you’re so fucking beautiful you’re so hot. He buys me a ginger ale, he asks me repeatedly if I’m a cop, because I don’t drink. He’s a Native, I am the only light-skinned, thin-featured, light-haired person in the room of “you wanna see some wagonburners?” asked the Iranian doorman as he ushered me past frisking and metal detectors and a $25 cover. Turns out it’s the after-party for the Pow-Wow Gathering, everyone here played lacrosse all day, shook their tailfeathers on the stadium floor, shared stories and beading techniques while I drove through snow to get to the Big City, checked in, went out, passing the first two clubs (long, huddled lines of thick coats over bare legs, the last smoke in line before getting in), thankful the hotel is only two blocks away. I followed the Power Girl list, I crunched and pushed up to all of Behind The Music: America’s Next Top Model until I glowed, I showered, I changed pants three times and settled on jeans, I bought my own first ginger ale, and I am going to get laid.

Kieran takes a break, joins his friends, dances with other girls, dances with me again after I dance alone and with another man, an ironworker who abandons me when it turns out I don’t smoke anything, either. I am beautiful tonight, I am wearing my favorite top (turns out there’s a hook that keeps it closed in front, didn’t find that out until I got back to the hotel), I have good hair, I am made up the right amount, and according to Kieran I am fucking sexy. If nothing else, I will have had two hours of cardio, interrupted only by a wait in the bathroom to take off the leggings beneath my jeans, I am finally warm enough.

We talk, as much as one can in a club. He says, You are so beautiful. I thank him. He says, Where are you staying? I tell him my hotel. I tell him, You should come home with me. He says, I would never let a girl like you slip through my fingers. He asks when I want to leave. Maybe half an hour? I say. He asks what I do. I tell him he won’t believe me, but he touches my arms, my waist, my thighs with both his hands, and believes me. Kieran kisses me, and his lips are as strong and soft as his hands on me, I cannot wait to have him in me and on me and under me, and then he asks,

How come a girl like you is single?

And that’s the part of the story where no matter how literary I can be with telling what may not have happened but is the truth, no matter how I can bend the world with words, fingerpaint the pretty picture from the primary details, I cannot fail to tell the fact.

I’m married. I’m in an open relationship.

And Kieran, who describes himself as a bad, bad boy, who claims to do bad things, turns out to have a strong moral conviction that it’s wrong to mess with another man’s wife.

********

The next morning, I lie in bed, waking after four hours of fitful sleep, waking again and again to check the clock, the phone, the clock again, make sure I have not missed the call from Fucked-Up Guy, my early breakfast date. Last night we would have met, but when you have custody, you’re subject to the vagaries of your sixteen-year-old sitter’s social life. After two weeks of Facebook poking and subtle messaging (does the girlfriend still have the passwords or doesn’t she?) we have finally made a date, which he breaks without calling.

The ex is still the last man I fucked. This is not OK.

This is not OK.

This is not OK.

Sweet. And Uncomplicated. And Pirates.

Sweet and uncomplicated. That’s all I need. No owning, no taking, no teasing, no hurting. Just sweet. And uncomplicated.

I go to a party. Flat-iron my hair, new black top in which my breasts look smashing (thanks again, Be-My-Real-Friend), the one pair of jeans I own ($10, resale store, Yonge Street, 10 years ago), black spike heel boots, pretty bra and panties just in case. Power Girl is my wingman. She will keep me from choices of desperation. I have consulted her, I have consulted Beautiful Girl, what I need is “something sweet and uncomplicated” (and oh god the terror, what I need is a man who will not want to touch me there, so that I do not have to text or worse call Lover and ask, may I? because the answer may be no, or worse, yes, or worst, it’s not my decision to make).

It is a pirate party.

