I tried to be cool. I tried to be chill. I tried to just accept what I had now, with no expectations for the future. I’d been trying to quit drinking, but every time I thought about Papa Bear and his inability to not fuck millions of girls, I wanted a drink. Or 5. And so the Friday night before our third anniversary I went over to his place, as usual. I told him I wasn’t going to quit drinking right now after all. If I was going to pretend everything was fine and I didn’t care, I’d need to numb.
Drink in hand, I asked him if he knew where the Isle of Skye was.
He responded with an enthusiastic “Yeah, I’ve been there.”
“Of course,” I laughed bitterly. Because he’s been everywhere. The Isle of Skye. Wales, London, Rome, Crete. Thailand, the Maritimes, Haida Gwaii. But never with me.
This has been a sore point between us for awhile, because when he was married, he traveled with his wife, but since he and I have been together we’ve only done road trips. He knows how wanderlust-y I am and keeps talking about us going somewhere awesome together, but it never happens.
I tell him about my plan to start aggressively saving to go away, again. I have some money in an account, but I tell him that I’ve done some research (angrily, as I’d accepted the fact that we were never going to go anywhere since I wasn’t his wife and if he couldn’t afford to take me now he wasn’t going to be able to once he had another girlfriend), and I’d found lots of cheap trips that I could save for within a year.
I said the words “By myself,” a lot.
“There’s a lot of places I can afford to go by myself.”
“I think that’s a place that would be safe to travel by myself.”
“I wouldn’t be comfortable driving to the port by myself, so I’d take a greyhound then ferry to the island.”
He asked if I still wanted him to go with me.
I said “Sure, if you want.” The unspoken message was clear: I give up. Do what you want. I’m going to live my life with or without you.
Then, working a pretty good buzz, I wondered aloud if I should join Tinder. “You know,” I said, “I only lasted about 30 seconds on there last time, but that was because I was afraid of people I know seeing my profile. Now that I’m trying to care less about what other people think, I think I’ll go ahead and join.”
And I did. Right then. I joined Tinder and immediately started swiping, completely missing the fact that I was swiping the wrong way on all the men I liked until Papa Bear showed me how to do it right.
I was kind of being a bitch. I didn’t even want to meet anyone on Tinder. Papa Bear had told me during one of our last discussions on him being way more actively poly than he is (me, preferring not to look for other partners but to be open to more love if it comes along) that he didn’t want me to feel like he was always looking, and would shut down his dating profiles. He told me he’d shut down his OkCupid, but he still had Tinder (though he was only getting men because he’d switched it to BFF mode) and I didn’t know what other apps he was using. Still, he’d made an effort, and I was kind of telling him it didn’t matter anymore. Once again, I don’t care.
He kept assuring me he wanted to be with me. Telling me the reason he hasn’t traveled with me is because he’d put the trips with his wife on his credit card and was trying to be more responsible and pay off his debt before we went away. That he wasn’t looking for other women anymore and he didn’t know what else he could do to prove that even if I didn’t care, he did.
And I just started to blubber. “Do you remember,” I asked him, “When you were still with The Wifey, and you said that if you broke up with her you’d be heart-broken, but at least you’d know you’d had a great life together and you’d always be grateful for that?”
“Yes,” he said, confused.
“Well, I don’t know if you and I are going to be able to stay together. I love you, but we might not be able to make it happen,” I sniffled. “And if we can’t, I just want to know that you and I had a great life together, while we were together. That’s why I don’t want to travel with you in a few years, I want to travel with you now. That’s why I get frustrated when we don’t go more places and do more things. Because I want to be able to look back and say, at least we had that. And if you find another serious girlfriend, that’s never going to happen because you won’t be able to afford it. So I don’t know what to do, except give up on ever having a life with you.”
“I don’t need another girlfriend,” he said, on the verge of tears.
“Yes, you do! You keep saying ‘it’s who I am, it’s who I am.’ You’ll never be happy with just me. I used to think that when we could be together all the time, you wouldn’t need anyone else. But that’s obviously not true. I’ll never be enough for you.”
