I Can't Believe I Went There

I am in so much trouble. I can't believe it. What was I thinking?!

I had that great date with T, and you know, it went...well, great. And then, I don't know, I came home and I had that dream about J. And then, I saw that couple at the Starbucks, and they looked so romantic, and T was all friendly but it wasn't, you know, romantic like that.

And then Saturday, I went clubbing with Evie and Rod, which is usually great, too, but they were all lovey-dovy and I had too much to drink, and I went home (alone, damn it!) and did something really stupid.

I called J.

I know, I know! It was stupid. I was drunk, and I wasn't thinking, and he's so familiar, you know? Anyway, I just left a message on his machine, because he wasn't there, so no real harm done, right?

Okay, I left three messages. And of COURSE they got sappier each time. Which is way embarrassing.

And that's not even the worst part!

J called me back Monday (after I spent all Sunday morning throwing up and all Sunday night thinking maybe he didn't even get the messages and what would I say if he called, and THEN all day Monday thinking that he wasn't going to call after all and lulling myself into a false sense of security).

And he was so nice about the whole thing, it almost made me cry. He was all supportive and saying that sometimes he missed me too, blah blah blah. And I won't even tell you what I started thinking about then because it is too embarrassing, but anyway I stopped thinking it right away because then J lays this on me: "Oh, yeah, Slut was here when I checked the machine for messages." And, since you all don't know: Slut is his new girlfriend!

!!!

(Of course, her name isn't really Slut. But she is one.)

I could have died right then. Just curled up like a snail in its shell and died. But of course I couldn't let him know that.

So I was like, "Whatever. I had way too much to drink. It didn't mean anything. Bye."

And I hung up.

And I swear, I've felt so stupid since then, I didn't even want to write this until now.

Sigh.

Life sucks.

Starbucks

I saw the couple this morning, sitting out in the bright sunlight, drinking their coffee, and they caught my attention instantly.

Something in their postures, the way they seemed physically comfortable with each other, spoke to me.

I thought: they slept together last night.

But there was something else, some other quality, and I don't think I can put words to what it was, that also said it was the First Time, and things were still very new yet.

She was blonde--not naturally, but skillfully--and though short, a little too heavy to be called 'petite'. She was leaning into him, and their fingers touched on the tabletop. She wasn't particularly pretty, or young. Mid-thirties, forty maybe.

He was older than she was; his short, neatly-trimmed hair graying a bit on the sides. He wore sunglasses, perfectly natural in the glare of the morning sun, but worrisome--was he trying to hide something in his expression?

Just looking at them, I thought I could tell their story.

I thought of them meeting online somewhere, chatting and then emailing each other. She was still healing from a break-up, maybe, and fragile.

He pursued her online, she was flattered, they exchanged pictures.

More insistent emails followed: "I have to meet you." Chipping away at her resistance, until finally she agreed.

They set up a meeting.

Last night.

In person, he was smooth, and she was vulnerable. She let down her guard, let him in. It felt so good to let herself go for once. She wouldn't let herself worry about what would happen afterward. She'd be spontaneous.

And so they'd ended up in bed together, and she'd spent the night.

And now, here they were at Starbucks, sharing their breakfast coffee, the Morning After.

I was openly watching them now, wondering if this man was going to hurt her. Was this the moment they would part ways? Had he brought her here, a public place, to tell her they were done? We don't throw messy scenes at Starbucks.

Would he at least let her down gently?

She said something I couldn't hear and he dipped his head, listening intently. He seemed honestly engaged in this conversation.

He appeared to be in no hurry to finish his drink, get up and leave.

His left hand, relaxed around the coffee cup, came free, found hers across the table, linked fingers.

Now I was feeling conflicted. Was my initial impression the right one, or was there a connection here?

Silence, as they finished their coffees. Companionable, or awkward?

They lingered over their empty coffee cups. Neither one seemed to want to get up.

Maybe they didn't want to leave each other? Or maybe neither one wanted to be the first to say it wasn't working.

He took his hand from hers, scooted, turned his chair, his back to the sun. Reached up and took off the sunglasses now that he was out of the glare.

I thought: he will rise, gather up the coffee cups, and now they'll leave. I'll never know.

Again she spoke, and he turned, looking right at her.

From where I sat, nearby, I could see the expression on his face, the look in his eyes as she spoke, and the sudden, wide-open smile that lit up his face at her words revealed more than he knew.

It told me he genuinely liked her, which surprised me. She wasn't the type of pretty young thing most guys go for.

I liked that he looked deeper, saw something there. I liked the way he reached out again and held her hand, and the way the smile stayed in his eyes even after it had faded from his lips.

She leaned across the table then, and pecked him on the cheek.

I left the store with a spring in my step, my own smile wide as could be.

Creamy Dreams

In high school, they kept all the sex-ed for the end of the year, in biology class, so we would run out of time. It was on the exam, so they would tell us the pages to study, but we never really went over anything in class. I think they did it because the teachers were just too embarrassed to explain anything to us.

So psychology was great, because we had a male teacher that actually talked about relationships and stuff in class (he was sleeping with a girl in my class, but I didn't know it back then). And I remember this one day in class especially, the day we were talking about "nocturnal emissions." Wet dreams.

I remember we were all listening, pretending to be bored like always but really wanting to hear every word. The guys were looking kinda red-faced and embarrassed. The girls just didn't know what to do, so we would stare down at our desks and pretend we were taking notes.

And then the teacher said something like this, "And it's not just guys that have the, uh, the erotic dream part preceding the uh...the emission. Girls can have those, too. The dream part."

