Welcome back!

I don’t remember the exact context of the first time that Mr. Vanilla said this to me. I just remember that, as with subsequent utterances, it has produced significant comic relief.

It has become tradition now that whenever I complain about anything (an ache or pain, too many papers to grade, the state of public discourse in civil society) that Mr. Vanilla helpfully offers a nice boob grope to cheer me up and get my mind off my troubles. Increasingly, I’ve been taking him up on the offers.

Let me tell you. He is a nipple teaser of the highest order. Strong hands, long fingers, and a seemingly hair-trigger grasp on the finer nuances of applying pressure.

In my life, my nipples have been tortured, caressed, clamped, sucked, and licked. This is the first time in my life that they’ve been anything to write home about, though.

It seems, however, that he has a direct buzzer from tits to clit in the form of my nipples. So, if I haven’t been entirely clear in my answer to the question posed in the title, “Yes, it helps greatly.”

So, the last several months I’ve been keeping pretty busy working and travelling a lot. I’ve worked out an arrangement where I get trips to fun cities to stay in nice hotels and dine at fabulous restaurants for free. When I’m not seeing the sites or relaxing, I’m making love to a sexy man in the gorgeous hotel room that I didn’t pay for. Even better, I finish up these excursions with a bit of pocket money to show for my time.

No, I didn’t finally manage to become a high-priced call girl. I’ve actually been working as a freelance hotel evaluator. People will tell you it is super hard work to discourage you from getting involved in the industry but, honestly, it has been pretty fucking easy for me so far.

I’ve been quiet because, as sidelines go, blogging just wasn’t doing much for me. And there are some pretty nice perks to the pastime but my landlord still refuses to accept rent in the form of gently used sex toys.

But last night as Mr. Vanilla and I laid in an antique four poster bed appointed with super luxurious down pillows and comforter, we started discussing this blog. In the next few months, it will be 5 years old. So many of my favorite writers are gone. There are so many new faces that it is mostly a blur. But I am thrilled to still have dear friends from this space. And I’m having the best sex of my life so I figure that I ought to be chatting about it again.

A few weeks ago Mr. Vanilla and I were in the car and, being the upwardly mobile and white liberals that we are, we had on NPR. In particular, This American Life. Even more in particular, this episode about the cultural acceptance of infidelity.

Anyone that follows my Twitter knows how I feel about cheating in relationships. I don’t have a lot of sympathy for any of the parties involved. I’m particularly annoyed with sex bloggers that merrily write about cheating with the expectation that as long as they are fucking, the audience will continue to pat them on the ass and tell them how hot they are.  My personal standards for honesty in relationships are pretty intense. Fuck, I’m even on record about this.

For me, infidelity is taking an action or having a feeling that I think my partner would want to know but that I’m not telling him for some reason. I used to say that I ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t want him sitting next to me while I’m doing,’ but I think that is pretty reductive and too prone to literal interpretation. Instead, any sort of keeping secrets feels like infidelity to me.

So, as Mr. Vanilla [since I’m already on a roll with asides, he really needs another name] and I listened to this story my first interest was sort of academic. I thought about my opinions about cheating and at one point nearly blurted out, “God, I fucking hate people that brag about this shit.”

Then I remembered who I was sitting next to. Mr. Vanilla cheated on his ex-wife. He feels like crap about it, he doesn’t justify it with excuses or think that it deserves accolades. Still, he was a cheater. And, some (who operate in the “once a. . . always a. . .” school) would say that he still is.

I contained my outburst and we were quietly listening and driving for a few minutes before I reached for the dial, blocked out Ira Glass and his ilk, and said, “well, that is sort of awkward.”

While infidelity is still an issue in polyamorous relationships, it tends to be less of one because there is less of an incentive or necessity to cheat in most of those arrangements. I’ve been poly for awhile now I’m newly (and quite happily) monogamous. Since I am coming from this other framework, for me the logical solution to having a longing for another partner is to discuss it and potentially change the organization of the relationship. For many people that are monogamous by default, it is to cheat.

