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.

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.

[Aside: I just quoted part of an article from Violet Blue where she quotes me. . . on my own blog. This post should implode now in a self-congratulatory wank-fest. But I'll persist.]

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.

I went to camp last month and had a very important time. It took several weeks for the bruises to fade but I’m still processing the self-discovery.

I entered camp strongly suspecting that it would be my last foray into non-monogamy for awhile. Incidentally, I didn’t have a lot of sex. I spent most of my play time getting punched and beaten by lovely people. I also made some personal connections that I hope will persist.

No one has asked me to be monogamous but after being pretty roughed up in my last relationships, I’m starting to think that polyamory and all that goes with it aren’t what I want right now. This means something big. My darling Jay and I are no longer “together”. I invoke the scare quotes because we are together still in many ways. We share a home, although he now moved into the other bedroom. We share a life, although we no longer make long-term plans for the future together. And we share many laughs and that part needs no caveat. I’m lucky to still have a best friend and supporter even if our romantic partnership is dissolved.

I know many of you poly folk think that sex and passion ending isn’t a reason to end a relationship. And I think that if Jay and I had a mortgage or children tying us together we’d make the best of it and have other lovers while keeping maintaining the basics of our life together as a priority. However, we don’t have those things. We just have an amazing friendship that isn’t going anywhere soon. And I suffer from some pretty old-fashioned ideas about having a home and a life with someone that I do have a romantic relationship with. And monogamy. I’m getting more conservative, I suppose, in my old age.

So at camp I tentatively said goodbye to some things that are important to me but I’m pretty committed to my involvement with this community. I don’t know if complete sexual monogamy is something that I’ll stick to (although it is working just fine at the present, thank you) but I do know I’m strictly devoted to the idea of one relationship at a time.

Dear reader, I can hear the collective groans as you assume that I’m about to get intensely boring. Honestly, I think this blog has been pretty boring for months. I’m hoping to get back to writing more often in the hopes of keeping myself engaged with my own sexual journey and sharing the excitement of my burgeoning romance with Mr. Vanilla. I want to tease out the significance of what I’m doing in that it is a choice I’m making for myself and with my eyes wide open and I hope to show that fucking in single file doesn’t have to mean boring.

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.

I wrote this weeks ago. And now I’ve lost the person that it is about. He has given up on trying to find a place for me in his future. And I’m grieving.

you told me that it was the best day of your life. i could see that in your eyes all day. the chronology fails me, the events are already slipping away. i just remember how it felt. the uncontrollable smiles. the calm, peaceful serenity of it. i remember memorizing your face over and over again. and i remember the music. singing snippets of lyrics to you. knowing that every love song ever written was about us. because we were loving each other not as the center of our individual universes but as the center of the entire universe. so, how could a musician write about any love other than ours? what could be more pure or intense or real? these are the ridiculous narcissistic thoughts that clouded my thoughts and utterances. this is why i looked in your eyes and earnestly said that one of the upsides of being codependent was sharing just as much in the other’s joy as in the sadness. i suggested at one point that we had spent the day doing nothing. you were firm and insistent that this wasn’t nothing. i see now that it was the biggest something i have ever done. but just like the way i love you, i can’t put a label on it.

***

We sang together. Our voices cracking under the stress of the moment. The fear weaves through the melody. But there is a commitment in that lyric. By the end of the song, all I could do was whisper the words. But I kept at it. The final lines didn’t choke me up so much because of the weight of the ones that had come before. That was bearable. What was unbearable was seeing the end of the song and knowing that this moment was about to end. I nearly panicked. I wanted to stop time. Perhaps if I could stop the song from ending, I could stop you from sliding away from me.

***

We stood naked together, smelling of sweat and tears and a day of anguish. You pulled me to you in the water and whispered dreams of a future in my ear. A home and cats and growing old together. Growing together. You wish for it. For a moment, I don’t hear the conflict in your voice anymore. You sound resolved. But it flits away quickly. It gets loaded down with caveats, maybes, and what-ifs. I’ve stepped closer to this dream but only for an instant. It is a dream that is more yours than mine. It sounds lovely, it sounds satisfying, but mostly it sounds like a way to have you near my always.

***

you asked me something unfair. to make love to you like it would keep you alive. i knew that is how i did it every time but i was still afraid that i could fail. and if i failed would it mean that you would die? so i plead for your life and made a million promises that would be impossible to keep if you would just stay on the earth.

***

I want to be strong for you. I want to be strong in your eyes. I want you to see the woman that, at the age of 9, picked the outfit her mother would be buried in. I want you to see the 18-year-old that moved across the country by herself to embark on a new education and a new life. You are so strong and I feel dwarfed by it on most days.

***

I remember holding you. Scooping you up in my arms like you were a child. Looking down on you and seeing your frailty and vulnerability and marveling at the strength that lived within it. I remember my shock at realizing that my body knew what to do at those moments. Even with no idea what to say, you fit in the space of my lap, I was built to shelter you and protect you in those moments. The same as you can provide me casual but total safety by welcoming me to rest my head on your chest. It occurred to me that my only purpose on earth in that moment, my only reason to take another breath, was to love you and keep loving you and being loved by you. Intensely. So you could feel it through the pain. And I believe that you could if only in small moments.

***

You told me that it was the best day of your life.  I know that you might be approaching one of the worst. I feel so powerless to crack through that pain. I’m resisting the urge to believe that being unable to help is a reflection on the intensity or tenacity of our love. I pray for the chance to grow with you.