There are skulls and glow necklaces and black flags and hats with plumes and for some reason, plastic Viking hats. There is a pirate trivia contest and games involving whoever has an animal on their drink bottle or is holding a face card or is wearing something red. There is, of course, booty. And an hors d’ouevres table with grown-up pate and salmon mousse and tiny circles of ham with Dijon and my favorite, devilled eggs. It is dork-tastic. Geek-a-licious. Spectacu-nerd. And it is sweet and uncomplicated. The hostess is incredibly nice. The host is an ex-lover (and then I walked away from the club where we all shot pool and you had to walk the other way with your friends who didn’t know and I ended up on my knees for the man now hosting, in the alcove of a public building, within sight of the window where Husband awaited my return and never looked out, and oh how you held my throat with your hands while I told you how I spent that time kneeling). I tell the host that, were it not for his obviously happy relationship, I would be making a play, and he concurs. Sweet and uncomplicated.

I talk to an engineer. I make him tell Power Girl the story of the iron ring that engineers wear, made first from the Twin Rivers Bridge and then from the Mauritania and now from stainless steel, the ring that rubs against the paper on the working hand and reminds them all that human lives depend on doing the job well. The engineer is cute, talkative, nervously dorky, fun. Sweet. Uncomplicated. While he talks I scan the room, Attached, Attached, NotGoingToBeGame, NotMyType, Attached, AlrightGoodEnough is standing in front of me finishing the story of the ring.

I don’t win the trivia contest. But Good Enough and I flirt throughout, sharing answers (I’m still competitive enough to start hiding my paper when the questions get tougher), moving towards and away. I catch him eyeing my cleavage, and I stand too close to write my name on my quiz paper while holding it against his chest. He plops a plastic Viking helmet on my head and I warble a few bars of "spear and magic helmet!". I'm pretty sure that counts as a pass.

At midnight, lasagna comes out, and there is a renewed rush to the buffet. I talk to a girl who lost her beloved pet rat. She has a tattoo of the rat, she was born in the year of the rat, twelve years before me. I don’t have the heart to tell her that as a February baby, she was probably born in the previous (Chinese) year, rather than the one she thinks. Later I’ll look it up for my own curiosity, and in the meantime, she is happy. I drift by Power Girl, who is trapped between two Francophones who haven’t showered. She gives me the eye, I give her the eyebrow, she gives me the shrug, might as well, nothing better and he’s clean and cute and a not-stupid. Good Enough turns into a pumpkin, and when he hugs me goodbye, I whisper in his ear, “any chance of a shag?” He asks me to call him next time I’m in town. I know it’s over, but I give him my card anyway.

When Power Girl and I head downstairs, he is waiting in the lobby. I know he is waiting for me, so we drive him home. Two streetwalkers cross in front of the car, and I observe that this part of town is full-service girls, short skirts and no tights. The ones further down are head and handjobs, and they wear leggings and high boots. Good Enough says he doesn’t connect with it, and I ask, paying or selling? Neither. He has friends who are “polyamorous,” and he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to do that, either. I feel Power Girl’s psychic signals in my head: don’t tell don’t tell and are you really sure you want to do this babe in the woods? She's pled sick, we drop her at the hotel, I already know it’s not going to happen, that the level of honest I have to be I can’t not be will cause him to run screaming, possibly literally, now I’m only deciding whether to bother enlarging his world.

I stop at his corner, he tells me he’d like to get to know me better, he’s ruined two relationships in a row by moving too fast. I think:

I cost $1500 and you could have had me for free.

There are a dozen people at least who’d love to see my face, let alone fuck me.

I can give pleasure like you wouldn’t believe possible, even without the extra whore/porn touches I often throw in.

He says: “Thanks for the ride.”

I say:

“I’m married.

I’m polyamorous, though I hate that word and wouldn’t choose it.

There’s a reason for the “one” in “one-night-stand.”

You’re welcome. Sleep well.”

Zurich (now the words)

Zurich (now the words)

In the car, on the way to Decaying Midwestern City (aren’t they all?), I say, “It’s nice to get to know you better.” I have cancelled a business meeting that would require taking my own car for exactly that reason. He says, hand on the wheel, jeans, black t-shirt over the shape of his working arms, his chest that looks as though he makes his living in a way that muscles his chest (he does), “There are a lot of things I’m protective of.”

