She talks. Or not.

The relative silence continues around these parts. Part of the reason for this is the fact that most of the blogs I read have also gone largely silent. The less time I spend reading other blogs, the less I am inclined to tend to my own. As for the rest of my reasons, I was going to claim that "there isn't really too much going on right now," but that'd be a big fat lie. I've got more going on in my life at the moment and more worth writing about than I have had at any point since I began posting here, so that's no excuse. I do have things to say, but I suppose I ought to admit that I am feeling reluctant to post for a number of reasons.

You see, a lot of things have changed. People I thought I'd lost contact with forever continue to pop up, brand new faces have made their way in, some doors have closed, others have opened and I've learned a lot. My perspective is evolving. Many of the things that have happened over the past six months or so and are continuing to happen are very good things, though, and there's a part of me that is afraid that by writing about them, I will jinx them. Another part of me is purely selfish, and wants to keep my happy secrets to myself. Yet another part is experiencing some shyness and modesty. For all of these reasons and more, I remain mostly quiet. There's a lot of waffling back and forth, too, on how much (if any) I want to share, and I'm trying not to make any hasty decisions. Perhaps some of the rest of you can relate to this? I'll probably do some writing about all these goings-on while they're still fresh in my mind and hang onto them in case I decide I'd like to share sometime in the future, but for now, I can offer very little.

Welcome back, Kotter.

Those of you who have been reading for a while may have noticed that I've done a little bit of cleanup around these parts. It needed to be done; much of the reason why I all but abandoned this blog is that I decided some of what I'd written was a bunch of useless drivel and I couldn't stand to have it associated with my name any longer. Luckily there wasn't much of that, though, so the bulk of my material is still here for those of you who'd been missing it and those of you who have just tuned in.

I may, if inspired, type up a hefty catch-up post, but I haven't made up my mind about that yet. I regret to report that at least for now, much of the novelty of sharing the intimate details of my life and my history with the blogosphere at large has worn off. I do prefer to keep some mystery about me. Then, there's the fact that most of you are sex bloggers, or have been referred here by sex bloggers, and if you're looking for shamelessly masturbatory material, I'm afraid that right at this moment I'm the very last girl whose life you should be reading about.

What I can do, however, is provide a short summary of the past few months. I'm not quite tired enough to sleep yet, so why not? Again, I find myself looking for a new job. My roommate has, since my last post, moved out - out of state, in fact. I've managed to kick some bad lifestyle habits (a fact of which I'm quite proud), adopt some good ones and I'm feeling physically healthier than I have in quite a while. I dance often. I use Twitter more than I'm proud to admit, I'm a nascent connoisseur of the FetLife forums, the relative drought in my romantic and sexual life continues into its eighth month and CollarMe continues to be more of an alternately amusing and frustrating social experiment than a useful tool despite a couple of seemingly successful first dates (not to mention some awful ones).

Kink has been occupying more than its fair share of space in my mind lately. The drought, I'm sure, has a lot to do with this, but it isn't always sexy thoughts. I find the internet (or internet-only) kink community less and less appealing by the day. It's obviously a very convenient way to talk to new people whom you might not otherwise find, but there really is a limit to how fulfilling it is for me and I find myself craving face-to-face interaction with real people. As such, I intend to finally make my way to a munch after the holiday fervor dies down. I'm hoping this will be a fun step, but I have learned not to hold my breath.

I think it's only logical to assume that the more people you meet, the more people you will meet with whom you have things in common, right? That hasn't been the case for me lately. I continue to meet new people, but very few of them seem to want what I want, so the compatibility percentage gets lower. There are certain preconceived notions (ideals, even?) among the kinkier folks I've met which I cannot identify with. The one which causes me the most trouble is the idea that kinky automatically equals promiscuous (or vice versa). It doesn't, for me, but that seems to be the de facto equation for many others, particularly within my age group. While I think that everybody should feel free to enjoy/fuck/love/play with as many people as they please, I can't help but furrow my brow a bit at the idea of being almost looked down upon for the fact that I don't necessarily want to spread myself that thin.

There's more to that topic, but this was just supposed to be a brief overview and I have made myself sufficiently tired!

Radio Silence

It appears I'm an absentee blogger. I stand convicted. It's just that I've been a busy girl, but not busy with anything too terribly blogworthy. My best friend and hetero lifemate moved into my house at the beginning of the month. I was very busy preparing for her arrival and now I am very busy enjoying her company. Now, I'm not accustomed to having roommates, and I am fiercely protective of my personal space, belongings and foodstuffs. Despite this, I've really taken to having someone around all the time. I am a slightly less naked person as a result of her presence, and I sing less, as my nudism and vocal stylings are not accustomed to having an audience. That is certainly no small tragedy, but apart from that it has been smooth sailing. She is not from Chicago, and as such I have found myself experiencing my city more fully as a result of showing it off to her. Plus, I've got a built-in sidekick, now. Win, win, win.

I have made the decision to go back to school in the Spring. The thought terrifies me for a number of reasons. The most important of these are A) incurring debt, which I avoid at all costs and B) the possibility of spending all this time and money on college and still not knowing what I want to do when I have my degree; still being at square one but $30k in the hole. You know? I'm going to try as much as I can to pay out of my own pocket for my education, like I did when I started, but I doubt I'll be able to do it all without a loan of some sort. It's a big risk, but I'm hoping that I'm right when I assume I'd regret not getting my degree more than I'll regret getting it. The current plan is to continue majoring in Biology unless something else ignites passion. I just know that if I don't do it soon, I never will.