He told me that I am enough. That I am more than enough. That I am everything. That his being polyamorous doesn’t say anything about whether I am enough. How could something about him, define me? “Furthermore, I’ve told you over and over that I’m not looking for another girlfriend. I don’t have the emotional energy. I’m not dating any of the women I’m seeing. I just like sex.”
“I’m sorry, then how is that who you are? How is that polyamory? You keep saying you’re polyamorous and it’s who you are, but I don’t get how that jives with having a constant stream of meaningless sex with women you barely know.”
He didn’t have a great answer for that. He knows he can love more than one woman at a time, but he doesn’t need to, and right now he doesn’t want to. It’s an ego boost knowing other people want him, but he admits he shouldn’t be ruled by his ego.
“Look,” I said. “I am not monogamous either. But the difference between us is that I don’t have to be with more than one person at a time to be happy. If looking for other women, or being with other women, is something you will always, always want–and not just a lifestyle you can choose to engage in or to not engage in, depending on the circumstances–then I just can’t imagine a future with you. In a decade, my kids are going to be grown up, and I am going to leave. I have spent my entire life settling for relationships that weren’t right, just because I loved the person, or because my life made it so that was the right thing to do. I’m not going to do that forever. Every day is a fight and when I’m done raising my kids, I’m done fighting. I’m done with the stress of being paired with the wrong person. I’m done with stress, period. Even if it means I move to Greece and live alone forever, at least I won’t be crying. At least I’ll have peace. At least I’ll be free.”
“But can I come? Like we talked about?”
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering who your next girlfriend is going to be, and what’s going to happen, and if its all going to be okay. I’m going to get tired. I’m going to be too old for this. I don’t want my whole life to be a house of cards that can crash down at any moment because we keep adding unknown elements. At some point, I want to know what my future is going to look like and who its going to be with, even if the answer to that is no one.”
He admits its hard for him to feel restricted, but maybe he needs to stop trying to recapture his 20’s. That he knows he will not have the energy for multiple women forever, and that when he looks at his future, all he sees is me.
I still don’t believe him, so as I drink and cry, he goes back inside and comes out with a red velvet ring box, shaped like a heart. I stare at it, stunned. He flips it open and inside is a ring. A sparkly, diamond ring. And all I can think is that the gold and the diamonds are arranged into the infinity symbol–which a lot of people think of as the symbol for polyamory, because love is infinite.
He holds out the ring and talks about how he loves me and wants to be with me forever. How no matter who he is with, it’s never been as good as when he’s with me. How we connect on so many levels and he truly believes we were made for each other. How sleeping with other women is just sex, but with me, from the very first time, he was shaken to his core and thought “holy fuck, what just happened?” That he’s never had that kind of connection with anyone else, and he’s never been so deeply in love with anyone else, and I need to believe him.
I burst into fresh tears, as the truth of the matter, the question that has been at the core of all of this, finally crystallizes in my mind.
“What happens when that’s not true anymore?” I ask, my voice breaking. “What happens when the next girl or the next girl or the next does touch you that way? What happens when you meet someone you click with more than me? What happens then?” I bawl.
And he gets it. He finally gets it.
I don’t take the ring. It doesn’t fit and the infinity symbol freaks me out and the timing is wrong. He puts it away and tells me he will get me a better one, one he hopes I will wear for the rest of my life.
And we compromise. We have twelve years until we can run away together. For the next twelve years, we can experiment and be as non-monogamous as we want. But when we are finally able to be together the way that we want to, the way that we were meant to, it is just him and me. Of course, if he falls in love with someone else before then that would complicate things. Who knows, I may like her enough to want to bring her with us. Or he may decide to stay here with her. But what I really needed to know is that someday my life will stabilize. That I will have my person (or people) and won’t need to deal with more.
Regardless, I know what I’m doing and I believe he wants to do it with me. Somehow I feel that all-elusive peace, which is all I really wanted to begin with.
After I cried and wailed and was generally a basket case over Yummy Mummy, Papa Bear agreed to slow things down with her. The next day, after the fog lifted, he was still struggling. I told him he didn’t have to slow things down with her if he didn’t want to, and he said “I have to. Otherwise I’ll lose you.”