“There are banks in Zurich less protective than you,” I say, and smiling, move my hand above his knee.

Two years ago, we knew each other casually. He invited me to a private place at his work, kissed me, lay me down in a hot, dim space, pulled my soft shorts to one side and went down on me. He wasn’t dressed in a way I could return the favor. Later that night, I met him in his hotel room, breaking my not-in-my-hometown rule, the sex was fantastic, our manner to each other stiff, neither wanting to commit to the first “I like you” words, both wary of giving away too much to our new, meanly witty acquaintance.

What I remember: the room was a handicapped room. I had met Lover in the same room two weeks before, the vagaries of coincidence. Zurich fucked me for a long time, mish, cowgirl, from behind with his cock big enough that I cried out and pulled away, puzzling him when I asked for more. We sat in each other’s laps, face to face, inside and wrapped around each other, his favorite, intimate and apart at the same time.

Zurich sends me a Myspace survey, the e-equivalent of the note in sixth grade, Do you like me? Check YES or NO. I answer the questions, delighted that someone’s interested, filling in the cute, the silly, the sexy, the banal.

1) Your Name: Mandy

3) Single or Taken: N/A

4) Favorite Movie: Run Lola Run

6) Favorite Music: Crappy pop on the radio, stuff Power Girl plays in the car, Peggy Lee

7) What word or phrase would you say best describes you? Right now I'm really referencing "thou shalt not bind the mouths of the kine that tread the corn" a lot.

9) Rate yourself out of 10 as a person and explain why? 7. Smarter, prettier and more talented than average, but with a slight egotism, deceitfulness and selfishness problem.

11) Tell me one odd/interesting fact about you: Won fifth grade spelling bee. Has secret recipe for pork chops.

12) First impression of me? Asshole. But really attractive.

16) Would you feel comfortable sleeping next to me? You're a little warm, but overall, yes.

17) Would you let me bake you a pie? Strawberry-rhubarb, please.

19) If you had 1 day to spend with me before I died, what would you want to do? Practice [job-related skill] and fuck.

I Myspace him back. He answers as fast as I did.

1) Your Name: Zurich

3) Single or Taken: I am my own man

4) Favorite Movie: Robocop

6) What word or phrase would you say best describes you? Bitter acerbic wit

7) Tattoos and/or Piercings: none

8) Why did you add me? Trying to get my round 2 with Mandy

9) Rate yourself out of 10 as a person and explain why? I am a 6...I was much higher once...but I am not the man I used to be...

10) Tell me one memory we have shared together: Overly warm dark place... and I kissed you and gave you oral sex...and you said "thanks"... I thought that was cool.

12) First impression of me? In a hurry...trying to impress...think she might be attracted to me or very chatty...hard to tell.

14) If you didn't know me, & you saw me in the street - What would your first thought be?
Great smile.... even upsidedown

19) If you had 1 day to spend with me before I died, what would you want to do? Skip the [job-related skill] swim and fuck...

A few months ago, he catches me at a bad time. More recently, he stalks more cautiously, makes me feel wanted and not just demanded. We have a business reason to get together. Phone calls are brief and in company. I text him:

Sorry to be distracted, underslept. I’m genuinely looking forward to seeing you.

He texts back, me too possible naked time! and follows it up with that was supposed to be a question.

I watch him work. He is authoritative and solicitous, a good combination. We’re reserved, polite, professional.

Today, I turn up at his hotel, as invited. He greets me at the door in a shirt and towel. I step out of my shoes and his hands are on my back, his mouth on my mouth. A teen comedy plays on the TV, an idiot blonde drama queen wreaking havoc all around her while the men in her life scheme to calm her down. Zurich is on me, in me, around me, his cock as long as Lover’s and hard, hard, hard, widening at the base and leaving me sore inside and out. The feeling of mild pain as he presses into the back wall of my pussy is what pushes me over the edge. He comes silently, and immediately gets up, flushes the condom, puts on his pants – he hates being naked, I don’t know why, he’s beautiful. I do know why, he’s recently not fat anymore.