I will make an effort to blog more often. Now that Jefferson's blog is essentially out of commission, though, I've found my readership is barely there. Avah is now my top referrer, but the numbers are dismal on the whole. With everything that's going on in the intertubes at the moment, though, I guess now is a good time for me to be sparse with my posts. I've been following the situation in a half-assed manner lately, and I've only got a little bit to say about it.

I have a sort of oversimplified, kindergarten-esque way of viewing character debates. Theoretically, I suppose this shouldn't have become a character debate, but then, this is the internet. I think in black and white when it comes to these issues, and I judge people based solely on what my personal experience with them has been and whether or not they seem, to me, to be a "good person." My definition of a "good person" is pretty simple, too. If I believe that someone has good intentions, and does not set out to cause deliberate harm to anyone, they pass in my eyes, regardless of any poor decisions they may or may not have made. Yes, I've heard the adage about what kinds of roads are paved with good intentions, but to me, it is intent that is most important. In my opinion, most people are fuck-ups in their own special way. I know I am. I make more mistakes than any person should be entitled to. Nobody is anywhere near perfect and as such, if my impression of someone is that they are fundamentally good people and deserving of support, I will do what I can. Nobody on either side of the argument (as far as I've read) has done or said anything that struck me as genuine, deliberate cruelty or ill-will. I just see a lot of standard grievance-airing and lashing out, only on a large, public scale and at an inopportune time. A lot of very normal reactions from a lot of very normal, and seemingly nice people. The pacifist in me absolutely cringes at the vitriol, but I sympathize with just about everyone from either side.

I also talk in circles at 1 A.M., apparently. But I suspect you get the idea.

A decidedly un-sexy update

Again, I feel compelled to apologize for the lack of attention to my blog (and Twitter, for that matter), but I have been very preoccupied lately as real life demands my attention. It’s been a little rough lately. Last week, I left the job that I loved in the heat of a very confusing, very dramatic, wildly inappropriate moment. I do not mean “wildly inappropriate” in a sexual way this time. I’m more upset by this than I ever would have expected to be, and I have been busy talking with some people and figuring out what sort of action to take in the wake of what happened. Despite that very unpleasant experience, I still find myself grieving the loss of that job. I am admittedly no authority on ‘moving on,’ and as such I am having a hard time figuring out what my next career move will be. My sewing skills are still terribly rudimentary so far. I don’t know if I could realistically apply myself to copywriting as much as I’d need to. I have very little interest in pursuing any of the fields in which I have significant experience any further. I hadn’t planned on needing to worry about this so soon, so without any clear direction all I can do is keep my options open and hope a good opportunity knocks again.

In the grand tradition of misfortune, one thing led to another until I ended up with quite a large knot of stress somewhere in my belly. I’m still carrying that around. After explaining the circumstances surrounding my sudden unemployment to my family, a good handful of my nearest and dearest were both appalled at the treatment I received and understanding of my anger (and, frankly, outrage). Several offered comfort and support, but unfortunately my mother was not among this group. My relationship with my mother is complicated, as she is a very complicated woman. I’m not exactly simple, but my mother and I are completely different brands of difficult and she has always been something of a mystery to me. She was upset when I called and told her of my situation, but her first reaction was to ask how I “fucked up.” Already angered and edgy, I chafed at this. Even after I elaborated on the story, including all the nasty details, her suggestion was that I grovel at the feet of the offending party and beg to be rehired. This is not an option as far as I’m concerned, and nobody else has suggested that it should be. Fundamentally, she and I have very different values, and this is a source of constant contention for us. My mother can be an extremely sweet, generous woman, but she clings to a vehement refusal to admit that there is a Hyde to her Jekyll and that yes, even her priorities might be backward from time to time. My decision to share this personal crisis of mine with her led to yet another unprovoked attack, involving words that one person should never say to another, let alone to one’s child. As I typically do in such situations, and as I did in the incident involving my former employer, I remained quiet and let her vent, excusing myself when I felt the exchange was going nowhere. I suppose I ought to be proud of the ability to control my emotions when things get ugly. I’ve worked very hard at that. The only person my temper was ever an issue to begin with was with my mother, but I am saddened by the realization that our relationship hasn’t been improved upon any by my refusal to fight. In the absence of retort, some people will simply fill the air with more attacks and never tire of the one-sided battle. She is one of them.

So, weighed down by career and family stress, I am trying to distract myself in both productive and unproductive ways. I cut off all but an inch or two of my hair, reorganized my closets and recommitted to regular exercise. Eager for pleasant experiences, I'm trying to make arrangements for several mini-vacations. My romantic life is still something of a nonevent, and my libido seems to have packed its bags and headed for cover until the crisis has blown over. That hasn't stopped me from continuing to enjoy CollarMe, though. My experience with it so far has been very interesting and often downright amusing, though not very fruitful. I've also learned some things about my kink. For example: I don't think I will ever be able to submit to someone who can't spell or write/type in complete sentences. Hard limit: poor grammatical skills. I sware im not an unresonabel snob but relly ther is only so much of this kidn of talkin a girl can taek u kno? It isnt sexxxyy.