I said I just didn’t understand why he had to see her. He had been seeing another woman (a 24 year old British lawyer with good hair), and had just started seeing a young blonde who likes cosplay. Why did he have to see Yummy Mummy? She was too intense and it was too serious and I couldn’t handle it.
He replied “I’m not going to be her boyfriend. We both know that can’t happen because she needs a boyfriend that’s monogamous. I had just hoped, that after 3 years I could have the chance to be her lover for a little while. But you mean the world to me and I’m not going to throw that away just for some sex. Even sex with someone I care about.”
I realized then that he wasn’t just being a playboy. I mean, he is a playboy–and I think after 20 years of being married to someone who made him feel unattractive and stupid, that it helps him to know there’s lots of women out there who would want to be with him–but with Yummy Mummy it was different.
He really cared about her, and would be truly sad if he had to end it because I couldn’t handle it. So I told him he shouldn’t break it off with her. He is clearly poly, even if maybe I’m not as poly as I used to think I was. And the only way to know if we can work long term is to try this for real. If I can’t allow him to follow his heart, then we’ll never be happy.
Papa Bear promised he’d think about what I said, and he thanked me for being brave. Then, the story goes, the next time he talked to Yummy Mummy, they both said at the same time “I think we should just be friends.”
When I asked him about it, he said that he’d kind of had a fantasy of what it would be like to be with her, but in reality it wasn’t like that at all. That it was just weird because they’d always been so close, but when they were together the chemistry was off. That he loves her very deeply, but he is not in love with her, the way he is with me.
The next time they got together she said “I don’t know why, but I’m really relieved we decided to just be friends.” I guess it didn’t feel quite right to her either.
Part of me feels guilty for saying anything. I feel like maybe if I’d kept my mouth shut, it either would have ended on its own, or it would have continued, but at least I’d know I had absolutely nothing to do with it.
But Papa Bear says I am a thinker. That I think things through to the end, and sometimes to death, and if I wasn’t there to make him realize he needs to think about things, it would be very easy for him to just jump in head-first without considering important factors–such as whether or not he wants to be a step-dad to four young kids (answer: he doesn’t.)
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he had started a relationship with her. I really like her and we get along great, so I think that personality-wise, it could have been awesome. But Papa Bear says that it would have been a disaster just because of everything she is going through right now. It would have put a ton of strain on both me and him, as well as on our relationship. He said he didn’t think he’d be relieved to end it with her, but that is definitely how he felt when they decided they just wanted to be friends.
Now you’d think that after that, everything would be okay–but it wasn’t. It’s hard. Things changed. I think before, I thought that I had to be poly because my husband isn’t sexual and I need to have sex. And at one point, I desperately wanted the connection that comes from a group of people who all care about each other. (I really wanted a poly family, but as of right now it’s too scary to think about. I can’t handle the thought of being rejected by another one of Papa Bear’s lovers, the way his wife rejected me. It’s too soul-destroying. I’m not saying I’d never try it again, but whoever she is, she would have to be really special. )
Now, though, I am questioning everything. Because if I’m honest with myself, deep down inside, I thought Papa Bear and I only continued to be poly because I’m still married. That as long as I was married, we’d stay poly. But if my marriage ever ended, it would just be him and me.
But through these brutally difficult discussions, he made it clear that being polyamorous is who he is. He’d say that he would be willing to give that up for me, he loves me that much, but I could never allow that. You can sacrifice things for the people you love, sure. But you should never have to sacrifice parts of yourself.
So, what could I do? I didn’t want to break up with him–I love him. And even if I did break up with him, I would still need another relationship because I cannot go the remaining decade until my kids are grown up without sex. So I’d end up right back here with whoever else I ended up sleeping with–unless I didn’t care about him. And while just having a fuck buddy seems much, much simpler, it also seems hollow. I don’t want to lose what I have with Papa Bear and replace it with something meaningless.
I still enjoy the occasional one-night-stand or whatever, but when I’m with Papa Bear, we touch each others’ hearts. I need that, and more to the point, I feel like I need him.
