My lover goes to another country for two weeks.  Not that long.  Easy peasy.  The time will fly. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that, right?  His last words to me are “I’ll miss you.”  He leaves me with a vase of flowers to remember him by.  I’m so secure in our mutual feels for one another that it’s all silly puppy love pouts of longing and not worry about the distance, neither physical nor emotional, that has me bummed.

Except: absence makes the heart grow fonder…

He texts me about his days, his adventures and I live vicariously through him. One day the phrase “and I had company” appears in his run down of the day.  And I feel a weird flutter in my chest as I read it a couple of times to parse that out.  And the queasy feeling grows, not because he’s likely slept with another woman—he’s free to do whatever he likes within the bounds of safety and honesty—but because none of this is ideal.  There are conversations we should have had before he left, and silly us, we were too busy saying good bye to have those talks. 

So logical me smiles and teasingly congratulates him, eager to hear more about her later, ideally when we’re in the same room so I can touch him, see him smile when he describes their time.  Because I do want to know more and I want him to do all the things (and people) that make him happy.  But emotional me can’t figure out why this hurts. I frantically leave the brunch place I’ve taken myself to while texting him good morning and lay in bed feeling deflated.

Then it hits me. I hear his voice in my head, “She was just keeping me company, stop over reacting, Emily.” Not Mr. Right’s voice.  It’s Mutton, the shit box narcissist abuser whose manipulation and mind games were as plentiful as the amount of women he kept around to make me feel insecure during our two years together. That was years ago and yet…

And I feel like a shit for not being able to say more, say the right thing to Mr. Right just then.  My feels are not his fault.  Dear, PTSD brain, you suck.  Unfuck you Mutton and the abuse that keeps on abusing even though you’re long gone from my life.  It was the euphemism, too familiar, too often used against me, and not the information conveyed that hurt.

Logical me treats herself to an orgasm because Mutton never gets to ruin my day ever again.  Seriously, unfuck that guy.  I turn on porn and fuck myself for a good long while, delaying the inevitable, getting myself just to the edge and stopping to go plainfly slow while watching the man and woman on the screen.  In my head the couple becomes Mr. Right and his mystery hook up.  And it becomes more difficult to wait. 

Holding myself on the edge is excruciating as I fuck myself with the vibrator, not allowing myself the stimulation to my clit that would put me over the edge.  The couple on the screen kiss, looking at one another that way only people who are really enjoying fucking do.  Eyes and mouths wide and bodies absolutely on the same page of pleasure.  Looking almost as if they’re shocked to find themselves in this situation.  Their connection is palpable and erotic as hell.

I wonder if Mr. Right looked at his mystery lady that way.  It’s a look I’ve seen on his face many times.  And I hope so, I hope his hotel room was full of pleasure.  I fantasize about watching them from a chair in the corner of that room, touching myself as my lover fucks another woman.  Would their entangling look anything like ours?  Does he touch her the way he touches me?  What’s specific to our repertoire?

It’s not enough that I’m a dirty old woman fucking this sweet young thing?  Now I’m imagining his trysts?   Knowing this fantasy is weird makes the moment that much better.  So of course this is the moment I move the vibrator to my clit and let go.

And the climax is so cathartic that I cry while coming down from that high. Sweaty and sticky between the legs, face covered in tears, I laugh at myself.  I never stop being surprised at the human heart.  That limerence*, lust, and sadness can occur in the same moment.  That both people can do everything right and one person can trip over the strangest trigger.  That a bruised heart can lead to such debauchery.

Emotional me feels raw the next day until she grows the ovaries to text Mr. Right the “right” way to let me know next time he sleeps with someone else.  100% industrial strength honesty with no euphemism please and thank you.  And that is that.  I have a communication-is-sexy boner the rest of the day.

And the heart grows fonder still…

So I have to throw my hands up and roll my eyes epically at the universe to hear that as soon as Mr. Right gets home, he’s sick.  Instead of having a sweet, sexy reunion we’re both miserable, our bodies playing cruel tricks on us both.  Fortunately he’s well enough a day later to snuggle up and hide from the world. 

We aren’t able to follow our lust anywhere deeper than to spooning but we talk and that’s world’s more intimate.  I hear about the mystery woman and my heart swells to see him shy and pleased, sharing the perfect amount of details.  And in hearing him talk about her I learn more about him, what he likes and what he is like.  What delights him and what drew him to her.  I’ve never adored him as much as when I hear him speak kindly of another woman and their time together.  Because he doesn’t hide anything or compare us. No one is better or more than, we’re just both ladies who happened to cross paths with this same man.  And isn’t that beautiful and strange?

And I tell him of my own minor hook up while he was away.  The rope fun I had when my regular rope bottom was away.  Everything is sweet and silly and out in the open.  We tease one another and giggle at ourselves, it’s not the cathartic sex I’d prefer to be having after having such a vulnerable conversation, but when is life ever perfect?

