New friends and fine footwear

The Back-story:

A couple of years ago, I was browsing MySpace and came across a man whose page caught my attention. His blurbs were witty; his photos appealing. I introduced myself in my usual long-winded fashion, and we hit it off pretty well from the get-go. We sent messages back and forth for months before we finally met. I was nervous about meeting him, as I usually am with new people, but it turned out my fears were unfounded. He had a charming, energetic way about him that made me feel more alive just by virtue of being in the same room. We became fast friends.

Later, we became more than that for a brief moment and endured some major speed bumps before reversing into the friend-only zone where we find ourselves comfortably parked to this day. Sometime in between, this man introduced to me the music of an artist named Regina Spektor. I gave it a listen, and loved it immediately. Her voice was unique, her lyrics quirky, her music soulful and moving. There was one song in particular that I listened to several times, a slower song with a heartsick vibe called "Samson." Given my romantic ennui at the time, it suited my mood perfectly. One night, I decided to look up the lyrics. Keying a certain series of words into Google directed me to the usual bullshit lyrics lists, but one of the links on the results page stood out. I clicked.

My click led me to a blog by a woman who called herself Madeline, and the blog chronicled a weekend of exchanges between her and a man called Jefferson. I stayed up for hours reading it. I hadn't been an avid blog reader up until that point, and for the most part, I'm still not, but something about this woman's writing style and the passionate description of the chemistry between her and her lover kept me engrossed almost all night. I finished the entire blog, and I was hooked.

The following day, I spent some time reading Madeline's other, main blog, and Jefferson's as well. I learned more about both. They each had other lovers, and both seemed to be well-respected within the kink/poly community I found myself exploring through their writing. Given my appetite for smut, this all sounded very promising. Kinky people who also happen to be good writers, talking in lascivious detail about their awesome sex lives? Sign me up. After a short time of reading through archived posts by both, I found myself mostly focusing on Jefferson's blog - the accounts of "a parent and pervert in New York City." A sex blogger, to be sure, and a good one, but more than that also. Insightful, sophisticated, articulate, mysterious, erotic, and full of witty repartee, his talents as a weaver of words impressed me from the start, and continue to impress me to this day. He tells stories of his many romances, sexual escapades, friends and family, and never fails to entertain. If you check out his blog for yourself, you won't need me to describe it to you in detail. I'm not even sure that I could do a good job of it if I tried.

Time passed by, and I would check his blog occasionally. Once every few weeks or so, I'd log on, check in, and catch up on whatever stories I'd missed, becoming familiar with the various characters in his cast. Many times, when he mentions another public blogger in his posts, he will include a link to their blog as well. This is how I found Avah. Only a little younger than me, she was one of Jefferson's regular lovers. She looked adorable. Her blog read more like a blog, rather than a book, and I suppose I identified with the honest emotion of it. I enjoyed getting her perspective on Jefferson's life, and reading about her experiences outside of that as well. It seemed we had things in common. I bookmarked her site also, and commented occasionally.

I lurked around, keeping track of both blogs whenever I had the time, for months. I found myself developing the same sort of fascination with them and their writing that I'm sure most of their readers do. With Jefferson especially, it was almost like having a crush on an author, except with most authors, you at least get a press photo in black and white on your book jacket. All I had to go on with this man was a photo featuring his teeth, bared in a mischievous grin, and a few of his fingers. Nonetheless, I was intrigued.

During this time, I was driving to the suburbs a lot to visit my sister. Along the way, I would pass a pub with a large sign that read "Jefferson Pump." It was a stretch, but the grade-schooler in me can always be counted upon to imbue just about anything with sexual innuendo, and I would smirk and be reminded of the blog when I'd pass. I thought about taking a photo of the sign. Then, inspired by his other readers' submissions, I thought of finding a way to take a photo of myself near the sign. Perhaps an erotic photo of myself near the sign? I got imaginative. Unfortunately, this never came to fruition as last year, the sign was removed and the pub re-named. Plus, let's face it - I'm no exhibitionist (at least not yet).

