On jealousy and writing (a fragment)

Note: I wrote this on my way to meet Charlotte for this date. I stopped writing when I arrived. Which is why this is a bit of a fragment.

Charlotte is jealous. I’m jealous. When she goes on a date, I want to know. I want to know everything. As soon as possible. While I’m not hearing from her, while she’s being plowed by some other lucky guy, I am reliving my childhood abandonments by my mother.

This was true of Veronique. Of Sofia. Of Marina. Of Isabel. And of women I wasn’t even dating, like the doe-eyed beauty. And it’s even true of women I don’t know. When I see a compelling woman with a man, I feel a base, visceral fear that quickly transmutes into anger, rage, even.

I’m a civilized, thoughtful guy. I don’t know that I’m all that unusual in this particular respect – except in my consciousness of my raw vulnerability. I don’t act on it, of course. I mean, with women I date, I do, to an extent: I ask to be indulged with information, with communication. I never ask a woman not to have sex with another man, or not to go on a date. I don’t feel entitled to do that. (This actually has bothered more than a couple of women.)

The converse of all of this – the women I date feeling jealousy about other women with whom I’m involved – is a whole ‘nother struggle.

I believe I’ve written about it a little before, but why not do it again since it’s fresh in my mind. 

Charlotte and I have been hot and heavy, having more dates than I have had time to write about here. She’s spent hours sucking my cock. I’ve spent hours collecting dozens and dozens – scores and scores – of her delicious orgasms. We’ve made plans to attend a sex party, had public and private adventures. All sorts of fun stuff.

And.

There’s other women.

No one who’s actually tasted my cock. Yet. But at least one looms. A sultry, curvy, tattooed brunette. (All of which adjectives equally well describe Charlotte.) One who wants to be tied up, who likes completing photographic assignments. And Charlotte is threatened. She is possessive of the time I am able to spend with her, and she understands that, on some level, time is zero-sum: if I’m spending time with this new object of my desire, well, unless we are having a threesome, I’m not spending that time with Charlotte. And this feels like a loss to her.

Similarly: if I’m thinking about someone else, that means I’m likely not thinking of her. This isn’t, strictly speaking, always true: as I write this, I’m thinking not just of Charlotte and of this new biddie-to-be-named-later, but of my wife, my son. My father. His husband. Athena. Jude. And a whole lot of others. This is just the way my mind works. It’s a busy, crowded space.

But then a thing that I don’t like happens: I involuntarily censor myself. I don’t write words that I know will cause discomfort in others. (Not unknown others – specific others about whom I care.) I don’t write about Jude because I know she is self-conscious about what I write about her. I don’t write about Athena because I fear – even though she’s three continents away – that Charlotte is threatened by her. I don’t write about this new woman for the same reason.

And then? Well, then I end up cheating at least myself. Maybe you, the readers. Definitely the women about whom I’m not writing (except Jude, maybe).

And I just don’t like it. I started this blog to express myself, not to hold back. The opportunity not to hold myself back liberated me. When I censor myself, I push myself back in an unhealthy closet.

And at the same time, I do care about the impact my words have on others. The impact my actions have. And, to be a bit less omnipotent, about the ways people feel in reaction to knowledge of things I do.

I’m monogamish. I date multiple women. Rarely more than one at a time. But occasionally, more than one at a time. I manage my time, and my relationships, well. I don’t skimp on anyone. And I value the freedom to do that. Even as I do my best to attend to the concerns of those who feel pain when I engage with, or write about, others.

All of which makes writing hard. Here are just a few topics about which I aspire to write in coming days, but about which I’ve been censoring myself a bit:

  • The dates with Charlotte I’ve failed to recount. [This, I haven’t censored. I just haven’t had a fucking minute.]
  • The evolution of my nascent relationship with the unnamed woman.
  • The web site Shien and the wonderful things it has done for my stretching with Athena and Jude.
  • Athena’s – and Emma’s, Melanie’s, and Jude’s – developing relationships with other men and the impact it’s had on me.
  • Athena as a muse.
  • Jude as a muse, and the evolution of my relationship with her.
  • All the women Athena’s introduced me to, directly (E, B, K, and at least 2 others) and indirectly (another K, by way of E).

Here’s hoping I find a path to writing about some of these things soon….

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