The people who attract my attention are invariably the ones who put a little extra effort into things. This is true for my dating/sex life in general. I don't demand 110% from every exchange. I don't even expect anybody to match my enthusiasm. That would be very tough to do, as I can be a very eager beaver. All I'm looking for is that "Hey - I give a shit" impression. I am beginning to worry that I still may be asking too much in that arena.

Hallelujah.

There is nothing terribly exciting in my personal life to report, as I have been very busy with work and such lately, so I apologize about that. I warned you that this wasn't going to be too terribly exciting. I would, however, like to share the story of something that turned me on today.

Those of you who know me know what a huge documentary geek I am. Those of you who don't know me - well, now you know. I watch documentaries daily. I've seen loads of them, and I've loved most of them. I'll watch a documentary about just about anything. One of my recent favorite types has been the "religious documentary" category. This began when I first saw Jesus Camp, a provocative look inside an evangelical summer camp for children. The trailer sort of speaks for itself, but keep in mind that the actual content is a little more militant. I don't understand where and when the line got blurred, in Christianity, between "love thy neighbor" and "religious warfare." I'm not a Christian, but I can certainly identify with any group whose core values embrace goodness, generosity, tolerance and peace. The message behind some of this zeal, though, scares me a little bit. One has to hope that these kids get a little lazier as they get older.




Continuing with the Pentecostal theme, today I watched a film called Hell House, which is about a "haunted house" presented each year by Trinity Christian Church outside of Dallas, TX. This "haunted house" is intended to scare "the lost" back onto the path of righteousness. I'm sorry, but these folks are really fucking batshit overboard, and some of them seem downright dumb to boot. At least most of the Jesus Camp folks seem intelligent. Basically, Trinity builds this whole walk-through composed of a few different rooms or "scenes," and then casts actors to perform them. I gather that the scenes have changed a bit from year to year, but one example is a teenager committing suicide because she had sex with her father and then aborted the resulting baby. Because, you know, performing incestuous acts with your father and then needing to have an abortion is one of the leading temptations today's youth is faced with, apparently. It's right up there next to the alcohol and party scenes. Or how about the scene where a teenager is sucked into the occult and damned for eternity because he or she read Harry Potter? Then you've got the guy whose pet project is the "rave room," to teach kids about the dangers of raves. He says, and I quote, "What you see at these parties is literally dozens of bodies being carried out... okay, maybe not dozens, maybe I'm exaggerating, but 8 or 10 bodies being carried out at the end of the night at the more dangerous ones." What? Have any of you ever been to a rave like that? In this "rave room," he plays the DJ. He sure seems excited about it, too. I'll bet we could've found him trying his hand and wrecking many a train at the decks at real parties 5 or 6 years ago. Then, for the "occult room," they had to paint posterboards with things like "666," and they tried for a pentagram and ended up with a Star of David. Oh, and the construction folks had a little tiff over the color of the paint used for these things, because apparently "a warlock" had come through a year or two beforehand and told them not to use white paint. "There would never be any white at any sort of occult gathering." What kind of "warlock" exactly? A level 43 Undead warlock, affliction spec, with a succubus named "Helriel" at his side? I digress. The production crew discussed how role-playing games lead to eternal damnation, but they couldn't figure out how to write "Magic: The Gathering" so they just called it "the magic cards." Seriously? Seriously? This might be scarier than Jesus Camp if I thought these folks had the wherewithal to actually facilitate any kind of change in the world at large. Mind you, it's not the Pentecostal movement that bothers me in and of itself. It's the idea that someone who doesn't know the difference between a pentagram and a Star of David is the leader of any congregation at all.

The whole movie was mostly a lot of this nonsense until the very end when you finally get to see the walk-through from start to finish. At the end of it, you end up in "hell" with all the characters who made the wrong decision just prior to their death. Now, this is the interesting part. This, I think, is where the fundamental difference of opinion happens between me and these folks. You see, their version of hell is quite interesting. The brief glimpse into it offered in the film included smoke machines, red lightbulbs, some people tied up (some tied to hooks in the ceiling), some people writhing on the floor, and one attractive young man (the devil?) wearing a very tight leather/fishnet ensemble with a spiked collar and some very well-applied makeup. Okay, okay, I know this is supposed to scare people, but, uh. . . I'm not really scared of that. This feeling that I have about that "devil" guy surrounded by people in ropes, it's not too different from the feeling I got watching Dee Snider's Strangeland. It's. . . well, it's not fright, that's for sure. It's a little warm, and kind of tingly, actually. . . Excuse me for a few minutes while I go, you know, fill myself with the spirit.

Try, Try Again

It's Wednesday. I'm not supposed to be at work today, as Wednesdays are typically my days off, but here I am. On my computer screen, there are several open windows. The first one is Notepad - a menacingly long and ever-growing list of work issues that need to be attended to. The second window is Netflix - I've been attempting all day to finally watch The Hours but am coming up short in the attention-span department. The third window is my Playlist, providing a soundtrack for the day, where I can be serenaded by the likes of Freddie Mercury and Maynard James Keenan to my heart's content. I am finding it increasingly difficult to open and deal with that first window.

I'm distracted.