Despite that setback, I decided not to just lurk anymore. Unaware of the protocol (if there was any) for introducing oneself to Jefferson, I wrote him a message. I'm sure I introduced myself (again, probably in my usual long-winded fashion), told him some basics, asked some questions, and mentioned my disappointment over the situation with the pub sign. I only half-expected a response, busy man that he was, but I got one fairly quickly. His message was gracious, he answered my questions, and he added in a joke of his own about the aforementioned pub sign. I'm fairly sure I responded once more, and received one more response in kind, later down the road. Not entirely certain of where I was hoping it would go, and not wanting to waste his time, I chose not to continue to correspond further, and went back to lurking as a reader only. I'd introduced myself, told him I enjoyed his writing, and made my relatively unremarkable first impression. That was plenty.

The Story:

Fast-forward to last week. Finding myself in something of a rut in my life and wanting to meet new people and experience new things, I once again focused on Jefferson's blog, reasoning that he was something of an authority on new people and new experiences. Motivated by my rut and my insatiable curiosity, I sent him a message late one night. Having spent a lot of time recently musing on attraction between people, I asked him a question about it. He responded early the next morning. I read the message as soon as I woke up and checked my messages, still lying on my bed in the dark before work. Yes, he remembered me, and what put such a question in my head? The last line stuck out the most, though. "I'll be in Chicago next week."

My mouth went dry.

I stared at the screen for a moment. I glanced around the dark room as if I was worried about being watched. He was coming here? What was I supposed to do with that information? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I supposed I had always had some vague plan that someday, when I was feeling adventurous and curiosity got the better of me, I might follow that well-worn path to his door to see if we hit it off. Someday when I was more savvy, more impressive. Maybe for a carnal rendezvous and maybe not, but at least to meet the man whose life I'd been attempting to follow for a couple of years. I found myself unprepared, though, for him to be in such close proximity, for surely he was suggesting we meet. Right? Or maybe not. Maybe I was being presumptuous. I asked what he was doing in the windy city, and did my best to play it cool, in case I'd misunderstood.

"I'll be in Chicago next week, too. What a coincidence!" I wrote. My comedic skill is the stuff of legend, obviously.

As evidenced by his response, I hadn't misunderstood. He was in Chicago for Shibaricon, the Japanese rope bondage convention, he liked the idea of us meeting, and the ball was apparently in my court as far as what the nature of our meeting would be. I'm pretty sure my heart raced all day, for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was my boyfriend. We might be on somewhat unstable ground, and things may or may not dissolve on their own, but I care very deeply about him and wasn't about to end my relationship with, "oh, hey, by the way, you know that guy whose sex blog I read online all the time? Well, he came to town, and I fucked him, and it's over," for that certainly would be the end of my relationship, and rightfully so. That's not my style, nor was I ready for that step. I told Jefferson that the meeting, if there was to be one, would have to be platonic in nature, although I was very happy at the idea of it. He agreed, and said he was unsure of his schedule.

It's definitely an unusual situation for me where I feel as though it is expected that I become intimate with somebody right off the bat, and despite his experiences, I don't believe he really expects that sort of thing from anyone under normal circumstances. He seems, as far as I can tell, perfectly willing to move at whatever pace is mutually agreed upon, and he does seem to have plenty of friends with whom he does not have sex. Still, I couldn't help but feel as though I was disappointing him somehow by nixing the idea the way that I had, and I wondered if he would really go through with a meeting or not, since I wasn't offering anything. No, I didn't just wonder. I worried. I feel foolish for underestimating him like that, in retrospect.

A couple of days later, while reading through Avah's posts, I discovered that she too would be attending Shibaricon in Chicago. I sent her a message informing her that I would not be far away, and that I'd like to meet her if she thought that was a good idea. She wrote back, asking if I'd like to meet with her and Jefferson for dinner. I told her that I had already proposed a meeting with Jefferson, and that yes, dinner with the two of them together sounded great. Over the course of the next few days, she and I made plans and I grew the same kind of nervousness that I always do when it comes to meeting new people. Nonetheless, I was excited.

