It’s a Saturday and I just got home from work. Walked in the door and heard a jangling folk song on the radio which I leave on for the cats, and thought “I wonder what the last song is that they heard?” As I switched it to silence.
You don’t say good night.
And that’s how I know we will never be more than this.
Maybe I’ll use you, maybe you will use me back.
So what if we share a common core
You aren’t looking for anything more
Than someone to bind, to pass the time
I swear to God I’m not even trying to rhyme
I’m just starving
And that makes me vulnerable
But you remind me of someone I loved.
I’ve never met you and I want you to rule me. That’s out of character for me but I’m not going to overthink it, I tell myself as I overthink. I’m just going to enjoy it, and you.
I look forward to giving over control to someone that knows what to do with it, how to handle it.
We avoid getting too “personal” but I think you might “get” what I mean. Walking into work this morning, heels, skirt, I reached the door before whoever is behind me and politely hold it open. A man who far outranks me in my other life takes the door from me and says “not on your life ma’am, after you”. I LIKE the chivalry. I like the reminder that I am a woman. And it makes me think I’d be fine if I never put on the uniform ever again. It’s still a man’s world in or out of service but it’s more…polite, when I’m not trying to be a man.
But my horoscope for this month looks good. It hints at sex and connecting with someone unexpectedly. I can only hope it means I meet kinky Mr perfect and maybe at the least I don’t beat myself up overgetting it on.
I deliberately don’t ask too many personal questions. I know minor details like where he’s from and what that small tattoo on his back means. But I don’t know if he’s an only child or his favorite food. I’m careful not to get too friendly and I mean that quite literally as our conversations revolve around sex and kink almost exclusively with a little bit of ambiguous bitching about our jobs in the most general terms. But I have researched him just enough to be sure that he is who he says he is. But I don’t look up anything else. I don’t try to find him on social media. I’m not looking for pictures or details of how he spends his time.
But I was tempted. After 3 weeks of daily chatting, he disappeared for 3 days. Mid conversation too. I assumed that he had gone on a trip, maybe back to his home state where I envision him walking nude beaches and hooking up with liberal women before going to watch the super bowl with his boys. All I knew was that he wwas likely watching it wearing enough red to look like The Flash.
And so I reconciled that I probably wouldn’t hear from him until at least Monday. Although I was disappointed and felt disregarded.
He told me I should start wearing plugs to prepare for him. So even though I didn’t hear from him, I was still obedient and went to the store to purchase a couple of graduated plugs but I didn’t Wear them that weekend. I Missed his attention and figured if he wants me to stick something up my ass for him, I require encouragement.
We were discussing erotica and I mentioned my favorite collection of poems by Richard Siken. As I began to reread it and share with him, I was inspired and wrote this in the back of the book:
He hasn’t earned anything
Not the pictures, not my trust
But I give it to him anyway
After a ‘no’ so firm with everyone else
I hand it all over to him
Like a burden, like a grenade
That I’m relieved to be rid of
He said he liked it. I think to myself, it doesn’t matter whether he did or didn’t.
3 days, I watch as his message string moves further and further then disappears down the line.
I cheered when the opposing team beat his. One because I love underdogs and two, because I was hoping it put a damper on wherever he went that he had gone to forget me.
Because it’s all about me, of course.
And then he reappeared as I expected with plausible or made up excuses, it doesn’t matter.
You said you missed me and I laughed, don’t toy with my emotions. I was sincerely worried by the time 48 rolled into 72. I have no illusions of romance or friendship but he should have been more considerate.
I wish I had worn my plug to dress rehearsal. It was stressful and I could have used a psychological anchor. Something to keep our upcoming play time at the front of my lobe and give me something to look forward to like a kid weeks before Christmas.
You say the most romantic things. Like: I’ll shove it in one of your holes or I’m waxing my rope for you. You sent me a picture of the rope and you were wearing blue plastic gloves while you worked. I said, oh baby, leave the gloves on. Those gloves scream “I’ve got a shovel and a bag of lime in my trunk.”
You think I’m funny. I know I am. You also crave my Beyonce sized ass painted red by your hand. You’ve already seen me, what I have to offer top to bottom and you still want it. Your reaction is encouraging. Especially at a time when my physical body is out of control and I starve and punish it with more activities that it can handle. The punishment you offer will be sweeter. Funishment you call it. I said I’d use that, and I also said I’d give you credit for it.
You asked me how my day went at work and I told you. We lost guys in a fire fight. And in the midst of it, people around me were bitching about what playlist to listen to on YouTube, their favorite sports team or wishing how they were outside on the water on this gorgeous day rather than here… But I was holding my breath for the release of the names of killed. He didn’t respond. He understands but he’s not my friend. It honestly makes me wonder what we will even talk about when we do meet in person if we can’t get too personal.
Separately but not completely unrelated, one of my cabaret ladies is starting to write again. She’s fearless and so I don’t think she would mind me sharing her blog with you, whoever YOU are, if there is even anyone on the other end of this line…
Reading her stuff makes me mildly ashamed of my own. I know we shouldn’t compare something as intimate as writing but hers does not read like a bitching teenager’s diary. I could write better, I tell myself, if I took the time to proofread and edit. Or maybe, just as with my dancing or singing or acting or whatever else artsy farts that I throw myself into, maybe my writing is just as “okay”.
Unremarkable. The occasional a-ha or punchline but overall, long-winded and unfocused. So thank you if you made it this far.