I’ve written a tiny bit about each of Shakira and Cee, but I haven’t written very much about either. This, in spite of the fact that each has given me an enormous amount to think about. And if they haven’t inspired a lot of posts on this blog, they’ve certainly inspired a lot of draft posts in my head.
Part I: Shakira
I’ll start with Shakira, whom I met first, and through whom I met Cee. Shakira is 5’6 or 5’7, I think—not the 5’2 or 5’3 I initially thought. I met her on Seeking, where, characteristically, I proposed stretching. She lives not far from me. She works in an industry completely foreign to mine, and has a configuration of life completely foreign to me.
Her philosophy, unapologetic, proud even, is: “I don’t pay for anything. That’s what men are for.” Without shame or hesitation, she uses men—left, right, and sideways. To hang the pictures in her apartment. To fund her travel. To buy her a Tesla. She is, in many ways, the purest “whore” I’ve ever known. I have bought her a couple of outfits to stretch in. I imagine her closet is full of clothes various men have bought her, virtually devoid of clothes she’s bought herself.
At some point early on in our relationship, two things happened. One, she communicated her utter contempt and disdain for a marriage with the configuration of T‘s and mine. Not just disdain—a genuine sense of superiority. As if this single woman, who’s never been married, who’s literally half my age, knows more about relationships and marriage than I do.
I’m very sympathetic to those who say non-monogamy isn’t for them. To those who imagine that if or when their spouse were to cheat on them, it would be the end. I’m especially sympathetic to those who haven’t been in serious relationships who think that way.
All I can say is that from the vantage point of the far side of the 50-yard line of life, having been married for more than a quarter-century, and knowing a wide variety of people with marriages or partnerships of varying duration, the thing I know with confidence is that the couples that stay together aren’t the ones that appear to be perfectly configured. They’re the ones who tolerate the worst in one another. Because over the years, we inevitably show our partners our worst. Like, our absolute worst.
If that worst includes infidelity or some other cruelty, and the partner responds by leaving, then maybe that marriage wasn’t meant to last. I don’t know. But when I look around at all the marriages I know—even barely—I am certain that mine is the one I would most like to be in.
So, when Shakira expresses contempt for elements of my marriage, mostly I respond with bemusement.
Early on, before I really understood her personality, I made a light, joking comment about Shakira and I going on a date. Not because I thought either of us would enjoy it, particularly, but because—as I’ve said before—I want every woman to want me. Just because I didn’t imagine that Shakira and I would necessarily enjoy an actual date doesn’t mean I didn’t want her to want it, or me.
When I made that gentle suggestion, Shakira shot me down, ruthlessly. With just a couple of words, she made it unavoidably clear that not only would we never go on a date, but that I was fundamentally misunderstanding the very structure of the universe if I believed even for a moment that we might.
Fast forward a few months: Shakira was going to disappear for a while. The story I wrote in my head was that an ex-boyfriend of hers, someone she still occasionally hooked up with, was back in town and staying with her. In any event, as is her way, in anticipation of this separation, she was surprisingly responsible and communicative. She told me she’d be unavailable for a couple of months.
I gave her a bounty. I said: find your replacement. I’ll pay you for one session the first time I meet her, and every time I see her thereafter, I’ll send you a small tip. I’ve done this before—it’s how I met Emma by way of Melanie, her sister (whom I met on Seeking). Then from Emma I met both Sophia and Jude. [Not to mention – and I don’t know if I ever wrote about this – Emma’s and Melanie’s mother.] So, some of my best stretching partners have been once, twice, or three times removed from their original encounters.
Part II: Cee
Shakira introduced me to Cee, and we began stretching.
No two women could be more unlike one another than Shakira and Cee. Best I can tell, they have precisely two things in common: they went to the same college at the same time, and they both sing. I guess there’s a third: each of them has stretched with me for money.
And? They’ve both sucked my cock. Except for Shakira. 😉 They’ve both felt my tongue on their clits, my fingers in their cunts. Except for Shakira. They’ve both gotten themselves off to the memory of my tongue on their clits. Except Shakira.
Things evolved between Cee and me. We planned a sexy date. I bought her clothes. But as the date approached, I sensed a train coming down the tracks, straight at us me: Cee was moving toward a relationship with a colleague. I know three things about that man. One, his name (“T”, not my T). Two, he has a bad reputation. And three, his penis is large enough to be noticeable even when he’s dressed casually—which her friend, not she, pointed out.
As our date approached, Cee and “T” grew more enamored with each other, and I felt things going sideways. Sure enough, she told me—just a couple of days before our planned date—that she felt uncomfortable. That, given things with “T,” following through with our plan would feel disrespectful. I knew she was right. I was devastated.
But more than devastated or angry—though I was, in a toddler-like way—I was surprised by an unfamiliar emotion: I was repulsed.
Not because I had lost her. Not because she was falling for someone else. But because she needed me to pretend not to see what was plainly in front of me. She was telling herself a story about how slowly things were moving with “T,” how reluctantly she was proceeding, how in-control she was. And she seemed to need me to buy into that story.
And that requirement—to effectively deny the obvious—produced a kind of nausea. It felt degrading, and the forced delusion was almost psychotic in its effect.
Of course I felt a mix of sadness and loss. But “ick” was the dominant sensation.
Part III: Cee and Shakira
Fast forward to today: Cee is dating “T.” That bit of her and my story is firmly in the past. Meanwhile, Shakira has returned—her boyfriend or whatever it was now out of the picture—and we are stretching again. So now I stretch with both of them, these two wildly different women.
Cee, knowing I had given her gift certificates—among them, one for a dinner with me, another for a dinner with someone from our previous event—asked if she could use one to dine with Shakira.
But Shakira wasn’t at the soiree. She isn’t me, nor was she there. So the certificates don’t apply.
“You don’t want to pay for us to go out to dinner?” Cee asked. Crassly.
Yes, there’s a commercial foundation to our relationship. But usually, Cee has more class than this. This was more… Shakira-like.
“No,” I said. “If the two of you want to have dinner, you can pay for your own fucking food.” I paused. Then added: “If you both want to have dinner with me, that’s different….”
And then, my imagination began to spin.
Cee had joined the soiree thanks to one such imaginative leap. When she’d mentioned a trip to New York, I told her about the event, not really expecting her to come. She surprised me. She said, almost instantly, on hearing about the evening, “I’d love that!” And a few weeks later, there was my cock in her mouth, her ass high in the air. She proved I was wrong to underestimate her, to underestimate her openness, her desire, her… yes-and-ness.
Now, my fantasy here was much less explicitly sexual: I envisioned the three of us at brunch: a sunny, rustic restaurant. Conversation blooming from shared memories of college singing groups to the nuances of my relationships with each of them.
As this fantasy developed at hyperspeed, I imagined Cee and me sharing the details of our history with Shakira. I’d only just begun to hint at this to Cee when she said, “Can you imagine the look on her face when she learns that I had your cock in my mouth?”
“I know, right?” I laughed. “And what about when she learns that you got yourself off remembering my tongue on your clit?”
We both laughed harder.
Would Shakira be disgusted? Titillated? Would her contempt extend to Cee? Or would she—somehow, impossibly—begin to transfer some small measure of respect (or even – gasp – curiosity) back toward me? My money is on “disgusted.” And maybe, confused.
Regardless: it’s all just too fun to contemplate.
My gut tells me Cee will think better of this little scheme. That she’ll dine with Shakira separately, and maybe, if time (and “T”) permits, with me separately. A dinner with Shakira and me—with our histories—might not kill two birds with one stone. It might be more like throwing a firecracker into a bush full of tiny sparrows.