I'm distracted by a lot of things. I'm sexually frustrated, but that's not really anything new. I'm experiencing a love-life slump at the moment that's annoying but not catastrophic. I've got personal projects that aren't progressing according to plan. I'm having trouble keeping up with my friends, due mostly to scheduling issues. I've got some pretty big career concerns. I'm a little stressed about each of those things and others, and it's just adding up to a palpable dysphoria. Mostly, though, I'm distracted by my plans for the weekend.

On Saturday morning, I will supposedly be meeting with someone whom I haven't seen in over four years. I've mentioned her before - my former best friend who has, in the years since we had a falling-out, been battling a substance-abuse problem. I'm nervous and eager to see her again, and I can feel myself getting my hopes up. Ideally, I'd like for us to be close again, to rhyme again the way that we did years ago. I want to find that intimacy with a friend once more, because golly, I've really missed it. I thought I was doing okay without it for quite some time, but the moment I got the idea in my head that it might be possible to recapture it, it was like dangling a steak in front of a ravenous dog. I'm hungry for that companionship. I've got plenty friends that I care deeply about, sure, but for one reason or another I've never quite managed to have the same bond with anyone that I had with my erstwhile BFF. However, as much as I'd like for us to settle right back into our old rhythms, I'm trying to be realistic. She's a beautiful, amazing girl, but the last time I saw her, she did not seem so healthy. And 4 years of further damage have passed between then and now. I must expect to find her much changed.



I don't have many photos of the two of us together. That's us in our party gear, what seems like a lifetime ago. I'm on the right, freshly 14, all bad skin and Swiss Miss braids. Laughing is permitted. Hopefully we will have the opportunity to take better photos in the future.

My mother-hen instinct is already kicking in, and I don't even want to control it. I'm not the most well-adjusted girl in the world, I haven't known too many addicts or recovering addicts in my life and I can't be a hero, but if I can somehow manage to be a positive influence or to help her get back on her feet in even some small way, it would mean the world to me. I'm hoping for the best, but I should also be bracing for the worst. She's only been clean for two months. The chances of yet another relapse are high. The chances of us having a meaningful reconnection and then experiencing further drama as a result of this problem might also be high. The chances of me worrying about her well-being for quite some time yet? Astronomical. I know what I'm signing up for. But I have to try.

Pet

I've got a lot on my mind today.

Yesterday, I explored another blog - Unspeakable Axe. I read the whole thing, start to finish, and I really enjoyed it. Axe is just so frank, and I can't help but be drawn to people who don't sugar-coat things. Sometimes things don't go very well, and you don't always get what you want out of encounters and relationships, and Axe tells us all about that with a dry wit and subtle humor. I particularly enjoyed the bit about folding fitted sheets. I mean, who can't relate to that? Plus, I'm told he's handsome. Though that doesn't have much to do with the quality of his writing, it certainly can't hurt.

Anyway, in Axe's archives, I came across this news story from the UK. It was an article about the discrimination of a transit company against a young goth couple, Dani Graves and Tasha Maltby. Apparently, a bus driver would not allow the couple to ride the bus. Why? Because Tasha is Dani's collared pet, and he had her on a leash. The relatively short article includes a photo of the couple, doing what they do. I recommend you take a peek at it.

Now, this stimulates me for all sorts of different reasons. First of all, the fashion geek in me is absolutely drooling over their clothes. Just look at his coat! His rings! Her dress! That hardware! Plus, it's no big secret that I'm a sucker for the goth types in general. In fact, Mr. Fingernails from my morning bus looks a bit like this fellow, albeit not so well-dressed. Also, that girl is just cute as a button, and her figure is dead sexy. However, that's not what was most striking about this. What got me, of course, is the leash.

Now, I've been well aware for a very long time that there are plenty of people who do this in relative privacy. I don't, however, normally see it in broad daylight. I'd like to, though. Perhaps I ought to move to the UK.

When I was young - 14 years old, in fact - I spent a lot of time hanging around in a trendy neighborhood near the intersection of Clark and Belmont in the city. This area was home to all sorts of interesting little stores - lots of piercing/tattoo studios, head shops, Taboo Tabou for those who want overpriced softcore kink paraphernalia. Then, of course, there's the Alley, an staple of the Chicago alternative scene, especially in the 90s. All sorts of pierced up, Mohawk-sporting, self-proclaimed "freaks" milled about this neighborhood at all hours of the day and night, and of course, that was where I wanted to be. I was the Clark & Belmont equivalent of a mallrat, essentially. I felt like a little badass at the time.

It was at that age that I began to collect my accessories. I learned very quickly that I was pleased by the feel of leather or metal against my skin, and I spent quite a lot of money collecting little things that excited me in a tactile way. For me, that was chokers and bracelets/cuffs. I can't tell you how many spiked and/or studded leather chokers and bracelets I had, and still have. I wore choke chains made for dogs, too. I'd sit in front of the TV or wherever when I was alone, absentmindedly tugging at them to increase the pressure on my neck, reminding myself that they were there. I began to feel excited by almost anything with hardware attached, particularly clothes or boots with chains or buckles involved. That same year, I purchased what was, at the time, the crowning jewel of my small collection - a black leather choker with the word "submissive" spelled out in shiny steel letters. I'd been eyeing it for quite a while, and when Alex failed to pick up on my hints, I decided to simply buy it for myself. I still have it and I still love it, although I seldom find myself wearing it since I am not often trying to give off the impression of being owned.