So, I decided. I would go back. I would go back to when we first started dating, when we said we couldn’t promise each other forever, but that we love each other “right now.” I would revert to my submissive ways, and instead of fearing his other women would take his time and attention away from me, I would simply go to him when he called for me. I could not be upset when he already had plans with someone else if I never asked to see him. I would not wait for him and I would not figure him into my future plans. If I wanted to go to Europe, then I’d save up for it myself, and if he asked to come along then maybe I’d let him. No more thinking that everything had to be “us.” I decided to pretend there was no “us.” Just him, and me, and this thing between us that may not last after all.
You’ll ask, how did that go? Not well, as it turns out.
More to come.
So I mentioned life being fucked up. And yes, it is fucked up. Now let me tell you why.
Its no secret that my sexual relationship with The Husband is at best, uninspired, and at worst, non-existent.
That’s the reason I became non-monogamous in the first place–because after a years of not having my needs met, I was done. We came to this arrangement because if I didn’t start getting laid, our marriage would have ended anyway.
A couple months ago, I had a talk with him. It wasn’t one of our usual screaming matches about him not being into me. It was more just an inquiry. I asked him, “Do you not like sex?” And he doesn’t.
He said that realization didn’t click until the moment I asked. And honestly I was flabbergasted. How the HELL had he not realized this before? How can this possibly be the very first time he ever thought about this? We’d fought like cats and dogs. We’d both totally lost our self-esteem. We redefined our entire marriage around this problem and he’d never stop to ask himself if he likes sex???? What the actual fuck???
I asked him to explain, and he said he often enjoys it, but during almost every encounter there’s a moment of panic or a feeling that he really doesn’t like, and that makes it hard to enjoy the rest of it.
He said he never realized because he thought that everyone likes sex. It just never crossed his mind that the reason we had these problems was because he didn’t.
I let some time pass. But I couldn’t help thinking “This marriage is probably dead.”
(Stay Tuned for Part 2).
So here I am–back, and not knowing where to start. I should probably start with the reason that I’m back, which is–I feel like I would like to implode my entire life. What does that mean? What am I saying?
Just that I am sick of being who I am–or pretending to be who people believe me to be–and I want out. Permanently. I want to take out a billboard and tell the world everything about me, and ex-communicate anyone who doesn’t like it.
Ex-communication–such a harsh act. Yet for some reason it’s what I crave. Last year Tyler Glenn came out with an Album called Ex-Communication, themed around his act of coming out of the closet and leaving the Mormon church. It’s not exactly my preferred style of music, but certain songs of his, I love. Not just because of clever lines like “I found myself when I lost my faith,” but because he was brave enough to write and record them. He gave no shits. HE ex-communitated no one–yet made it clear that anyone who didn’t support him could fuck right off. He was done hiding.
I can’t explain what hiding has done to me. The fact that I feel like I am always looking over my shoulder, afraid of what others might see, the questions they might raise, the conclusions they might draw.
Am I a cheating whore? My husband a poor, blind schmuck? My children, doomed to be scarred? Am I a pervert, who has no preference for whether she fucks men or women, as long as she is fucking? A sex-addict who will go there with whomever? A heartless bitch who must not love anyone at all, if she is unwilling to remain faithful? It’s all open to speculation. The world stands in judgement. And who am I? Just a woman who is tired of hiding, tired of shame, tired of pain. A woman who has been through a fucking lot in the last few years, and just wants to take a deep breath and be herself. A woman who, by many standards, is selfish, yet still feels like she is sacrificing herself in order to not hurt others.
Who am I? I have no fucking idea.
More to come.
I couldn’t breathe. I literally could not breathe. It wasn’t warm out anymore, but I rolled down my window and tried desperately to get my lungs to inflate. I started to dry-sob. I felt like I might puke. I asked Papa Bear to open the other windows, and when that didn’t work, to open the moon roof.
We were on the highway and I just needed him to pull over so I could get out of the car. “Can you find a gas station?” I gasped. He said, with a look of absolute panic on his face, that he would pull over as soon as he found one.
It was clear he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do.