Sunday rolled around. It was a busy, hectic day. I'd spent the morning in Indiana, and on the drive back, I received a text message from Avah asking if I would mind swinging by their hotel to pick them up. I told her that was no problem, and that I'd meet them in the lobby. I was late, of course. I took a shower and got dressed in a hurry, fumbled my keys, and rushed out the door. I pulled into the parking lot about 10 minutes late, and got out of my car. Immediately, I regretted my clothing choice as my skirt blew up around my waist. I clutched it as best I could and made my way over to the hotel entrance. I entered through a side door, and walked on to the main lobby area. I was expecting them to be together, and I didn't notice any couples that could possibly have been them. I had a reasonable idea of what Avah looked like, but I was mostly in the dark about Jefferson's appearance, so I wasn't entirely sure what I should be looking for. I made eye contact with a few people who were seated in the chairs in the lobby, and propped myself up against a column to check my phone. My palms were sweaty. No messages. Were they running late? Were they not going to show? A man in a green shirt, seated in a chair facing in my direction, was studying me. I glanced at him a few times, not really registering his features from that distance. He didn't react. I suspected it might have been Jefferson, but I wasn't sure and was feeling a bit too tense to start introducing myself to total strangers in hopes that I'd find the right one.

After a minute or two of alternating glances around the room, at my phone, and at the man in the chair, I decided to step outside and call Avah. The lace hooks on the combat boots I was wearing had other ideas, though. They were stuck together, and I only very narrowly avoided taking a mid-lobby fall on my face. It was, of course, very sexy. I trip and fall more often than the average person, and it would have been par for the course for me to experience something like that at that moment. I escaped with only a minor stumble, though, dignity mostly intact, marched outside, and hoped that green-shirt man, since he had presumably witnessed that near-disaster, was not Jefferson.

I don't have such luck.

After a beat, he followed me out. When he got close, I smiled, and he smiled, and I forgot about my clumsiness. It wasn't the same mischievous grin I'd become familiar with, but I recognized his teeth. That sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? "I recognized his teeth." I did, though. I've been looking at his mouth at the top of his page for years, and I pay attention to teeth anyway. He pointed to his name tag. I said hello, and he gave me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. It's not very often that people greet you with a kiss on the cheek these days, and I really enjoyed that. He looked more or less the way I had envisioned him - handsome and unassuming. He is not necessarily a physically imposing man, but he has a palpable quiet authority about him that I found captivating right away. He told me that Avah was not quite ready yet, and that we ought to walk to my car, come back, and pick her up. We began walking, but only made it a few paces before he checked his phone and saw that she was coming down to the lobby. We turned back, went inside, and sat down.

I chatted somewhat nervously with him for a few minutes, fidgeting with my fingernails. He spoke calmly and evenly, and his body language and casual, charming way of speaking began to put me at ease right away. After a few minutes, we stood up to greet Avah. She was beautiful. Taller than I expected, elegant, and curvy in all the right ways. Her eyes and smile were bright, and she was obviously giddy. "I got a corset!" she beamed, and showed it to him before turning to say hello. We walked to my car as she told us about her new prize, and when we got there I apologized for the size of my car. It was small, and Jefferson ended up in the back seat. Naturally, I nearly made a wrong turn during the very short trip to the restaurant, but luckily Jefferson had a better sense of direction than I do and we made it there without incident.

The restaurant did not seem to be aware of our reservation, but it wasn't crowded and they seated us quickly. I sipped a dirty martini and nibbled sporadically at my spinach enchiladas as I asked questions and listened raptly to stories. The dynamic between the two of them was alternately tender and amusing, and I found it was just as entertaining to listen to their back-and-forth as it was to talk with them myself. Both of their eyes occasionally wandered around the room, people-watching, but Jefferson in particular seemed quite comfortable making eye contact with me and holding it for a beat or two. I have some trouble with eye contact, and I'm sure it was obvious to him. It's something I really want to get over, and I felt self-conscious about it.

We remained at the restaurant until we were the last patrons in that dining area, and then got up and scooted out somewhat abruptly. My legs were asleep from having sat cross-legged for so long. I drove them back to the hotel, and when we parked, Avah made a comment about wanting to wear her corset. I replied with something like "it is a beautiful corset," which elicited a response from Jefferson somewhere along the lines of, "would you like to come up and see her in her beautiful corset?" Why yes, yes I would. I agreed, and we went inside, talking about bands while we waited for the elevator, or rather, talking about how I knew nothing about the bands they were talking about. It was decided that I needed to hear these bands. I agreed. Yes, let me hear the bands. The last thing on my mind at that moment was the music.