One day, when shopping for boots at the Doc Martens store, I was browsing their selection of the patches and pin-back buttons I so loved to cover my jackets and bags with, and I came across a button that caught my attention. It read, in tiny red letters, "I want to be your dog."

I bought it. I stuck it in my pocket. I was a fairly savvy 14 year old, and was well-versed in kinky porn by that time, but was not ready to handle the possible consequences of displaying my new badge proudly. I knew what it meant, but wasn't ready to think about whether or not I identified with it. The fact that I bought it and kept it in my pocket probably should have been a hint.

About a month after my purchase, Alex and I made plans to go to a concert at the Metro with some mutual friends. I honestly don't even remember how the heavy chain dog leash got there. I don't know if it was mine, or one of our friends', or why we had it, but the point is that it ended up in my hands as we sat at a Taco Bell prior to the show. At the time, I was wearing a chain-link choker. Somewhat tentatively, in the middle of my meal, I snapped the end of the leash onto the ring on my choker, and handed the handle to Alex. He giggled a little bit, awkwardly, but he held it. I wore it for the rest of the night, and nobody talked about it. We got some strange looks from passers-by, but on the whole, the presence of the leash was not acknowledged too much by any of us. Our friends, either out of awkwardness or acceptance, didn't mention it either. We carried on with our evening in a perfectly natural way, enjoying the concert. Inside, though, I was floating. I remember how completely exhilarated my adolescent mind and body felt at that tiny little act, though I didn't really grasp the significance. I wasn't even sexually active yet.

Much to my dismay, we never took it any further than that, and I never wore a leash again, though I did pin that button to my coat after that night.

There's no real point to this post, except perhaps to once again examine myself in text instead of in practice, and to publicly add another thing to the list of things I feel compelled to explore in my lifetime. It's becoming a long list.

Can you keep a secret?

The last time I found out a former flame of mine was getting hitched, I wrote a post commemorating the pseudo-relationship I had with him. This time, for Ricky, I will do the same thing. Perhaps this will become a tradition.

Nearly 7 years ago, I was eating dessert one spring night with my sister at a popular chain restaurant – the sort of casual-dining place with red and white checkered tablecloths and old movie posters up on the walls. As I dug into my piece of chocolate cake, I remarked to my sister that the people working at this restaurant seemed pretty happy. It looked like a fun place to work. She said, “Why don’t you just apply then? I dare you.” I hardly gave this any thought. I acted on impulse. I already had a steady but depressing full-time job at an animal hospital, but I was eager for a change. As we paid our bill, I asked our server for a job application. I filled it out, and the manager-on-duty met with me 5 minutes later. We chatted briefly. I could tell he liked me. He told me to return the next day at 11:00 A.M. to speak with the general manager. I arrived early for my interview, and the G.M., Kevin, was a sweetheart. He gave me a part-time hostess job on the spot. That night, I had most of my hair cut off (in what would later become a new-job tradition for me), and I arrived for work the next day with a fresh pixie-cut and a smile on my face.


It wasn’t a difficult job to get the hang of, and the restaurant was staffed with a bunch of other young people for me to make friends with. I got along reasonably well with everybody, and I enjoyed getting to chat with the patrons. It didn’t pay well at all, but it was a lot of fun. Kevin was a laid-back hippie type, with his Grateful Dead t-shirts and jolly laughter. I found my groove very quickly. Every day when I’d arrive for my shift, I’d check the seating chart at the host stand. There would be a list of that day’s servers, and then there was a little dry-erase picture showing which tables belonged to which server. One day, about a week and a half after I started working there, I noticed a name on the chart that I hadn’t seen before – Ricky. I’d heard a little bit about him, mostly from the other girls at the restaurant. It seemed he had a bit of a reputation. I wondered if he was attractive. I was in the middle of one of my off-periods with my on-again, off-again boyfriend Alex, and I was in the mood to flirt.

Later that afternoon, during a slow period, I stood at the host stand, leaning against the wall, listening to Wilco on the satellite radio and zoning out. All of a sudden, in a loud, booming voice, I heard, “What’s up, cool cats?!” I turned around. A tall, tan fellow with sandy brown hair and a white t-shirt had come through the back door. I watched quietly as he greeted everybody around the bar and stopped to talk with Kevin. A girl, Ella, approached him with a hug. He had a big, broad smile. Fake, I thought. Loud and fake. This was supposed to be impressive? I turned around and went back to my work.

Twenty minutes or so passed by, and I was chatting with Paul and another server, Bradley, when the sandy-haired fellow approached the host stand. Paul and Bradley walked away, and Ricky stood right in front of me, staring. His eyes were some of the bluest I’ve ever seen, and they looked very gentle. His skin was flawless, his hairline receding slightly. I was not immediately captivated by his looks. He put his hands – large, rough – on the edge of the stand. I noticed he wore puka shell bracelets. Great, I thought. He thinks he’s a surfer, with his California tan and his seashells so far from any ocean. He did not smile – just stared. I broke the silence.

“You must be Ricky.”

“I might be. And who are you? I haven’t seen you here before.”

He had a remarkable voice; the sort of voice I was accustomed to hearing from newscasters or radio personalities. He had a small gap between his front teeth, too. I tried my best to look confident and uninterested.

“I just started last week. I’m Mariel.”