When he finally found a place to stop, I got out of the car, told him to stay where he was, and ran inside for a pack of cigarettes. I have been trying very hard not to smoke, but this was an emergency. I sat outside the car, on the curb, and smoked one, and then another, and slowly my heart-rate returned to normal.
I walked slowly towards the car, got in, and then said “So you’re a dom now?”
Papa Bear is my “Daddy”, as we refer to it in kink circles. But he could never really do the dom thing. He helps me be disciplined in areas of my life that I need it, and he takes care of me and nurtures my inner baby girl. But he has made it clear from the start–even when The Ex-Wifey discovered she was a submissive and wanted him to beat her–that he is not dominant in that way. We actually took almost 6 months off from our Daddy/Baby Girl relationship when things were bad with The Wifey, and had just started dipping our toes back into him being my Daddy again. So all I could think was “But he will dom Nerd Girl. For HER, he’s a dom!?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not a dom now.”
“Then what the hell?? Why the hell did you nod when she asked if you would go down the dom road with her!?”
“It was awkward. She said it in front of you guys and I didn’t want to be like ‘Um, hold up, no’. I figured I’d sort it out with her next time we talk. And I kind of thought she was just asking if its okay that she’s a submissive, not that she wants me to be her dom.”
“Well, no,” I said. “That’s not how she put it. She asked you to ‘go down that road’ with her. She obviously thinks you’re her dom now.”
He said he had no intention of being her dom, or anyone else’s. “I had fun with her,” he said, “but flogging her did nothing for me. I wasn’t even a little bit turned on, even though she was buck ass naked and moaning like crazy. It’s not my thing.”
“Then why does she need a special name for you? Why does she now, after one night, need you to have a Dom title?”
“That freaked me out too,” he said. “She should just call me my name. I don’t want a title with anyone but you.”
I calmed down by a fraction of a decibel.
“What else upset you?” he asked.
“Well, you didn’t use a condom,” I said. “You said you would use a condom with anyone else, and you didn’t. So I guess you’ll need to buy some to use with me, since you want to be fluid-bonded with her now.”
He apologized profusely. He said it was idiotic. That he put the condom on, and it came off, and then he didn’t grab another one. He said there was no excuse. He promised it wouldn’t happen again.
But I couldn’t stop shaking and my teeth kept chattering.
“What else?” he asked.
“She wants to come spend nights at your house so she doesn’t have to go home from work? You just moved out! We literally just got to a place where we don’t need to wait til your wife is out to see each other, and you said I could come over after work, or spend the night and go to work from your place in the morning, and now she thinks she should be doing that? I have been waiting this entire relationship to get to have that kind of time with you, and after one night, she gets to reap the benefits of all our pain and all the hard decisions we’ve made, and now I have to check with you to find out if Nerd Girl is coming over before I can!?”
“No,” he said. “I told her when we chatted last week, that I am not looking for another girlfriend, and that’s still true. I have been waiting so long for us to be able to have to space to just be together. I love how easy it has been since I moved out, and how happy we have been, and I have no intention of suddenly having another woman staying over at my place all the time.”
“She already wants to see you on Friday. That’s the only night I can stay over when we don’t have to rush because of everyone’s work schedule. You said I could spend Friday night. Why does she think she is spending Friday night?”
“I have no idea,”he said. “She had already asked me about my schedule when we were in bed. I told her that the only night I have free this week is Friday, and that I usually spend Fridays with you.”
“Then why did she say that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, looking truly confused. “But her intensity is freaking me out.”
“Do you want to spend Friday night with her?” I asked quietly. “I’m not going to pull rank and say you can’t if that’s what you want to do.”
“No,” he said emphatically. “I’m not going to say I would never go out with anyone else on a Friday night, but right now you and I need that time. And I want to spend it with you. I don’t want to give it up. And I just met her. I don’t know her. ”
“Yet,” I said.
“Look,” he told me. “The first time you and I were together, something amazing happened between us. We clicked and we connected in so many ways. I knew you were my soul mate, even if I couldn’t put it into words. Even before we met, even when we were just chatting on OkCupid and texting, I felt like I knew you. I don’t feel that way about her. And even though you and I might start dating other people eventually, I have no desire to do that right now. We need space and time to figure out how to just be together. You are my world.”
