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amulI bought some bananas. They're sitting on my table. It's wierd, you know? I mean, food just sitting out there, not in a box or can or anything. Just sitting on my table.
I am on a plane, lifting up out of an island city. I am in a car, heading down the highway. I am relaxing into the half-mad, half-enlightened state of geographic recomposition. I am struggling to access knowledge I casually tossed offline.
I am uploading.
She drops her bag on the aisle seat, and grins at me. "I guess you don't get the row all to yourself," she smiles with blonde hair and blue eyes. We make small talk while the air-folk explain what to do in an emergency.
I was in a Shibari class, tying up some gay guy, not exactly unattractive, but there's something about him that doesn't quite let me look him in the eye. My phone rings, and I left myself a note on the caller ID. You met her in Hong Kong. Only that's not quite true, I met her on the flight back.
We talk the small talk, and she's observant and deductive. Makes guesses about who I am based on the way I dress. Everything she observes is what I think of as The Old Me. Computer Geek. Data Junkie. Talkative. I decide to throw her for a spin and tell her about the other side of me. Artist/Photographer. Rope Play. Polyamory. Her eyes do funny things with each word I said. I live a life she's only ever read about on porn sites.
Which is pretty funny, if you've been keeping track of what my life is actually like.
There's a lost, tired, weary voice I'm holding in one hand. The other hand is holding the tail ends of some 6mm Bridgett Blue twisted hemp, which won't strike me as the least bit odd until she comments on it. "I'm on my way back from Zurich," she tells me, "I just missed my connecting flight and I'm stuck here for the night. Want to have sushi?"
I grin a little grin, because to it's inaccurate to tell her that I'm a bit tied up right now. I take a quick glance at the hopeful boy-face and slightly pudgy (not that I have any right to mock, I'm just describing here) body and count out about 120 feet of rope. I'm in a class right now, can I call you back?
This little Single Serving Friendship is progressing quickly, as Chuck Palahniuk might say. We've already run through our respective dating histories. Her hand is on my knee. Her hand with the wedding band on it. "People often get the wrong idea about me," she smiles, warm and earthy. But I get the idea. We've done the same sort of drugs, been to the same sort of parties. I already know where the line is, and there is plenty of room for me between here and it. The plane hasn't even taken off yet.
I pull on my coat, and say goodbye to the pro-domme I met at ShibariCon, her friend with the cool toys who remembers my name, the instructors. but not to my sub for the evening, and I'll feel bad about that once I get in the car, but right at this moment I've forgotten about him. "Taking your bag with you?" one of them asks, all sly smiles and conspiratorial glee. I lose some face there, fall into the trap men so frequently do. I lie to make myself look bigger. I lie, because the truth does not seem enough. Of course, and a wink.
Shame overwhelms me. I have no heart for deception anymore, so I add, even if it is more likely a dream than a possibility.
"....so, he gave me this bottle of muscle relaxers," she concludes. "Would you like one?" Why yes, yes I would, and when she leans over into her bag, a thin line of skin shows where the back of her shirt meets her pants, and I am a man, so there are some impulses I cannot resist: I look at it. I enjoy the sight of it. We haven't even gained our flight altitude before she pauses in our conversation again and says, "I'm not feeling it. Want another? Hey, want to watch a movie?"
Why, yes. Yes, I would.
She's in the hotel lobby, on the phone with her husband. She's in my lap, under a blanket. She looks shorter than I remember, my body tingles with the pleasure of a beautiful woman twisting and turning in my lap, trying to get comfortable. Already comfortable with me, but not with the position she's lying in. She's stuck in Chicago because of a snow storm in Denver, and I am frantically accessing Offline Storage, trying to remember everything that was said and done in those thirteen hours.
The muscle relaxers make it hard. The nature of long flights make it hard. After the movie, we drifted in and out of consciousness, out of conversation. It's hard to know when we were talking, when we were dozing, when we were lightly rubbing up against each other like two cats. Not cats in heat, but two neutered cats who've lived under the same roof their entire lives and think nothing of using each other for a pillow. Was there an exchange of photos? Did we, at separate intervals, pull out our laptops and show each other pictures from our respective trips? Was she awake when she pulled my hand offer her shoulder, pulled it down lower?
It wasn't sexual, but it was intimate. I wonder if she'll remember that, wonder if she'll remember that I understood it at the time.