We drive. We talk, more in this 90 minute drive than ever in our cumulative time together. It’s not deep, just personal. Which, for him, is the Marinas Trench. Which, for me, lets me lower the wall of don’t-let-him-see-you-be-weak-he’ll-stab-you-and-laugh. Which is probably what he’s afraid of, too.

“I’m all go,” he tells me. He’s not the type to flirt, to take turns in the game, he’s the type to take you up on a mild offer, the casual bait for a long play snapped up and there’s Zurich in your boat, holding you in your own net. Quick like a bandaid, pain or pleasure and at least it’s done, at least you know.

The hotel at the other end of the trip is a marble-lobby throwback to the days when commercial travelers stayed here for weeks at a time. Our room is grandly called a suite, the air conditioner is a wall unit mounted at floor level and cools only the space between the bed and the window. It’s hot even by the open window. The fetish club is in the basement, at the bottom of a dizzyingly fast elevator ride. He has changed into another black shirt, this time with collar, black jeans, boots. I have agonized over the Suitcase of Potential I brought with me, finally deciding, you can never go wrong with schoolgirl.

In the club, the ceiling is barely above our reach, the dance floor lightly thronged with hot goth girls in outrageous outfits. I hadn’t known what to expect, it is the Midwest after all, and I’m surprised at the range of clothing choices – there are the goth girls, a large contingent of black trench coats, a medium-sized schoolgirl quotient (at least I guessed the dress code right), and a group of what look like older frat boys in shorts and t-shirts. I’m bemused that there’s apparently no dress code. When the DJ announces that the participants in the fetish show should go backstage, all the hot goth girls leave the dance floor, thus solving the disconnect.

We watch the fetish show. There’s a scene with anime girls frolicking and then being attacked by a giant scrotum monster (there’s a fuzzy grey suit and two guys with one penis-shaped arm each involved), at which point they reveal themselves as Sailor Moon and one girl scares off the monster with a metal-bikini grinder act (she uses a grinder to shoot sparks from her steel bra). There’s a threesome where the two guys hook up while drunk and carry off the girl to parts unknown, via the one foot of wing space at the side of the stage. There’s a fire-eater who blows fireballs under the scary low ceiling and does body lights off a “slave girl”. There’s some sort of whipping act that I turn away from. In between, the slave girl crawls across the stage floor with scene title cards in her teeth. It’s interesting, and parts of it are amusing and even entertaining, but it’s not sexy. It’s not just the legal distance between groins and mouths, or the lack of connection between the “slaves” and the “dominants,” it’s the disconnect between reality and play-acting.

When I turn away from the whipping scene, I see a couple leaning against a square concrete pillar under the low ceiling. One of them is a young man, college-age, stocky and gentle-faced. One of them is either a boyish young woman, or a girlish young man in drag. (S)he’s in a tank top, a knee-length cotton madras skirt, flat sandals. He’s in the ubiquitous black jeans and black t-shirt. Her back is against the pillar, he leans into her, kisses her hair, her ears, her neck. Her face is sweetly upturned, her eyes closed, and there is the look I know, I remember, the look that says, you like me. I like that you like me. I’m not a little girl anymore. It’s the sexiest thing I see all night.

Today I Am...

1) Crushing hard on a Kiwi who plays the ukelele.

2) Bitter that I'm not better at my job.

3) In another time zone.

4) Out of love.

5) Totally thwarted in #1.

6) Wearing a totally ridiculous outfit...

7) ...that I am paid to wear.

8) (Not like that)

9) Alternately loving and hating my hair.

10) On the edge of tears.

11) Behind on a big project.

12) Transported by said Kiwi playing "Sweet Child Of Mine" on said ukelele

13) (Including the guitar riff)

14) to another girl.