We were driving now, but I asked him to pull over. I said I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know whether I should go home and be by myself, or go with him. I didn’t know whether we should try to talk this out, or just move on from it.
We got out of the car. He said he still wanted to talk. And in the distance, I spotted blue and green colours dancing across the sky. On our second date, we’d tried to find them, but couldn’t. That was the night he was talking about–the night we ended up on top of each other in the backseat, with our souls fused.
“Do you want to go see the Northern Lights?” I asked.
“Really?” he said, looking relieved and grateful.
“Really,” I answered.
And so we did.
A couple weeks back, Papa Bear and I went on a double date with another poly couple. We had been meaning to get together with them for months and months, but with life being crazy, this was the first time we actually had a chance to hang out since meeting them at a poly event last November. We met for all-you-can-eat sushi, and sat and talked and got to know each other. It was a nice night, and Papa Bear and I were excited at the prospect of having some new poly friends.
After dinner we went and sat on the patio of a cafe and had coffee. When it got too cold to be outside anymore, we walked to our cars, exchanged hugs all around, ad said we’d have to get together again soon.
I asked Papa Bear if he liked the girlfriend (who we’ll call Nerd Girl). He said he thought she was cute and liked how nerdy she was, but he knew she wouldn’t be interested in him and he was cool with that. I didn’t disagree with him. She is 24 (a full 21 years younger than Papa Bear) and made a point of telling us that she is basically a lesbian and the only man she is into is her boyfriend.
He asked me if I’d like to fuck her.
“Possibly,” I said. “We’ll see.”
“Would you want to fuck him?” he asked.
“Maybe, but I think he might be a little young for me.” The boyfriend, who we’ll call The Sheriff, is 27 to my 31–and I usually go for older men.
I continued to chat with The Sheriff on Facebook messenger, as we had been doing semi-regularly since we first met. The conversation turned kind of sexy, and then I got drunk one night, causing the conversation to turn very sexy.
During that talk, he told me that Nerd Girl has a major crush on Papa Bear. I immediately texted him and told him, and we were both excited about the possibility of this leading to fun, sexy times.
The next weekend (just a week after Papa Bear moved into his own place), they invited us to a barbecue. We went in with no expectations, but hoping we might end up making out a little at the end of the night or something.
We all started drinking immediately, and there was a decent crowd. It wasn’t a ton of people, maybe 10-12. We spent most of the daylight hours getting to know Nerd Girl and The Sheriff and their friends, and it was fun. Then, after a few more drinks than was probably advisable, Nerd Girl asked me to go upstairs with her and help her change into a shorter dress.
I suddenly got the impression that it was going to turn into That Kind of Party. The dress was short–it was pretty much showing her ass cheeks! When I tried to help her figure out the strings on it, neither of us could get it, and we started giggling.
When we came back downstairs The Sheriff told us that he figured based on our giggles, that we were probably fucking. I assured him that no fucking had taken place! We moved the furniture around so that the kitchen table was in front of the sectional, and we could all comfortably sit and play Cards Against Humanity.
I ended up setting between The Sheriff and Papa Bear, and Nerd Girl ended up on Papa Bear’s other side. We hadn’t even made it through a full round of the game, before Nerd Girl took her dress off, got out a flogger, and started taking volunteers for who wanted to beat her.
Some of the guys happily obliged, and took turns leaving welts on her ass. I watched, until The Sheriff started kissing my ear. “You smell amazing,” he said, and when I turned to respond, our lips met. Within less than a minute his hand was up my dress, and he was massaging me through my panties, which were immediately soaked. We continued kissing and he rubbed me off until I came, and then he got up to go do something.
Papa Bear was still sitting beside me, and he took advantage of my flipped up dress, and stuck his face between my legs. It had been a long-standing fantasy of ours, for him to eat me out in a room full of people, so he definitely wasted no time and spared no effort. He made me come again, and then Nerd Girl came and sat beside me and we started making out. Papa Bear pushed his fingers into me, hitting my g-spot, and then started to lick her cooch. We both moaned loudly and continued making out. I found her nipple and pinched it between my fingers. She said I should do it harder, and I did, but I still don’t think it was hard enough for her. She is a self-confessed pain-slut. Papa Bear alternated between the two of us, always with his hand inside one and his tongue inside the other.