“Well it’s lovely to meet you, Mariel.”

He offered his hand, and I took it. He gave a firm handshake; not the limp kind I’m used to getting from men, as though my hands might break. I returned it with gusto. He came around to stand next to me, looking over my shoulder at the seating chart. He smelled delicious, like sweat and Ralph Lauren. His breath was minty.

“I have work to do, but I’ll come back. Will you wait for me?”

I tried to suppress a smile. I failed. “Maybe.”

As he walked away, he winked at me. He actually winked! “God,” I thought, “how arrogant. How smarmy. I am not susceptible to that kind of cheap shit.”

But I was wrong.

Over the next few weeks, I learned more about my new tan friend as we spent more and more time schmoozing at the host stand. He was older, and had recently moved to Chicago from sunny Florida with his girlfriend of five years, Dee. Turned out he really had done some surfing in his old hometown, and he wore the shells to remind him of home. He seemed wistful when he’d talk of “back home,” like he hadn’t really settled into Midwestern life yet. Ricky had a lot of dreams. He wanted to be a stand-up comic, he wanted to be a lawyer, he wanted to open a restaurant of his own, he wanted to go into broadcasting. He thought any or all of these things might be easy to do in a big city like Chicago, so he’d come up here to “find himself.” I quickly found myself interested in the stories he’d tell me in that confident, deep voice of his. I watched the way he interacted with our customers and co-workers, almost like he was flirting with everybody he met. Almost invariably, people responded to it. He seemed to attract women effortlessly. Several of our female co-workers (and a few of the males) clamored for his attention, and a handful of women from local businesses would stop into the bar during their lunch breaks just to let him serve up hamburgers and flirtatious platitudes. From the moment I met him and decided he was arrogant and not worthwhile, I was determined not to “fall for” that routine. Now, though, my resolve was beginning to fail me. I liked this cocky guy. Shit.

Our conversations slowly became more intimate. We talked about his relationship, my ex, our goals in life. We found ourselves arriving a few minutes earlier, and a few minutes earlier still, to chat before shifts. We talked extensively about movies and music, and he told me about his favorite band, Counting Crows. I had remembered that band from the early 90s when “Mr. Jones” was a big hit, but didn’t know anything more about them until Ricky wrote down the names of some songs for me to download. I listened and loved them, and they quickly made up the soundtrack to this blossoming friendship. Somewhere around this time, I quit my animal hospital job and began waiting tables full time, and Ricky was promoted. He was now officially my boss. That didn’t bother either of us too much at the time, since we were “just friends.” But he began to work longer days, and I found myself picking up extra shifts in order to spend time with him. Ricky wrote me notes on the backs of napkins, quoting some of our mutual favorite songs, giving me little reasons to smile to myself throughout the day. Gradually, that overbearing, arrogant charm I had witnessed in the beginning began to fade away. He spoke more quietly, became more humble, and began to trust me with little bits of personal information here and there. He was more melancholy than I originally took him for, it seemed. He began to hug me whenever we greeted one another, and we had fun, too. We danced, we sang. Somewhere along the line we began to have wrestling matches in the restaurant after closing, and he taught me how to do his favorite bar trick – spinning a drink tray on the tips of his fingers, throwing it up in the air and catching it. It took me a while to pick up that skill, but soon I was almost as good as he was. Before long, Ricky was giving me rides home from work, and people started noticing. Girls from the restaurant grew jealous. One in particular, Ella, was especially offended. She asked me to join her outside one day for a cigarette. I didn’t smoke, but I followed her out anyway.

“He’s not going to fuck you. And even if he does, you’ll regret it.”

“What?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Ricky. He’s just a slut. He just fucks around with everybody to stroke his ego. He doesn’t like you. Besides, you’re jailbait, and, I mean, if anybody told someone what was going on, he would get in trouble. You don’t want that.”

Ella was over 30. She was not a catty teenager, and this sort of immature, threatening talk sounded silly coming from the mouth of an adult woman. I drew my own conclusions, of course – that Ella and Ricky had at least slept together at one point, and she’d gotten hurt.

“There’s no reason to be rude. Nothing’s happening.”

“Whatever, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

I could tell from the tone of her voice that was not the truth.

“Thanks, but this is none of your business one way or the other.”

I walked inside, stressed. I didn’t tell Ricky about that little discussion. Ella did have a point. I was jailbait. Ricky was well aware of that fact, too. More than once, phrases like “if only you were a few years older” would work their way into our conversations. I had, and still have, little patience for that sort of talk. My age was not something I could change, and it was glaringly obvious that we were becoming attracted to one another despite the gap. We had plenty in common, and whether we planned it or not, we were developing a relationship. His girlfriend was another obstacle, of course. Apparently, they’d been having problems for quite some time, and were more like roommates than lovers, but neither was prepared financially to strike out on their own, so they were both minding their own business in the meantime. Of course, I took all of this with a grain of salt, but I figured it was not my business to judge one way or the other and focused only on what was going on between the two of us. There was also the work issue, as my normally very relaxed general manager began to catch wind of what was going on between Ricky and I. I became very honest with Ricky. I told him that I was developing feelings for him, and that while I understood the (very good) reasons for his hesitancy to pursue me, I wasn’t going to wait around in limbo forever. Neither of us were sure how to proceed, what was the right thing to do, and we began to grow frustrated. We began to squabble a bit over nothing important. One slow evening after such a tiff, Ricky approached me at the host stand. He walked fast, and had an angry look on his face. He was obviously upset. When he spoke, his voice was low and hushed.

