I want to be hard.
Not to come.
I want to be hard.
Not to come.
So as I meditated, my thoughts turned to you, to our date.
I had a fantasy. (Well, more than one, but this is the one I’m sharing here.)
We face some constraints, you and I, not least the current circumstances that make it impermissible for us to touch in any way other than incidental. I thought of two possible ways of addressing this circumstance. Not saying either is what we’ll do (or that either is what I want for us to do). But I did enjoy the fantasy, and I’m eager to hear your response to it.
So the first, ideal, fantasy, is this: you arrive, dressed as I have asked. With a friend, dressed as you have asked her to dress. Because you are not able to touch me, but she is, she will be your tool (and, to the extent you wish, your plaything) for the evening. You will use her to please me. You will instruct her, direct her, position her, move her. She will do precisely as you ask. And you will ask her to do precisely what you know will please me. Or rather, what you know would please me if you were to do it.
This fantasy has a lot going for it, for me. Unfortunately, what it lacks is verisimilitude. It just seems manifestly unlikely.
Which is how I found myself in fantasy #2. In this fantasy, you arrive, dressed as I’ve asked. We drink, talk, tease. And then, we adjourn to a nearby strip club. In this strip club, we spend our first, oh, say, hour, continuing our conversation, but with you recruiting various women to dance for us. For you, for me. When an hour or so has passed, you select the woman who you think is best suited to serve our needs, to please me. Or rather, to do what you know would please me if you were to do it.
As the fantasy continues, I procure a private room, and an hour (or maybe two) with the lovely lady you’ve selected, and we move ourselves there. The hosts, no doubt, ply us with some exorbitantly overpriced liquor. And we get down to business. This woman is, as in fantasy #1, your plaything, and your tool. You do exactly as in fantasy #1, subject, of course, to her limits, and to the limits imposed by the establishment, using her to approximate with me the pleasure you might provide me in that particular setting, were you free to.
As I said, I’m not saying this is how we’ll spend our time together. But I’m eager to hear your response.
I like most people. It’s not hard for me to muster attraction. But ugh.
She’s scrubbed. Her hair, her face, her teeth, the skin all over her body, much of which I can see around her denim shorts jumpsuit.
Her hair, brown, up, in a chignon, ends in blonde tips, tucked into the ball atop her head.
Her cheekbones are high, and her teeth, perfectly straight, glisten.
In her ears are tiny gold bars, a half-millimeter wide and a centimeter long. (They’re metric.)
On her neck hangs a thin gold chain, and on the chain hangs a gold “V.” The”V,” too, is half a millimeter wide, and about a centimeter long.
Her waist is narrow. Her hips flare.
I e-mailed V about this, concluding, “Tragically, she is neither you nor not with her mother.”
It’s a bitch.
Jack Kornfield once gave a talk in which he described his (and my) experience of it in which he said that it just isn’t particularly responsive remediation. It’s more like a fundamental fact than a response to a particular given social context or a specific social lack.
I feel this, acutely. I’ve developed all sorts of strategies for combating my loneliness, and while many of them produce salutary effects, none actually removes my underlying, chronic, irremediable loneliness.
My loneliness doesn’t translate as “I lack companionship,” but rather, “I have an insatiable, unquenchable thirst for a form of connection that my infancy and childhood left me, somehow, unable to receive.”
There’s this bartender, at the bar I frequent. She’s insanely hot. Blonde. Wears a choker. Almost always.
She flirts, always, but always in that way that communicates, “I’m a bartender. I have a boyfriend. Or in any event, I’m not dating ANYONE I met here. But I’m flirting with you because it’s fun, and it’s in my job description.”
I flirt similarly. In a way that says, “You’re fun to flirt with, and I know that, as long as I’m respectful, you’ll indulge my flirtation.”
Anyway, recently, after conversation I won’t summarize, we got to the topic of the taste of pussy. I told her Oban tastes like pussy.
“I wouldn’t know that taste,” she said, and my WHOLE PICTURE of her shifted.
I wasn’t shocked she hadn’t tasted another woman’s pussy. I don’t presume bisexuality. But her own??? Fuck.