15) (Context is important)

16) Contemplating starting a Facebook.

17) Definitely out of love

18) and calling on Beautiful Girl

19) to help me stick to #17.

20) Because if he puts his hand on the back of my neck, it's all over.

21) Craving Thai salad rolls

22) which will be made for me by a tiny Laotian woman

23) whom I think understands how much I love them.

Cards on the Table (and a bit of The Code)

The first night. Midrange hotel bar. Green felt cloths. Warming trays of meatballs and chicken wings and mini eggrolls shining moistly in their own grease, nothing I can, at this moment, eat.

He comes and hugs me. Fucked-Up Guy. First hand, two years ago, end of the event and we flirted over bad burgers and catered potato salad and he drank open bar while I nibbled orange slices and maraschino cherries out of a fruited Shirley Temple. He wanted a shower before the long drive home, I offered my room (I once bought ten pairs of underwear shopping with his girlfriend, hoping that new lacy things would make Husband love me again), he considers for a moment and shakes his head, “If it’s the first time, it shouldn’t be rushed,” he says and when the beer begins to wear off he’s on the road, headed for good fathership.

Second deal, we’ve Myspaced a bit but nothing committed, neither taking the step of recognizing or asking what’s going on. In the bar, Fucked-Up Guy launches immediately into the story of his relationship, Chapter Now. They are living separately, she could no longer stand how he minimized his email every time she walked into the room. He gave up all his passwords, he has to be good, she might be watching. He and I have never had problems finding sex on the road, he’s having a hard time knowing whether to enjoy being separated or practice being better at being together. I can’t tell, so I ask, after the second time he mentions his room number, “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be respecting your limits or pushing you over the edge.”

“I don’t know, either.” He’s rueful, he has no cards in the hole. I’m strung up like a high E wire, It’s been three weeks of housing close enough to not bother to pack my toys, shared time, shared car, so much work I can’t even step into a bathroom with a likely prospect. The meet and mingle drifts to a close, I’ve located my room, Fucked-Up Guy calls over his shoulder on his way upstairs, “I’m in Five-Oh-Three!” Raise. I call his bluff, and spend the evening giving myself a facial. The kind that comes from Wal-mart.

The Code
Play with your equals. Don’t use superior ability to overwhelm the young, the inexperienced, the awestruck. If they’ve never played this game before, take the time to find out what they think the rules are, what they hope for, what they fear.

Don’t take advantage of people when they’re down…

The next day, shoulder to shoulder, I end up kneeling in front of him several times, innocent context made naughty by my look. I ask, “Let me know if you want to be shoved.” “Last night I wouldn’t have had any resistance,” he says, looking down at my upturned face. “I know.” It’s not fun to play if you know you’ll win. Uncertainty is the spice, the goad, the challenge. Why play with someone who has to be coddled along? Raise, raise, raise. Strike your strongest blow and lose your balance when they pull... “I’m your friend, first,” I say. “If it happens, great. If it’s weird for you, tell me, I won’t be hurt.” Fucked-Up Guy knows I’m cool with whatever happens, he knows I know it’s not me. “That’s why it has to be now, in daylight, this is when I can make a real decision,” he says. We are playing with all our cards on the table. The question is not who is bluffing, but can we assemble a decent hand from what we’ve got.

That night, he’s drunk and dressed as a queen. Don’t ask. Again, I sleep alone, restless, strung out. I’m also not so much flirting as enjoying a barely concealed antagonism with another fellow on this project, BitterMan. I like assholes, every now and then I get a thing for someone who treats me with slight contempt. It’s a challenge.

The next day, Fucked-Up Guy smiles, rearranges his schedule to leave early, whispers, “thanks” in my ear. “I don’t take advantage of drunks,” I tell him and he laughs. We take a group photo. I lean against him, his body is so strong and solid, his hand around my back, he jokingly reaches for my breast and stops, my hand on his ass. There’s something so reassuringly big about him, I feel like I am leaning on a wall of comfort. I want this. Just not today.