“What are we doing, Mariel?”

“You’re asking me? You’re the one who can’t make up your mind.”

“We’re just friends, right? We have to be. It’s completely platonic.”

“Oh, is it now? Well, that’s fine. No big deal.”

“Fuck you.”

He walked away. I was angry, hurt. What did he want? He knew how I felt, but yes, it was risky. I wasn’t about to offer him false reassurance or try to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do.

The following day’s lunch shift was busy. I had several tables full of annoying patrons to deal with, and I was making peanuts in tips. The previous night’s argument had left me feeling sour, and the day wasn’t going well. When I stepped into the kitchen and heard Ricky call me into the office, I was irritated. Everybody in the kitchen had heard him call me, and he sounded angry. Presumably, he was going to give me a hard time about something, call me out on some mistake, take out his frustration on me professionally. I set down the pitcher I was holding and walked over to the office. He stood up, looking angry, and told me to close the door. My stomach dropped a little. I wondered if he was going to fire me in order to remove me as a distraction. That would be humiliating. I closed the door behind me, and he approached. The office was stiflingly hot. He whispered, “Can you keep a secret?” I nodded.

Within a heartbeat, I was slammed roughly up against the wall. His hands ran through my hair and his tongue pushed its way into my mouth with a force and passion that literally took my breath away. Months and months of pent-up energy released themselves through his fingertips and his mouth and his hard cock pressing through his khakis. My hands teased his dress shirt out of his pants, finding the small beads of sweat on his back, his smooth chest, his belly and below, learning his anatomy as my tongue danced and my mind raced. He reached below my shirt and expertly released me from my bra, brushing my already achingly hard nipples with his fingertips. I closed my eyes and sighed over and over again as he pressed his body against mine and I attempted to grind my pussy against his leg. Though I am normally shy when naked, at that moment I had no capacity for self-consciousness. I felt lustful, primal, and I was acting on instinct. All I wanted was my naked flesh up against his, to feel him inside of me, and I was so wet, I was sure he’d feel it through my clothes. He licked and bit at my neck as he blindly explored my body with his hands, pressing here, pinching there, and we communicated our passion in sighs and monosyllables. I was absolutely in heaven, tracing the outline of his cock through his pants, willing the barrier gone. I wanted us to devour one another, right then and there. Instead, though, he pulled away.

“You have to get back out there, or this is going to look suspicious.”

He was right. We put ourselves back together and I straightened my hair and tried to will away the flush from my cheeks as I opened the door and went back into the kitchen, exhilarated. I had only been gone a matter of minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. People glanced at me suspiciously, and I tried my best to look as though I’d just been reprimanded instead of aroused. I did a pretty good job at that charade, apparently. When people asked what had happened, and I told them I’d rather not discuss it, I got comforting responses like “Yeah, I figured, Ricky looked pretty pissed off. But don’t take it personally, and hey, at least you didn’t get fired." I visited his office frequently in the following weeks to be “reprimanded.”

We only expanded our repertoire slightly over the next few months. Rides home to my house frequently included detours to local forest preserves so that he could kiss me hard and finger me harder in the backseat of his Honda. It felt sneaky and cheap, but we made the best of it. On nights that he was scheduled to close the restaurant, I’d stay late, sometimes until the wee hours of the morning. It usually began the same way – after everybody else left, I’d creep into the office as he worked, scratching his back gently, breathing lightly on his neck, whispering in his ear. He’d complain about being unable to concentrate on his work, and I’d apologize by undoing his belt and stroking his dick. Sometimes, I’d sneak into the dark, frigid cold of the walk-in freezer and call him from there, waiting on my knees for him to come feed me his cock so that I could keep it warm with my mouth. I never waited long. His cock was magnificent, too. Its proportions seemed built just for me and I had little trouble swallowing him whole as he pulled my hair and I watched his eyes roll toward the ceiling. He’d fuck my face roughly until he came in shudders and gasps, with my one had grasping his smooth-shaven balls and the other digging into the flesh of his ass. I enjoyed his taste, and I told him so as I swallowed everything he had to give me, smiling up at him from the floor.

He never reciprocated, but that didn’t matter to me at the time. I thoroughly enjoyed being able to please him. All the reciprocation in the world would not have equaled the pride I felt in being able to service him and offer him pleasure. I would have happily stayed on my knees forever if he’d wanted it.

At the end of these late nights, we often sat outside in the dark to talk. He sang to me in his beautiful voice and fashioned a bouquet of roses out of sheets of wax paper. I giggled and clapped and told him he was appreciated. He kissed me tenderly, and that was enough for both of us.