The bar is crowded with people who thought they were going to be in Denver by now. "Tell me something strange and provocative," she asks me. "The girl on the flight here was utterly vanilla." I'm lost for a bit. Nothing really, just, you know, life. My friends are back from Hong Kong, got in a few weeks ago. I don't really want to talk about Blue Beard or Prefers Sacrifice. She already knows about Lacuna Diving Bunny and (f)AD, although she keeps confusing (f)AD with Roo. I haven't been very happy with my photos lately. Nothing strange is going on in my life. Nothing provocative.
Only, then I remember who I'm talking to. Well, I was in the middle of a Shibari class when you called, I venture. There's that look again, like the life I lead is something only read about in books. As if it wasn't true that, by comparison to some people I know, I'm just so tame as to be considered average. Ah, perspective.
She remembers me telling her about Shibari. She looked it up, on the internet, she emphasizes. She thinks terms like Top and Bottom mean I'm gay, mean sodomy. She thinks it was a class in sex. "Was everybody naked?"
She thinks it is strange that I don't know, off the top of my head. Not everybody, no. I'm pretty sure everybody kept their underwear on, because it was cold.... It's matter-of-fact to me, and utterly unreal to her.
She is, quite possibly, the only woman I know who has never admitted that she wants to kiss another woman at least once. That's how I think of it, too. Admitted, as if it's impossible to conceive of not wanting to. "So, wait, did you bring your rope here?"
This is delicate to me. If there's a part of her that's interested, I'd love to show her the delights of what she thinks of as "my world" and what I think of as "a world I want to get into." But I don't want to imply that this is a sexual interest. She's married and monogamous, and I don't want her to think that I would screw anything that'll let me. The difference between us is so black and white to her that she can't see the shades of grey I'm talking about. She doesn't understand that just because I accept BDSM as a part of my life, that doesn't mean it's the only way I have sex. "I mean, you were just at a class," she counters, "On some random day when I happened to be in town. I mean, the fact that you take classes in it at all." It's hard to refute, partly because I want to be thought of in this way. It's like any sport, you have to practice to get good at it. But, of course, she doesn't think of sex as a sport.
"So, wait, did you bring your rope here?" Uh....well, sure. I mean, I came straight from the class. It's in the car, it's not like I made any kind of assumptions. Yeah, I'm smooth, me.
"Do you think there will come a point in your life where you'll just give this all up and become normal?" I scoff at this, who's normal?
"Well, me, for a start."
And she's got me there.
I am on a plane, lifting up out of an island city. I am in a car, heading down the highway. I am relaxing into the half-mad, half-enlightened state of geographic recomposition. I am struggling to access knowledge I casually tossed offline.
I am uploading.
She drops her bag on the aisle seat, and grins at me. "I guess you don't get the row all to yourself," she smiles with blonde hair and blue eyes. We make small talk while the air-folk explain what to do in an emergency.
I was in a Shibari class, tying up some gay guy, not exactly unattractive, but there's something about him that doesn't quite let me look him in the eye. My phone rings, and I left myself a note on the caller ID. You met her in Hong Kong. Only that's not quite true, I met her on the flight back.
We talk the small talk, and she's observant and deductive. Makes guesses about who I am based on the way I dress. Everything she observes is what I think of as The Old Me. Computer Geek. Data Junkie. Talkative. I decide to throw her for a spin and tell her about the other side of me. Artist/Photographer. Rope Play. Polyamory. Her eyes do funny things with each word I said. I live a life she's only ever read about on porn sites.
Which is pretty funny, if you've been keeping track of what my life is actually like.
There's a lost, tired, weary voice I'm holding in one hand. The other hand is holding the tail ends of some 6mm Bridgett Blue twisted hemp, which won't strike me as the least bit odd until she comments on it. "I'm on my way back from Zurich," she tells me, "I just missed my connecting flight and I'm stuck here for the night. Want to have sushi?"
I grin a little grin, because to it's inaccurate to tell her that I'm a bit tied up right now. I take a quick glance at the hopeful boy-face and slightly pudgy (not that I have any right to mock, I'm just describing here) body and count out about 120 feet of rope. I'm in a class right now, can I call you back?
This little Single Serving Friendship is progressing quickly, as Chuck Palahniuk might say. We've already run through our respective dating histories. Her hand is on my knee. Her hand with the wedding band on it. "People often get the wrong idea about me," she smiles, warm and earthy. But I get the idea. We've done the same sort of drugs, been to the same sort of parties. I already know where the line is, and there is plenty of room for me between here and it. The plane hasn't even taken off yet.