We processed that, together, for a few. Her conversational comfort with the taste of her pussy was oddly radically different from her curiosity thereabout.
All I can say is, how do you make it to your late 20s or early 30s and a) not know what your pussy tastes like, and, at the same time, b) be perfectly comfortable discussing that with a dude you serve drinks to once every week or two???
I’d like to select your clothes.
I’d like you in black – a black dress, please. And black stockings. (Not tights or pantyhose. Stockings. If at all possible.) And, for a change, red lingerie. Red bra. Red panties. Boyshorts, preferably. And red shoes.
I don’t want you to have to shop.
But I do want that all, if possible.
And, to the extent that you have multiple options that conform with these wishes, I’d like to see those options – of course, preferably, on you. So that I may choose.
Oh, and one more thing: I know that you won’t be able to suck my cock on this particular date. I would like, however, for you to plan to leave the panties you wear with me until such time as you are in a position to do so.
We are better than our so-called president would have you believe. We will demonstrate that to you. I believe this.
And yet, there’s something about courting those experiences that draws me, inexorably.
The other night, I had a date. It was a great date. It didn’t end in sex – it ended in two chaste kisses, one, on the cheeks, and one, just on the edge of the lips. We said good-bye, having planned a much less chaste date in the very near future.
I won’t go into the details of the woman, or the date. One day soon, maybe I’ll share what I’ve written on those subjects. For now, though, what I want to explore is my relationship to the aftermath of the date.
For reasons that have nothing to do with me, she says, my date changed her mind. Twelve hours after our date ended, she was in a different place than she’d been when we said good-bye. She took longer than I might have liked to tell me that, and her communication with me since then has been… limited. (Though she took longer than I might have liked, she did nothing wrong.)
She’s not ghosting on me (I think). She’s working through some shit. Maybe one day, I can be helpful in that project. Maybe not today. If I had my druthers, she would say that a little more forthrightly: “I’m so sorry,” she might say. “I need to work through some shit, and I’ll be back with you in a week’s time, either to reengage, or to tell you I need some more time.” Or, simply, “It was fun meeting, but I’m not in a place to proceed right now. I’m sorry.”
What she said, though, was, essentially, “I’m sorry – I’m stuck in my head, doing a lot of thinking.” She pointedly did not promise anything about the future. But neither did she foreclose anything. And so here I am, stuck in my head, wondering, “SO?????????”
I’m not complaining about her behavior. I’m observing my response to it. I’m observing how much I hate this open-ended, ambiguous, uncertain, unknown zone. She might resurface. She might not. I don’t want her to reject me, but part of me would prefer rejection to limbo.
And I’m struck by my desperation. I’m fighting my urge to write her. I want clarity. I want to medicate my anxiety in the moment by prompting something, anything from her.
Desperation isn’t sexy, and I want to be clear: my desperation isn’t about her. It’s about something primal, something early. It’s about something that happened, most likely, long before she was even born (she’s a bit younger than I am).
Anyway: I expect I most likely will hear from her again. I have no way of predicting what, or when. And that sucks. Mostly, it sucks because of that shit that happened decades ago.
Do I offer what you crave?
Do you offer what I crave?
If you answer either question, “yes,” you answer both “yes.”
Does the idea of being used by me for my pleasure make you feel a jump in your stomach? In your cunt?
Do you ache to serve me, to give me what(ever) it is that I want?
Do you want – actively want – to subordinate your desires to mine?
Do you ache to hand over your sexual agency to me? To dress as I ask? To come when I ask? Not to come unless I ask?
Do you want to please me? To serve me? To be a good girl for me?
One question, more than any other, will determine our suitability for one another: can you commit to never, under any circumstances, saying “no” to me? This doesn’t mean you must agree in advance to any request I may have, but it does mean you have to want to do so, if at all possible, and that, if you find yourself unable to give me what I want, you will, nonetheless, remain committed to coming as close as possible, to working with me to maximize the extent to which you can meet my desires, consistent with your comfort.
Is this you?
If so, we really should talk.