At the elevator after a long and flirty dinner, I know BitterMan is hunting PowerGirl and we all know it’s not going to happen, but I’m past the point of reasonable caution and I stop for a moment. “Let me know if you’re up for it.” BitterMan is blindsided, it takes him a minute to process. “What?” “I lobbed a pass. You missed it.” He’s so not into me. I’m busted, flushed. I pace my room, debate calling for a second try, and foolishly do it, leading to only more embarrassment. Fortunately, it’s Harry Potter night. So I drive into the fog and search the city for a book I’m pretty sure I can’t get either, the white air around me veiling my humiliation.

Second Date (still secret)

Mexican food. Good Mexican food, served by actual Mexicans in a strip mall outside Southern City. Secret Scientist comes last, someone’s showoff car had to be pulled from the ditch (to the delight of all his friends). I’ve saved the seat by me, Power Girl and our colleague Picky-Picky across the table, warm chips, medium salsa, guacamole so good I scrape the bowl with my finger and for once, I’m not the only one.

Secret Scientist sits in the inside seat, there are rabid fans on the patio, he’d rather not be accosted, some days being a musician sucks. We’re girls, we’re used to freezing out people we don’t want to talk to.

Amazing food, his hand on my thigh, my hand on his under the table. I catch the waiter by the bar, pay cash for the meal, it’s Picky-Picky’s birthday, Secret Scientist has bought a couple of times already, Power Girl can leave the tip. Deep-fried cheesecake split four ways, just a few bites is enough.

“Secret Scientist’s going to drive me home, I’ll see you there.” Bless Power Girl, she understands, often more than I expect or deserve.

He cleans out the front seat of the pickup, the drive for home is not long enough. The chat is wide-ranging but also constrained. I look. “What?”

“Ummmm…I don’t mean to offend you, but I have to ask…is this because you’re curious?”

Bi-curious? Curious about his cock? Huh? Oh….that’s right. All at once, Circus Guy is on my pussy, his eyes closed, Big City Lover swivels inside me, my father opens the door to Andre, looks him up and down, “Couldn’t you find anyone from our side of town?”

I say, “I’ve had black lovers before.” He’s relieved and ashamed, I let him off the hook – “We don’t know each other that well. It’s a fair question.” Because that’s the deal when you’re a slut – it’s not fair to be offended by the need to know, to confirm details that would come out over time. Ready to fuck, ready to forgive.

At the place I’m staying, we sit in the drive, the night is warm and slightly humid, still grey with dusk at 9pm. The truck might have been a stick, or maybe there was a big console, I don’t remember, I only remember that reaching across to touch had to be a choice, no accidental brushing was plausible. It’s been a long time since I’ve sat in the passenger seat and stretched out goodbye.

We talk about when we’ll see each other again, tours of duty intersecting, how far we’ll go when the time comes that we can be alone, strange city, a bed. We talk about race. We talk about things we like, I tell him I’m in love with my husband, I tell him I’m a whore.

Here’s what I like. I like that a man who specializes in a field that requires him to be very aware of all the dangers of sex with strangers would like to fuck me anyway. I like that a man who has a girlfriend (she’s hot, and she can probably kick my ass) thinks he would be jealous of my quarry when he sees me hunting.

The truck gets humid. I crack a window. The CD plays like a soundtrack to the moment of making him touch me. Or rather, touch me more.

I double dog dare you, I say, and there is his hand sliding up my thigh, I’m damp with sweat and anticipation, his fingers slide inside me and I make a noise under his mouth. I suck his fingers, sliding my tongue around the base of his nails, taking his fingers into my mouth, into my throat. He kisses me again, his tongue probing my mouth and with a rush I realize he’s tasting for my taste. It is sublime to be this wanted.

I look at him and laugh. “What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” the quote itself a tiny betrayal of the man to whom I quote that play, and then I slide out of the truck, still laughing.

