Wouldn't it be nice?

Wouldn’t it be nice?I thought to myself.

To just want a boyfriend. A simple little boyfriend. Who wears skinny jeans and likes yoga.  Who likes to make out, eat pizza, watch a movie and send me cute text messages.

Maybe. I thought.

Maybe this is what I’ve been missing...

So. Tonight I went on a date with a regular boy. A Wisconsin transplant who was cute enough.  But not too cute. I learned a few months ago that dating someone who feels like they are out of your league means they probably are, and won’t call.

But this boy had soft hands, big eyes and the potential for male pattern baldness in about 5 years.

We at pizza, drank beer and watched Twin Peaks.

He kissed like a nervous goldfish gulping for air.

And despite his sweet exterior he leered at me when I spoke about how my ex girlfriend had ripped my heart into tiny shreds.

When I asked what HIS last serious relationship was like, he said he’d never really had one.

Great.

I could tell he would have fucked me then and there with Audrey and Agent Coooper watching.  But could we really call what I know he could do to me “fucking”?  I don’t think anyone who reminds me of a nervous goldfish could do anything resembling the quality of fucking to which I have become accustomed.

Sure. I could keep him around and rock his world a little bit. I think just talking to me blew his mind to some degree.   It became painfully clear over chicken pesto pizza that we did not speak the same language when I had to not only explain what “T” and “top surgery”  meant but what a trans man even was. When I told him I was generally most attracted to trans men he asked where I met them..and if I had to spend a lot of time cruising the Castro to find these illustrious unicorn-like creatures. I found it best to drop the subject.

I had hoped that his lack of worldliness would be compensated by an unbridled passion for love-making that could only be a by-product of a repressed Midwestern upbringing (I find that since I was raised by hippies in an environment largely free of repression, I tend to fetishize things that are generally thought of as repressive: the South, suburbia, Catholocism, ya know)

But as I discussed earlier, there was no wild buffalo roaming through this one.

Oh well. Guess I learned my lesson once again.  

Conclusion: This is not what I’ve been missing. 

Harry Houdini falls in love

This morning I’m sitting in the kitchen of an Oakland recording studio and the sunlight is streaming in victoriously. Kinky Jewish boy is in the shower, organic fair trade espresso is in the French press—and I am in a lot of pain.

Starting with my jaw.  The right side aches with surmounting pressure—it may be very bruised.

My chin and lips are raw from being scraped all night by his five o’clock shadow.

My right breast is riddled with a supernova of bruises and is speckled with red and purple from the broken blood vessels.

My neck is sore from the ropes, not to mention the strangling.

And on top of everything I’m still recovering from the gym yesterday.

Between the lactic acid coursing through my muscles and the bruising, I’m a mess.

This morning at first light I awoke not so much from the grayish brightness seeping in from the window but more from my buzzing psyche and cramped arm.

Around 3am, after a failed attempt to go for round five, Kinky Jewish Boy reached for the ropes draped across the mirror by his bed. He then tied my wrists, neck and ankles so I was immobile and tucked me into bed.

The feeling of being tied up while I slept gave me erotic non-sensical lucid dreams of jumping off cliffs.  By morning I was exhausted.

Being the responsible toppy guys that he is, Kinky Jewish boy had tied me loose enough so that I could untie myself if need be in the night.  When I awoke with my arms aching from not being able to straighten them for hours, I proceeded to perform a Harry Houdini style escape half asleep and naked in bed at 5am.

My desire to cuddle was more pressing than my desire to submit. 

When I finally freed myself from the ropes around my wrist and neck I curled my arms around Kinky Jewish Boy and relished in his warmth. I drifted back to sleep in the growing light of the room.

When the alarm finally assaulted us and we stretched and yawned our way out of bed, he checked his iPhone and reported that the lead singer of Sparkle Horse had committed suicide. He put on their album and made coffee naked, to honor the dead.

Meanwhile, I gathered my items I had strewn about his place:

1. My cheap stilver hoop earrings I had lost while making out in the kitchen.
2. My tiny purple vibrator on his bedside table. (my all important tool for working up to anal sex)
3. My ruffly black undies I had discarded next to the clawfoot tub.     

                                 ….The bathroom still smelled like cigartettes. We had shared one in the bath earlier that night. I had never taken a bath with a lover before, and I felt like a fourteen year old in France with Roman Polanski.

As he prepared for his day, I fixed his coffee just the way I know he likes it and brought it to him while he shaved in front  of the dingy bathroom mirror.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why I like to call him Daddy.   Not only does it make me feel like a Moll in a 1930’s gangster movie, but also because he’s got that roughly affectionate five o’clock shadow demeanor that makes me feel like a 6 year old princess and as intensely disturbing as it may be, he reminds me of my dad when I was about six.
Now, nobody freak out, my Daddy never touched me or anything like that, in fact just the opposite.  He just wasn’t around.  I’ve seen my biological father about 25 times in my life (roughly once a year).  When I was very young I was raised by my grandmother and mother—two very strong women.  I joke around that it’s my mother’s fault that I’m queer—she gave me a model of two women raising a child, which I think is why I’ve always pictured myself settling down with a woman.
What she doesn’t know however is that by choosing to not have my dad around, she contributed to this really intense Daddy fetish that I have now. Luckily, I now get to play out those deep seeded childhood desires with Kinky Jewish Boy who gives me all the loving Daddy energy I need paired with the discipline of his belt and hand that I never got as a child.  It’s funny how the things we are denied as young people fester and grow inside our psyches and then rear their heads in our sexual lives when we are adults…

But it’s rather early for sexual psycho-analysis, and in this moment I’m content to sip my coffee and watch him shave, as something in the air is different this morning.

There's something so romantic about the bruises all over my body, the adrenaline hangover, and the broken wine glass with two blue latex gloves shoved inside it--collateral damage.

Sometimes.  I think to myself.

The life of a pervert is so sweet. 


And as I leave and go about my day, I can't stop thinking about the way our bodies looked in the bathtub together. And every time my shirt grazes against my breasts when I move and I feel a twinge of pain, I replay a chilling soundbite from the night before and my knees buckle. And I realize:

This kind of feels like love.

Oh shit.