Mr. Vanilla and I returned to the topic of the NPR report a few hours later when I reminded him that my monogamy was my choice and that I didn’t make it to restrict him. He re-affirmed his own decision to be monogamous with me. I told him that I hoped he would discuss it with me if he started to have any doubts and that I trusted him.

Fast forward a few days and he is visibly distraught before me after a harrowing conversation with his ex-wife that included a rehashing of his own infidelity. This reminder from a person he wronged of the pain that he caused her was causing him significant guilt and pain. What’s more it was laid bare to me because it interlaced with his fear of making the same mistakes again. Because I love him, every bit of me wanted to take on his pain as if it were my own, grant him absolution, tell him that he didn’t deserve to feel guilty. But I didn’t because it wasn’t true and it isn’t my forgiveness to grant.

What I could give him was the gift of my trust. And in this moment of seeing a person I love deeply at a low of self-doubt, I recognized that it was a very small consolation. But, despite his past mistakes I could look at him before me with compassion and love and know that I trusted him to act in ways that would not harm me. It was a trust that he earned through his actions and displayed character and that he knows all too well that he could lose.  But ultimately, I believe in him and his goodness and I believe in my own ability to bestow my trust and love where I see fit.

I’m on my knees in front of him and looking up. There is dim light streaming in the windows. I’d like to think it is the moon but it is most likely the sub-division street lights casting this cool tint on the moment. Regardless of the source, he looks painfully hot. I can feel myself get wetter as I slide my mouth over his cock and crane my neck to catch his expression.

Perfect. That look on his face and the way he bites his lower lip and the catch of his breath making the only sound in this room. His eyes are closed but I keep my gaze trained on him.

Eventually he opens his eyes and locks onto mine. His body softens a bit as he lets out a deep sigh. He gives me a sorta smile and lifts a hand from the edge of the bed to run in through my hair. As I feel his fingers tangle into my messy waves I soften too. His touch is gentle but authoritative. He doesn’t hesitate as he rests one hand cradling the back of my skull. I feel his thumb trace down my hairline from behind my ear to the nape of my neck and my whole body occupies that touch, a river of cool fire.

I wish I could say I worshiped his cock. But I was living in the nape of my own neck. Oh, I sucked his cock. Tongue darting out and teasing, stroking with my fingers and whole hand. I put on the whole show and I wanted him in my mouth. Wanted him anyway I could have him. But my desire had migrated beyond cock in mouth or cock in cunt or cock at all. I was under those fingers, that hand, this perfect grip. He flexed his fist from time to time squeezing my hair along with it. It never hurt, not an ounce. It was just a rare opportunity to bend to his will.

When he finally pulled me up to my feet by that handful of hair, our eyes met as equals. We’d never left that place but I got to flirt at the edge of something else. He devoured my lips and pulled me close to him. My center left the nape of my neck and I lived again in all of my flesh, all of it satisfied to be pressed against him. We breathed that moment, lips connected in the pale glow of the street lamp but creating our own light.

As I focus on some key transitions in my life, I’m nurturing a new relationship. When I first mentioned Mr. Vanilla I described him as not being emotionally available. While our connection has grown and solidified in the two months that we’ve been dating, we’re both hesitant to box it in with labels. Notably, for me at least, love can be a terrifying word. In my past, less healthy, relationships that emotion has represented a willingness to sell myself terribly short and subjugate my own needs and well-being in incredibly harmful ways. Feeling loved and loving has caused me to justify abandoning friendships or letting them languish, relinquish big pieces of my identity, or simply self-destruct.

However, being an idealist, love can’t only be a dirty word. And while Mr. Vanilla and I don’t utter those three little words that mean way too much and often very little, we do express our admiration in words and action.

He loves the way I run my hands over his back when we are close.

I love that he stops at odd moments to shoot a 1000 watt smile at me.

He loves how I can’t time my steps when I bowl and skitter up to the line only to stop and throw the ball awkwardly.

I love the rough reassurance of his voice as he utters lustful praise in my ear.

He loves the way I move in moments of passion.

I love his hand on the small of my back guiding me through a crowded sidewalk.

