Connecticut confesses this week that he snuck a look at my blog, driven by a bolt of perverse curiosity, and then he tells me that I’ve gotten him wrong, all wrong. “Come over here and tell me that,” I challenge.
So he comes over and he sits at one end of my hard little couch, his arms folded over his chest, looking like a bouncer for a nightclub which is in his pants. I’m at the other end in a black minidress, whorish in variety, intended for the bachelorette party I’m supposed to be at in an hour, and I lay back and let my icy feet seek him out for warmth, my palms chilly and damp because social anxiety always goes straight to my extremities. It’s the waiting that always kills me. The waiting and the talking. He tells me that it’s hard for him to make the move, and there are air quotes. “The move.” My heart breaks a little for this boy; I am eight years older than he is and sometimes it feels more like fifteen or twenty. “You can touch me,” I tell him. “You’re allowed to touch me.” He puts his hand on my leg, and then he kisses me uncertainly. His mouth tastes good.
Up until this point, I wasn’t entirely sure I even wanted him to kiss me anymore. Something about being made to wait: I’ve been known to abandon baskets of carefully selected comestibles at Trader Joe in the long and snaking line, because after a while I just get offended and fucking leave. And it’s been three months of telling anyone that would listen that Connecticut and I are friends, just friends, friends only, and that I like it better that way. But now he touches me, and the elevator doors of my soul ding open and a wall of oxytocin pours out.
His skin, when he takes his shirt off, is softer than mine, and he makes deeply appreciative noises when I pull my dress off (a dress I will have to put back on, slightly damp, in 30 minutes for the bachelorette party—I set a timer, and make it clear this is not enough time for sex, we’re just scouting things out). He’s been so fucking poker-faced for the last three months that I’m frankly a little astonished by how emotive he is once his pants come off.
Validation. I sigh, an addict with a fresh bundle behind a locked door. He even compliments my choice of underwear: black and strappy. No one ever notices your underwear; it’s usually a wasted effort. He touches me. I had forgotten to turn my all-girl Pandora station off before he got here, and I’m a little embarrassed by the Fiona Apple kicking out the speakers, but otherwise, I’m in a happy place.
A half hour later, the timer chimes and I have to try to reassemble myself for the bachelorette party. Still reeling from what literally just happened, I will squeeze into a carful of beautiful girls in tiny dresses; I will be given a penis straw and a penis lollipop and we will go to a drag show where my friends will be given penis balloon-animals which they will wear like hats. It’s a fever dream of revolving dicks, all to celebrate the fact that my good friend is transitioning to an astonishing phase of committedness called Lifelong Monogamy. And I am in the back seat, behind her novelty wedding veil, thinking about this new person I will be fucking. I text a friend of mine, Connecticut came over and he went down on me because I have to tell someone this or I am going to die. After I hit send, I realize that I sent it to the wrong person, some hapless acquaintance who now knows too much about how my Saturday is going.
Too many people, and it starts to all get confusing. I’m crashing at Sketch’s apartment tomorrow, helping him practice running through the basic series for his yoga-teacher training. He’ll be adjusting me, telling me what to do in that voice that broaches no argument, and afterwards he will come and lay on top of me in sevasna and fuck the ohm out of me. And I love him, I will love him until my ears ring, but I still want Connecticut, too.
Is it OK to want them both? I don’t know. A drag venue full of bachelorettes makes it seem that love is supposed to be one person finding one other person and then unconditionally being into each other and getting tax benefits forever. But mine doesn’t look like that.
I don’t know. I don’t know exactly how either man is supposed to take it either. Sketch and I talked about the okayness of sleeping with other people back in the fall, and we have just been sort of asking each other no questions since then. But I haven’t slept with anybody else. Partly because I’ve been working on other things, but also because I haven’t been sure that new dick wouldn’t feel like cheating.
I’m still not sure it won’t feel like cheating. And Sketch has told me he doesn’t want a bunch of details, but I feel like the headline is pretty important: Sex Addict Fondles Nervous Man. As for sweetly awkward Connecticut, whose junk has not been touched by another human in a motherfucking YEAR, I’m asking him to run with an unconventional relationship model that’s not going to make sense to a lot of people.
I want them both, but there is a skeptic in the back of my head telling me that people in hell want ice water, and little girls in city apartments want ponies, and no one ever gets what they want.
But I can try, right?
I know polyamorous people who seem like they were born without jealousy, but that is not Sketch and I either. We are wholly untested; this whole open-relationship thing has been completely theoretical until now. How will I feel, hearing about his extracurricular activities with the yogi girls that surround him, bendy and willing? It’s just hard to break out of the monogamy shape when that is the pose you have held for so long.
In my handbag, there’s a blue raspberry ring pop from the bachelorette party, a corn-syrup totem of marriage. My rabbit has dug it own and dragged it under the bed, and is trying to tear open the wrapper with her teeth. The crunching, chewing sounds under the bed are appropriately monstery, but the real monsters are up here, not in between my legs but in between my ears, in the place where I know what I want but am scared shitless to just ask for it. But at least I know what I want. That’s a start.