He waits, sweetly, comfortingly, until the door is opened to me, as if a bad high school date is wiped from history, replaced by something sweet and clean and still weeks from the sell-by date.

Secret Date

We’re in the dark. Sitting side by side, surrounded by people, but alone, in the dark. His mouth is on my ear, he says...

There’s a group. Fans, hangers-on, junior colleagues, Hairline Boy, Power Girl, Secret Scientist and me.

Allegiance: he warned me last time when girlfriend came along, I told him I was fine either way but couldn’t take a surprise, the coded phone call is the first tiny step towards the damp-sheeted tangle late one night to come.

No girlfriend this time. Just us. Two’s company, twelve’s a crowd.

Nudging my thigh between his legs when he hugs me

The junior colleagues’ faces fall, Power Girl and I are dressier, standing distant enough from the door to be a whole picture (“after you knock on the door, stand back a couple of steps…it’s important that the client gets the full image of you…” thank you, Sydney). We’re also older, more successful, less anxious, but we’re extra kind tonight and they relax. The hangers-on orbit gently. I’m a fool to dress for sex instead of the weather, Hairline Boy brings a sweater (white! cable knit! preppy beyond belief!) from his car and a long hug but the theatre is warmer even than his look.

His mouth is on my ear, his goatee tickles firmly

Into the theatre, up to the balcony, Secret Scientist, Power Girl and I deploy to the end of the row, Hairline Boy responsibly dealing with tickets is cut off at the pass, a sea of goth-y underage flesh between us.

My hand on his thigh, my nails on the inseam of his jeans

Secret Scientist brings a mug of tea, a beer, a bowl of noodles. He offers a bite and I suck the noodles off the fork, Asian sweet-vinegar in my mouth like sucking him. I adore being brought food, I adore sharing food, being fed, intimacy through basic need fulfilled.

sitting at Lover’s feet, my hands tied, fed salad and steak and then his cock…

The show, not all-around brilliant but decent, especially the actor we know. “Good,” Power Girl whispers, “now we don’t have to like him less.” We’re all facing forward, the stage light spills but the play is enough that no-one’s watching, the height of my crossed legs hiding us from all but Power Girl, who’s occupied mentally re-directing the show.

His hand gently beneath my hem, the outside of my thigh, the top of my thigh

In the interval, the dessert line, something sweet to share with Power Girl. Secret Scientist at the bar, I brush past him, a low tone less obvious than a whisper, “Do you know how much I want to fuck you right now?” “As much as I want to lick your pussy until you scream?”

My nails across his palm, the tips of his fingers across my palm

Applause and the lights go down. Secret Scientist’s mouth is on my ear, he says, “Open your legs.” It takes me a moment to understand and I do, his hand strong on thin lace panties, his fingers probing gently. I cross my legs again as his hand retracts and the lights come up all together. I clap and look left, he’s thoughtfully licking his fingers.

”Lover, is it enough I thought of you?” (but I didn’t)

Unlimited Ride Wristband Night!

Here’s what I got to ride at the midway:
Freak-Out
Power Surge
Giant Ferris Wheel
Monkey Jungle
Wacky World
Alpine Bobsleds
Giant Slide (3 times)
Merry-Go-Round

Here’s what I didn’t get to ride:
Secret Scientist

But his girlfriend is totally hot...


On another note, Power Girl and I were propositioned by carnies at, of course, the Merry-Go-Round. Nothing says wholesome, child-oriented-ride like a guy with six teeth letting you know he gets off in half an hour. I figure it’s like the way they train dolphins – if the reward comes all the time, the desired behavior gets sloppy, the animal will do only the minimum to get the treat. But if the rewards are irregular and unpredictable…well, they’re motivated to do their very best every time. Good try, Flipper – and keep up the good work!


(Amazing photo courtesy of World of Juice Juice, if you ever read this...love to comment on your pics but can't find a link or even a way to contact you on your site.)