Their room was sort of an odd triangular shape, but well appointed. I used the oddly triangular shaped bathroom, checked my makeup in the mirror, took a deep breath, and went out to take a seat. Jefferson poured himself a bourbon, and offered me one. I declined, thinking to myself that I had just had a martini and that they'd not want me to linger around their room very long, and I didn't want to be more buzzed than I should be for the drive home. I watched intently as Jefferson laced Avah into her new corset, a black damask number with small, vaguely Asian flowers. Classy. Avah remarked that they had done things a little bit backwards; now that she was corseted, she wouldn't be able to lace Jefferson's boots. The very same boots I had seen in a photo on his site not long beforehand. He looked at me and said something to the effect of, "well, luckily I brought a spare boot-tyer!" I grinned.

Finally, Avah was completely laced up, and we all admired her figure. She and Jefferson admired it with their hands, and I admired it with my eyes. She put on some music for me to listen to, which Jefferson clearly enjoyed and I must admit was very catchy, and we watched and giggled as she worked her way somewhat comically into the rest of her very flattering outfit. I felt significantly more comfortable in their room than I had in the restaurant, oddly enough, and the conversation flowed pretty well. I witnessed on several occasions the same mischievous grin I'd come to expect from Jefferson. We talked about the use of honorifics, "sir" and the like. Jefferson and I have somewhat different opinions on the topic, and Avah seems to be somewhere in-between, but it made for good chat. Avah needed her corset adjusted at one point, and I stood in front to check to make sure it was even and placed well, and that her breasts looked good. They did. Despite my having little to no experience with women in a sexual sense, it was not, of course, the first time I'd ever seen another girl's breasts in person. It was, however, the first time I didn't feel like I shouldn't be looking at them.

Eventually, Jefferson looked to me and instructed me to fetch his boots from the closet. I did. Knee-high, black, steel-toed. Impressive. I admired them a little bit, and instinctively got on my knees at his feet to put them on. I was very focused on my task. It took me a good few minutes to lace up both, and I apologized for taking so long, since I didn't have much experience lacing boots from that angle. He replied with, "No problem. I'm enjoying the view." I looked up at him and saw him looking down, straight-faced, sipping his bourbon. It occurred to me that he probably had a bird's-eye view down my already low-cut shirt at that angle, and I guess I'll never know if the view he was referring to was that, his lover stretched out on the bed in a tantalizing corset ensemble, or something else entirely, but in any case, I didn't ask and I didn't make any effort to adjust my shirt. I finished, checked on his comfort, and then returned to my seat. He joked that I was free to call him "sir" now if I wanted to. I giggled nervously, and he definitely caught that. We were only joking around, but had the situation been different, I would have wanted to.

In the few minutes or so that I spent attending to Jefferson's boots, something occurred to me. I think I've made it clear, at this point, that I tend to be nervous around new people. Despite that, though, it felt perfectly natural to me that I was kneeling on the floor in a relative stranger's hotel room, lacing up his boots. When he reported that I'd done a good job, I felt a sense, however small, of accomplishment. And arousal. I feel more than a little ridiculous admitting that part. It's probably just due to my extreme sexual frustration, and perhaps also to my being turned on by people in boots, but my mind had assigned an erotic element to that task and I had enjoyed it, and it was the first time all evening that I hadn't felt at all nervous. I marveled at the fact that all it had taken to elicit that sort of response was to put on his shoes. My imagination turned over the possibilities while I engaged once again in conversation.

After that, we hung around the room for a short while longer, yawning. By this time, it was getting late, and their dungeon would only be open for a couple more hours. They decided to head downstairs. We walked back to the lobby together, and said our goodbyes there. I thanked them, hugged them both, received another kiss on the cheek from Jefferson, and told them that I'd like to visit them sometime in New York. Jefferson said something to the effect of, "we'd like that," to which I replied, "you'll regret saying that, because I really will do it." He said, "no, I don't think we would regret it." I smiled, and walked out.

To be continued?