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Several evenings ago Mr. Vanilla shared dinner at home with some friends and after seeing them off wandered back to his office where the music for the evening was being loudly piped into the house. We had been stealing kisses all evening and had stumbled upon privacy just as an insanely danceable and fun song from the most recent Nick Cave album came on. He grabbed me and we danced.

I felt, in turn, silly, sexy, joyous, and elated. The good music persisted with some wonderful Northern Soul showing up on the playlist. We danced with no regard to how we must have looked because no one was looking. I know he looked sexy and fun and like someone I was hoping to laugh with and feel this unashamed before for a long time.

The sloppy kisses and coy glances then gave way to Frank Sinatra. What I’m about to describe could have been cheesy and insincere. But it wasn’t. He pulled me close, looked in my eyes, and sung me a love song. And I started off blushing and giggling but then I gave up those pretenses and just basked in what seemed to be sincere admiration and love.

I could write about the intensely intimate sex we had that evening. But, you know, every boyfriend I’ve ever had has fucked me. None have ever serenaded me before.