Instead he lets me hold him through a long night of fever sleep, my arm wrapped around him, hand on his heart, feeling him close.  And I don’t even feel sad about our lack of sexual intimacy just then. Instead I’m consumed with sweetness. For once I actually believe what’s happening in front of me, none of it is manipulation, or denial to keep me on my toes, sad and stressed.  It’s just life.  And we’ll get to the dirty stuff soon enough.  For now the tenderness is plenty satisfying and real.

When I finally get around to tying him up…  Oh boy.

*used here to describe that delightful mushy lovey dovey near obsession that happens early in a romance before the commitment and bonding stage begins

“I’m having one of those is-this-really-my-life? kinda moments.”  He said grinning like a man with a belly full of potatoes, cheese, and bacon who had just been forcibly carried across the room in order to be snuggled by two women. One his lover and the other the weirdo who ties him up occasionally.  Obviously I’m the latter of the two as well as the one who had insisted on tot waffles and rope practice, because what the hell else are you going to do on a Sunday afternoon in fall?

I have that same moment a couple times a day (the is-this-is-my-life? moment not the snuggled by multiple women thing, though if some ladies want to come over and make an Emily sandwich I’ll provide the condiments).  I had it while, Victor aka the Boychick, was cooking.  Meanwhile famous writer and owner of a very comforting stuffed flounder, Mo (go pre-order her book!) and I exchanged essays we had just written as we enjoyed the frantic culinary dance taking play before us. 

Through some strange synchronicity she was writing her side of our shared abused-by-a-furry-narcissist story to present to fawning audiences at her readings this week.  And I was writing my side of the very same story to submit to an online magazine.  So we swapped them as the smell of grease and tots filled the air.     

It never fails to amuse and bemuse me how we met.  That against all mutton chopped odds we’re pals. And here we are sharing the company of the same man (lucky Boychick) this time with absolutely no drama, the way it should be.  Yeap this is my life.  It’s pretty rad.

Later, the Russian national anthem blaring from the tinny speakers of a laptap, I tie Victor face down/ass up for a position I’m calling The Advanced Leap Frog. Mo looks on grinning, puppet in hand; I have that moment again…is this really happening? 

Just for good measure I test the resiliency of this tie by play humping Victor from many angles, because I just never know if while I’m teaching my Bondage for Sex class someone is going to come out with the question “Yes but can I fuck my partner in the ear in this position?” I want to be prepared for every outcome.  This is the level of research I put into my ties, people! 

So after test humping all the regular orifices (don’t be dirty people I was fully clothed, he had boxers on and there were puppets watching so stop making this something it isn’t) I moved onto his exposed ear.  I gave it a few hip thrusts all the while making the calls of a mating male turtle in order to be thorough. 

Thus satisfied with the sustainability of the tie, I turned him over to the eager test audience who was interested in erectile plasticity of pupaphobes partaking in BDSM activities.  First a stuffed shark who is a well known submissive itself was applied to the genital region of the test subject. Giggling and groans were recorded.

Next a navy blue Triceratops hand puppet was brought in to declare many times, “Don’t get a boner.  Do you have a boner?  There are two ladies, Victor’s gonna get a boner.”

No boner was recorded.  I hypothesize it was due to the abnormal shading of the dinosaur because the puppet voice was spot on.  Mo, I am here to tell you is not only a world class writer, the lady also has the best creepy puppet voice this side of the Mississippi.  It nearly brought tears to my eyes.

As the Triceratops continued to attempt to detect any boner related activities (“Where’s the boner Victor?”) I untied the lad.  The swell of the indecipherable Russian choir that was the soundtrack to this moment was the perfect tempo for the swoops of rope this way and that and the tugging at the body that are always a part of a rope scene.  Fancy pants rope performers have it all wrong, electronica is passé, Russian choral music is perfect for tying to.  I’ve been converted.

As I worked I made sure to alternate between asking him questions about the tension of the rope and what worked for him in that position while using my worst Eastern European old lady accent and occasionally punctuating the moment with turtle hump noises.  All the while Mo and the puppet continued their thorough interrogation.

I’m really baffled as to why this evening didn’t transition into being the hottest sweaty threesome (well fivesome, the puppet and the subby shark were still there) ever.  All the elements of a great Hump video were there.  Just really baffling. 

Sorry Victor, I’ll try harder to be a better rope top next time.  You looked just horrified and saddened to be mostly naked in your lady lover’s bed reading the Wikipedia article on the history of the upper peninsula of Michigan on Mo’s laptop as I left.  I know you probably just held each other and recovered the rest of the evening while I rode the bus home to watch James Deen videos and giggle under my covers.  It’s really unfair that I got to have all the fun.