Eventually I excused myself to get another drink, and then I padded down to the basement to use the bathroom. While I was down there I ran into The Sheriff, who grabbed me and kissed me and pushed me into the den. When Nerd Girl (his kinda-submissive) came down to ask his permission to fuck Papa Bear, my legs were wrapped around his head, so he just gave the go-ahead with a hand signal.
He fucked me hard. He pinned me to the couch. He choked me when my screams got too loud, which made me come harder. He fucked my face with his thick cock, until my make-up ran and my body shook and whimpers rose from my throat. He pulled my hair and I dug my nails into any part of him I could find.
When we went back upstairs and I tried to talk, I realized I’d lost my voice. Yes, I am a screamer. I went to the bedroom and watched Papa Bear flog Nerd Girl for awhile, and then, satisfied that they were having a good time, but feeling like a third wheel, I got up to head downstairs.
“Why are you leaving?” asked Papa Bear, with a big smile on his face. “Come over to the bed”
“I have to pee,” I said, which was true, but I didn’t go back. Instead I returned to the party.
Everyone except Papa Bear and Nerd Girl decided to go for a walk, so we stumbled, in various states of drunkenness, through the neighbourhood. The Sheriff held my hand and we chatted about movies and music, and then we all stopped for a drink, then returned to the house.
Nerd Girl and Papa Bear were still upstairs, but when they heard us they came down and joined us. I was just thinking it had been a really fun night, when Nerd Girl, who was sitting beside Papa Bear and kissing him over and over, started talking to him.
“I’m so glad you live so close to my work, because now I can come spend the night whenever I’m too tired to go home!”
“Yeah, we were fooling around and the next thing I knew we were fucking bareback!” she told her boyfriend with a giggle.
“Are you okay with going down the Dom road with me? Because I really don’t think I can be anything other than a submissive,” she asked Papa Bear.
“I’m going to have to figure out what to call you…” she said to him, gazing starry-eyed at his bewildered face.
“Now we can swap books!”
Then she called her boss to ask for her schedule, and squealed about the fact that she had the next Friday off. “I’m so glad I have this Friday off so we can spend the night together. Are you free Friday?”
And I watched her, like I was watching some kind of exotic creature I’d never before seen, either up close, or depicted on television. And I tried to keep the blood from rushing to my head as he told her he really had no idea what his schedule would be like but that he’s pretty busy.
And I hugged her good bye when they walked us to the car, and gave The Sheriff a good night kiss, and waited until the door closed and we were driving away, before I had a full-blown panic attack.
When the cab pulls up at his place, he is waiting outside. In the pitch dark, I can only make out his silhouette. The howling wind blows my dress and his shaggy, hipster hair as I walk towards him.
I close the space between us and grab his shirt, pulling his mouth to mine. His lips are soft–so impossibly soft. Our hands roam all over each others’ bodies, as we fumble our way through the door and down the stairwell.
I drop my bag. He pushes me against the wall. My hands under his lumberjack flannel shirt, his in the space between my short green dress and my thigh high boots.
“Do you want a smoke?” He asks. “Because otherwise the dress is coming off.”
I need a minute. “Yes,” I say. “Smoke.”
We go outside. We smoke. I have no idea what we talk about. Our lips find each other again and he pulls me back into the apartment, then begins kissing my neck from behind.
“I wish I could date you,” he murmurs into the space between my shoulders.
“Why can’t you?,” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Because I would want you all to myself. That’s why.” The tenderness and passion in his voice floods all my senses.
He flips me around and I fall back on the bed. We pull each others’ clothes off and he slowly kisses my body, and then he’s inside me.
I gasp. “Oh god.”
He moves in me until I come over and over.
“Get on your back,” I growl. He complies.
I climb on top and ride him. “You feel really good,” he moans. I moan back.
When we’re done, we lay together, kissing passionately, running our hands up and down each others’ bodies.