We haven’t been shy to share the things that we love about each other. Some are small and insignificant. Perhaps he only loves my giggle the way one describes loving chocolate ice cream. But praise and reassurance don’t rest on what words one uses to describe them. Rather, they circulate on a basis of trust, safety, and mutual respect.

As Mr. Vanilla and I both heal from past wounds and learn to be safe with our own selves again, I hope that we can lean on one another as friends, allies, and cheerleaders. But I feel safe in saying that I’ll not ask for or serve as a crutch.  If there are battles to fight or demons to tame, we each have our own weapons, ingenuity and strength to depend on. But in the peaceful intervening moments I do love having him near to reinforce and share in my joy and passion.

Mr. Vanilla is an incredibly normal guy. He has a massive collection of relatively mainstream music. He has an average career. He isn’t a pervert. He isn’t emotionally overwrought (or even emotionally available, for that matter).

Mr. Vanilla and I have gone on half a dozen pretty normal and average dates. Drinks, coffee, dinner, movies at home, a stroll on the beach.

Mr. Vanilla is gentle when he touches me. He is not passive or unconfident, just deliberately gentle. He has reminded me that a soft, subtle touch can be just as controlling as a rough or painful one.

Yesterday Mr. Vanilla whisked me off to the beach in a convertible. We soaked in the water for an hour and told jokes and spotted dolphins. We even re-enacted a cliche and strolled along the water holding hands as the sun set. We talked about our failed past relationships and our current agendas.

Mr. Vanilla is more complex than he seems at face value. He isn’t intentionally enigmatic but I still find myself wondering about him at odd moments. He knows how to say the right thing at just the right moment and never any sooner.

After dinner at a shrimp shack, we drove back in the dark with the top down. I tried to control my sundress and beach hair and failed at both. When Mr. Vanilla put his hand on my thigh, I got a shiver and I couldn’t help but smile.

I’ve had a hard month.  Without going into too much detail, Michael said the following statements to me all in the course of a single day:

“I love you more today than I ever have.”

“If I were making choices based on who makes me happiest or who I love more, I would stay with you.”

“I believe you may be the greatest love of my life and I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.”

“I cannot be with you anymore.”

The last one seems like a bit of a contradiction and it was. I thrashed around in supreme pain for a few weeks. I was bitter, angry, and crying at the drop of the hat. Each beautiful memory felt like being punched in the stomach. Each interaction with him represented the pain of being re-rejected over and over again.

Just when I found some peace and was putting things back together, he hit a snag and reached out to me for the emotional support that his partner wasn’t providing him. No phone call has ever made me feel more used and degraded than this one did.

I’ve slowly worked my way back from that. I’m working back to forgiving him again, wanting to find a place to be kind to him. My love remains unconditional but my ability to care, nurture, and support is seriously strained. The reality is that Michael chose to leave me in order to put all of his effort into another relationship. He made the choice purely on his own and against the wishes of his parter, but it was still his choice to make. As that other relationship continues to flounder, I don’t know if he harbors any regrets. It isn’t for me to know.

***

But, the point of the post isn’t what happened. It is what is happening.

Yesterday I celebrated the holiday with many of my dearest friends. We grilled out, drank fantastic amounts of beer, played board games, and churned our own ice cream.

As it got late (and tipsy), I declared that I could go for a swim. Noah (who has remained a dear friend) got behind this idea wholeheartedly and we quickly organized a late-night march down to the river.

When we arrived near the water it was still and black. Most of my friends were too hesitant to scramble down the steep bank in the dark but Noah forged ahead and I managed to follow. We slipped out of our clothes and into the water. It was perfect. Not too cold and smelling green. We floated out past the rocks and stared up at the moon and an abandoned train trestle and listened to firecrackers exploding in the distance.

We just leaned against a downed tree trunk and lived in that lovely warm, wet, firecrackers moment. We talked about the moon and the train trestle and turtles. I realized that I felt fundamentally right in that water. The world was in place and my sorrow had subsided. Instead of feeling incomplete and broken, I actually had some peace. One of my best friends was near my side and there to observe my independence and tranquility. I felt beautiful, happy, and safe.