Now the guys start looking up.

And I am smiling. Of course. Girls have sexual thoughts, too. Nodding. We're not robots.

"And some girls can even have the same sort of...of release of tension...um. A climax."

By this point, I am nodding vigorously, big smile on my face, thinking, 'Well, yeah. Duh.'

And then I notice I am the only girl who's nodding.

And my teacher is looking at me. Not the class. Me, specifically. With an almost creepy intentness.

And the guys are looking really, really interested--in me.

I'm sure, I just know, that my face was beet red at this point.

The thing is, every since those magical years of puberty, I've had dreams like that.

Sticky, syrupy, erotic dreams.

Nameless men, back then, and fuzzy details--I was still basically an innocent.

But nowadays? They're graphic. Vivid.

They still start, always, with a kiss.

Kisses! After all I have done or fantasized, in my heart, I am still the hopeless romantic.

I think I will always grow breathless with anticipation from that sweet, initial contact: lips to lips, mouth to mouth, tremulous tonguetips timidly seeking each other out.

These days, though, the fluttering anticipation quickly transforms into super-charged, erotic suspense.

I think I must spend the entirety of my dream-world either utterly nude or in those stripper-clothes that rip right down the seams with velcro tabs.

Suspense building, in a slow spiral of mounting tension, I tumble over the sheets, roll across the floor, even sprawl over the staircase, locations and positions and yes, partners too, changing over, and over, and over yet again.

If I could keep up, in my real life, the kind of pace I exhibit (heh) in my wildest erotic dreams? No man could possibly resist me.

Finally, after simply years of this anguished pent-up tension, I feel my body drawing in upon itself, closing up, tightening into a ball.

I literally double over from the contractions of my womb.

And wake, hips writhing, as they ripple over me. Tear through me.

And only gradually, very gradually subside.

And immediately, I want it all over again.

Yeah, it's that intense.

I had one of those dreams the other night. If I could, I'm not ashamed to admit it, I would have them more often.

But they come up on me (so to speak) unawares.

And of course, T was in my dream, even though to this day I have yet to see him naked.

More disturbingly, though, J was in it, too.

I can't help what my body thinks it wants. I was with J for a long time. It's only natural it remembers.

But, oh, I wish it hadn't felt so good!



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Of Human Bondage

The strangest thing happened last night.

I poured myself into my little teal corset, pulled my hair back in a sloppy chignon, slipped on the stiletto black heels that make my legs look like they go on forever, and went to meet T at the bar.

In case you're wondering, yes, the wardrobe description DOES have something to do with this post, thank you very much. I don't always need to take up your time telling you how smokin' hot I am.

Ya'll should know that by now, anyway. ; )

Anyway, there we are, sitting up at the bar. I had a black blazer on over the corset, and it was warm, so I took it off and slung it over the back of my bar stool (the kinds that swivel. Don't you just love those? I always want to just dangle my feet and twirl in circles).

And T and I are deeply engrossed in that initial 'getting to know each other' talk--where are you from, what have you been doing, etc.--when this little man comes up out of nowhere.

And he says to me, "Excuse me, where did you get that corset you're wearing?"

And T turns and looks at him because obviously he was my escort, and he's thinking this man is being disrespectful. I was a little put off, myself, but I told him I had picked it up at such and such shop.

And this man--he was old enough to be my father--just started beaming.

And he says, "I thought so. It's one of mine!"

No, he wasn't a cross-dresser. Turns out he actually designed the corset I was wearing that very evening!

Isn't that bizarre?

Anyway, he gave me his business card, so I could check out his stuff. And I think T was still wondering if this was a come-on or something. But I honestly think this man was just so excited to see someone wearing one of his designs. It's like when you are a writer, and you sit down at a table and someone across the room is reading your book.

It gave us something to talk about for a while, anyway.

J Sent Me This: Best Headline Ever

High-wire walkers in Korea are attempting to cross the river Han, over a mile wide, during the first World High Wire Championships:

Skywalkers in Korea Cross Han Solo.

Really. Best Headline Ever.


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On the side of the road

Almost every afternoon, I drive down the congested four-lane mess that is our local version of Main Street USA, and I see Hobo Joe standing on the side of the road.

I don't really know his name, of course. Stan and I dubbed him "Hobo Joe" because he he has the requisite backpack and baseball cap, and that's about it. The whole picture suggests he doesn't have much of a home to go back to, so he keeps his stuff with him. Hobo Joe holds up a weathered cardboard sign, "will work 4 food." His face is weathered, too, like the sign. There's just no way to tell how old he really is. He's fit, like he's worked with his hands a lot, but then his face is really lined.

And then there's the bicycle. Hobo Joe has this blue bike that he leans on a culvert by his favorite pan-handling space, and that's how we know he's there. We look for the bike and when it's there, we find Joe.

It's comforting, in a way, to see him standing there, day after day. He missed a day once, but then he was back the next afternoon, and Stan and I decided he just took the day off; maybe he had enough food to tide him over. I like to think that he has his own little territory, and the other hobos know to leave that area alone. I also like to think that he stays there because the local people are kind, and they give him enough food or money that there's no need to move on.

So this morning, I drive by his regular spot, and there's no Joe. It's not his usual time, so I wasn't that worried.

Except, further down the road, where it merges into the on-ramp for the interstate, I saw his blue bike. That's not where it's supposed to be. It was just lying there on its side, alone and sad. The tires weren't flat, and I don't think anything was broken. It was just out of place, with no sign of Joe.

I hope he's okay.