“Can you believe we did this?” I laugh.
“Yep,” he answers with a smile.
He softly asks me why I’m not single. I softly ask him why he’s not poly. Then our mouths are together again, getting as much of each other as we possibly can in this one night.
“I hate that I want you again already,” he admits. He kisses my neck, as I run my hands over his body, moaning. He enters me, this time alternating between pushing into me with his cock, and licking me to orgasm. I scream, grabbing his hair with my hands, digging my nails into his back, until I am spent.
And then we talk. Office gossip. The kinkiest thing we ever did. When we got our tattoos and why. The most fucked up thing we’ve ever done in heartbreak. Whether or not we believe in forever. What happens after we die. The moment we each realized we wanted each other, and the moment we each realized we wanted each other for more than sex.
“This is the most interesting post-sex conversation I’ve ever had,” he admits.
“What do you normally talk about?”
“It’s usually ‘I see this going somewhere…'”
“Ah,” I replied.
“Can we agree, no feelings?” he asks me.
“Define feelings…”I press.
I agree. Ownership, I do not need.
We smoke another cigarette, talking the whole time, and then take turns going down on each other. After another round of viciously delicious orgasms, I fall back against the pillows, panting.
“Let’s get breakfast,” I say. It is 2:30 in the morning.
We get in his car, and go for breakfast. We talk about what it would be like to keep seeing each other. What would happen if this one night turned into a full-blown affair. What would happen if we got caught.
Pancakes and bacon, and then back to his place to fuck and talk some more. Every time I pull on my panties to go to sleep, he asks why I am wearing underwear, and tosses them back across the room.
I start to giggle. “Well, if you can’t laugh during sex, you’re doing it wrong,” he says. And then his head is between my legs. We are insatiable.
So much of it is a blur of touch and hands and mouths and grabbing and bucking and kissing and petting. So much of it, except, this one moment:
Our heads in a cloud of blankets. Faces inches apart. His hands on my skin. Mine hands on his. Our eyes locked, hazy from exhaustion and wanting. His auburn hair mussed. Both of us floating. Not saying things we shouldn’t be saying, but definitely feeling things we shouldn’t be feeling.
If there is one moment from that night that I will take with me wherever I go, it will be that.
Around 4 AM, he tells me I must sleep. I’m in a meeting the whole next day. I tell him not to boss me. He tells me he is being a good friend. We spoon, and crash, pressed against each other.
My phone’s alarm blares at 6 AM. I rip it out of the wall. We both laugh, looking at each other in amazement.
“Good morning, ” he says. He uses my name.
“Good morning,” I say, using his.
We are kissing and then we are fucking. We are both wide awake.
We smoke, then make love again.
“What’s your weak spot?” he asks.
I smirk in response.
“I will kiss every inch of your body until I find it.”
I raise my eyebrows. Challenge accepted.
He starts at my hips. He kisses my belly. When he pulls a nipple into his mouth, I moan instantly. I moan again when he gets to my neck, and then our mouths are together and I flip over so he can enter me from behind.
He dresses and goes to the kitchen to get us something to drink. I follow , sliding up behind him, pulling open his shirt, pulling off his pants, until he is naked. I run my hands up and down his shaft until he turns and I kneel, taking him into my mouth.
He groans, and I stay there for a few moments, on the kitchen floor. “Back to bed,” he says, lifting me to my feet, carrying and tossing me onto the mattress. His head is between my legs again. I am so sore I can barely stand the contact but our time is almost over. I want as much as I can get.
He says he is going to shower, and then take me to my meeting. I wrap my arms tighter around him.
“You can’t pin me,” he laughs, so I wrap my leg around him too. He slowly kisses my neck. Runs his lips over my collarbone and towards my mouth. He turns me onto my back, gets on top of me, and fucks me into ecstasy one last time.
Then he chuckles, and walks towards the bathroom.
“It was totally worth it,” I laugh back. “I don’t even care.”
In the car, we are quiet. I pull a cigarette from his pack. “Do you want one?” I ask, and he says “Yeah.”
I put his to my lips and light it, handing it to him first, before I draw on my own.
“And they say romance is dead,” he says.