I pull on my coat, and say goodbye to the pro-domme I met at ShibariCon, her friend with the cool toys who remembers my name, the instructors. but not to my sub for the evening, and I'll feel bad about that once I get in the car, but right at this moment I've forgotten about him. "Taking your bag with you?" one of them asks, all sly smiles and conspiratorial glee. I lose some face there, fall into the trap men so frequently do. I lie to make myself look bigger. I lie, because the truth does not seem enough. Of course, and a wink.
Shame overwhelms me. I have no heart for deception anymore, so I add, even if it is more likely a dream than a possibility.
"....so, he gave me this bottle of muscle relaxers," she concludes. "Would you like one?" Why yes, yes I would, and when she leans over into her bag, a thin line of skin shows where the back of her shirt meets her pants, and I am a man, so there are some impulses I cannot resist: I look at it. I enjoy the sight of it. We haven't even gained our flight altitude before she pauses in our conversation again and says, "I'm not feeling it. Want another? Hey, want to watch a movie?"
Why, yes. Yes, I would.
She's in the hotel lobby, on the phone with her husband. She's in my lap, under a blanket. She looks shorter than I remember, my body tingles with the pleasure of a beautiful woman twisting and turning in my lap, trying to get comfortable. Already comfortable with me, but not with the position she's lying in. She's stuck in Chicago because of a snow storm in Denver, and I am frantically accessing Offline Storage, trying to remember everything that was said and done in those thirteen hours.
The muscle relaxers make it hard. The nature of long flights make it hard. After the movie, we drifted in and out of consciousness, out of conversation. It's hard to know when we were talking, when we were dozing, when we were lightly rubbing up against each other like two cats. Not cats in heat, but two neutered cats who've lived under the same roof their entire lives and think nothing of using each other for a pillow. Was there an exchange of photos? Did we, at separate intervals, pull out our laptops and show each other pictures from our respective trips? Was she awake when she pulled my hand offer her shoulder, pulled it down lower?
It wasn't sexual, but it was intimate. I wonder if she'll remember that, wonder if she'll remember that I understood it at the time.
The bar is crowded with people who thought they were going to be in Denver by now. "Tell me something strange and provocative," she asks me. "The girl on the flight here was utterly vanilla." I'm lost for a bit. Nothing really, just, you know, life. My friends are back from Hong Kong, got in a few weeks ago. I don't really want to talk about Blue Beard or Prefers Sacrifice. She already knows about Lacuna Diving Bunny and (f)AD, although she keeps confusing (f)AD with Roo. I haven't been very happy with my photos lately. Nothing strange is going on in my life. Nothing provocative.
Only, then I remember who I'm talking to. Well, I was in the middle of a Shibari class when you called, I venture. There's that look again, like the life I lead is something only read about in books. As if it wasn't true that, by comparison to some people I know, I'm just so tame as to be considered average. Ah, perspective.
She remembers me telling her about Shibari. She looked it up, on the internet, she emphasizes. She thinks terms like Top and Bottom mean I'm gay, mean sodomy. She thinks it was a class in sex. "Was everybody naked?"
She thinks it is strange that I don't know, off the top of my head. Not everybody, no. I'm pretty sure everybody kept their underwear on, because it was cold.... It's matter-of-fact to me, and utterly unreal to her.
She is, quite possibly, the only woman I know who has never admitted that she wants to kiss another woman at least once. That's how I think of it, too. Admitted, as if it's impossible to conceive of not wanting to. "So, wait, did you bring your rope here?"
This is delicate to me. If there's a part of her that's interested, I'd love to show her the delights of what she thinks of as "my world" and what I think of as "a world I want to get into." But I don't want to imply that this is a sexual interest. She's married and monogamous, and I don't want her to think that I would screw anything that'll let me. The difference between us is so black and white to her that she can't see the shades of grey I'm talking about. She doesn't understand that just because I accept BDSM as a part of my life, that doesn't mean it's the only way I have sex. "I mean, you were just at a class," she counters, "On some random day when I happened to be in town. I mean, the fact that you take classes in it at all." It's hard to refute, partly because I want to be thought of in this way. It's like any sport, you have to practice to get good at it. But, of course, she doesn't think of sex as a sport.
"So, wait, did you bring your rope here?" Uh....well, sure. I mean, I came straight from the class. It's in the car, it's not like I made any kind of assumptions. Yeah, I'm smooth, me.
"Do you think there will come a point in your life where you'll just give this all up and become normal?" I scoff at this, who's normal?
"Well, me, for a start."
And she's got me there.