Time passed, and things remained good. Our arrangement wasn’t getting anybody into trouble, and we were both reasonably satisfied. Then, we received bad news – Ricky was being transferred temporarily to a different restaurant, several hours away. He claimed he would need to stay at a hotel to avoid the commute, but I suspected things were going downhill at home with Dee as well. I didn’t ask. It was a good career move for him, so he could not refuse, and we learned he would only need to be away for 3 months. “I can be patient,” I told him, and he kissed me on the cheeks as he told me he’d keep in touch with me regularly. The following week, he left. I did not hear from him for several weeks. When I asked Kevin if he’d heard from Ricky, Kevin told me, “Well, I think he should be the one to talk to you about that.” How can somebody say something cryptic like that and not follow it up with any information, especially knowing that Ricky and I were close and that I’d be worried? I had no way to contact him, though, so I waited. When he finally did get in touch, I was relieved, but only momentarily, for the conversation quickly turned to his having gone AWOL. I learned that Ricky’s depression had gotten the better of him and he’d found himself in the hospital after a particularly bad night. I was distraught and worried sick, and I convinced him to let me visit. The next night, I drove out to his hotel, and we spent the whole time naked in bed, holding and cuddling one another, whispering softly in the dark. We got high and talked frankly. He had left Dee, and as such, had left his home and his dog and most of his belongings behind. It had not ended well, so there was little chance of recovering most of it. Ricky told me that he felt he needed to move back to Florida for his own well-being. There were a few tears, but mostly kisses. I was heartsick. The next morning, I woke early and got dressed, and we embraced, kissing softly at the door as I left for home. That would be the last kiss we’d have. He never fucked me.

Over the following weeks, as Ricky prepared to move back to Florida, we distanced ourselves from one another. Though he came back from the other restaurant, the contact became less and less frequent. I no longer made an effort to sync our work schedules, reasoning that there was no point in trying to hang on to someone who was leaving. I was angry at him for taking off at the very moment that he and I actually had a shot at pursuing something together, but I was not about to beg him to stay. Furthermore, if he felt he could not be happy here, I didn’t want him to stay in a situation that might cause him to be dangerous to himself. So I withdrew and kept my hurt to myself. Sensing this, he didn’t press me for attention. On his last day of work, he once again called me into the office. When I sat down next to him, he looked at me, pained, and said, “Do you want to come with me? Would you? Please?” I blinked and bit my lip. “No, you know I can’t do that.” He sighed and looked down at the desk, rubbing his neck. “I had to try.”

Later that afternoon, he said his goodbyes to everyone. I was the last in line. He gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear, “Be good.” I didn’t respond, for fear of crying in front of everybody.

Ricky went back to Florida, and he and I didn’t speak for 6 years. Last week, I found him online. He’s a restaurant manager again, back in his element, and he is hoping to finally go to law school. He got a new dog, a nice house, and found himself a very beautiful woman, and they’ve been traveling the world together for years. Now, they’re engaged. He seems genuinely happy. Good for him.

Reunions

Reunions, both real and imaginary, seem to be this week's theme.

Much to my surprise, I reconnected with a girl who was, once upon a time, my very best friend. To date, I have never again had quite such a close friendship with anyone else. Part of that, I believe, has to do with the trust issues resulting from the circumstances under which our friendship dissolved - there was, in the grand tradition of young girlfriends, a catastrophic betrayal of epic proportions - and the other part has to do with the fact that there's just nobody else quite like her. The years since we last spoke have found me sifting nostalgically on many an occasion through old photos and notes scribbled lovingly on patterned paper with doodles and inside jokes in the margins. With each perusal of these artifacts, the bad memories faded and my resolve to cut that person out of my life has softened a bit. After a message that left me tearing up in the middle of the bath accessories aisle at Target, it is with no small amount of both elation and worry that I once again offer my friendship, support and love to an addict.

Also in contact with me this week was Ricky, my ex-boss, whom you may remember from a recent post containing the summary of my sexual history. The very same Ricky of the walk-in freezer. I was very pleased to hear that Ricky is doing very well in his new life far South of here, where the weather is sticky and the girls are quite tan. I also learned that he is taking one of these sunbathing beauties as his new wife! Photos and congratulations were exchanged, of course. This makes Ricky the second of my former flings to either get engaged or hitched in the space of two weeks. For whatever reason, I'm feeling sort of awkward about that, but I am nonetheless very happy for them both.

In other news, Pride Fest approaches! Next weekend, Chicago kids. Regrettably, I sat last year's festivities out. This year, though, I fully intend to make up for my absence.


Here's a photo for you:

That's me in the 2006 Pride parade. That year, dressing up like a dog and marching in the parade was a work requirement, and though it seemed to be about 120 degrees in that costume and I was parched the whole way, I was more than eager to participate. I'm glad I did, too. I've been to a fair number of Pride celebrations in my young life, but never have I enjoyed one quite as much as I did that summer. I don't relish the stifling feeling of baking in a faux fur oven, mind you, but something about that goofy costume gave throngs of very attractive, sweaty people license to hug, kiss, dry hump, grab, pet and otherwise rub up against me, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't totally enjoy it. This time around, I'll be without my furry paws, and probably considerably less popular for that fact, but no less pleased to be there.

Finally, news of break-ups travels fast, and I am finding my attention in high demand among former flames who have learned of mine. This is flattering, but reminding myself that exes are exes for a reason, I politely decline most of the invitations. However, one clever man recently pitched me the following line in a bid to persuade me to agree to a sleepover: "He keeps telling me, 'I want to release my dark passenger noooowwwww.' I keep telling him, 'No, you've got to wait until Mariel gets here.' So come on, Mariel - don't you want to see his dark passenger?"

Well, what girl could resist such an overture?

HNT

This popping of my HNT cherry is made possible by Remix Vintage Shoes of Hollywood, California.