New thing
I met a girl a few weeks ago that has attracted my interest more than anybody else I've met since Lacuna Diving Bunny. I feel the need to apologize to Will O' Whisper for saying that, but yes, WoW, she beats out my attraction to you, if only because she's local.
She's attractive, has a very definite personal fashion sense, and she seems quite interested in me. Or at least, she seems really interested in my camera and my big bag of rope. That's new, unexpected, and intriguing, but also somewhat disconcerting. I am forever worrying that the only kinky people I'll ever meet are the ones who have come to let the fetish overshadow the emotions that caused the fetish in the first place.
Here's the real kicker, though: she's shy, yet adventurous enough to make her interest in me clear. This is a major one-two punch for me. I really like shy girls, there's something about the whole process of learning a shy girl, the careful unthreading of her barriers, the intimate process of learning her interface, getting her to trust you enough to open up. Plus, of course, they make really good listeners, and I like to talk (or, at least, I used to like to talk). Getting to know a shy girl is like unwrapping a present, savoring every sweet moment as I slice through the tape and carefully avoid tearing the paper.
The problem, of course, is that just like unwrapping a present, you don't actually know that you'll like what you find underneath. My Ex and I met this one girl through My Ex's work, and we were both charmed by her quiet politeness, her blushing ways. Then we got to know her, and the more comfortable she felt, the more obnoxious she let herself be in front of us, until she ruined our guest bed by jumping on it.
Then the other half, that she's actually pursuing me a little bit. In my efforts to stop dating the same type of woman all the time, I've focused on the idea of finding a girl who isn't afraid of anything, someone bold, adventurous, someone who feels like she is complete all on her own, who chooses to be with me because she finds it fun, not because she feels I complete her. This girl, while being generally timid and soft-spoken, also performs and dances at nightclubs. She isn't afraid to go out and enjoy life.
Nor was she the least bit timid about approaching me. That's hot (in my head, a Jewish mother nods approval: "That's very hot.") As soon as she heard that I was a photographer, she asked about it, asked if I needed models. I gave her my card, and the next afternoon she wrote me an email telling me she'd checked my website and she wanted to pose for me, even showed me samples of her previous modeling work to whet my appetite. Whet, a stone applied to the blade of my creative passions. Wet, like the trail of kisses up to the ear you whisper in.
Then she found out I was into Shibari, and the tone of her few, hesitant words developed a very definite "I wanna get fucked by you" feel.
The problem is, the problem is -- the problem is me. Neon warning flares in the dark of night, as I touch myself and think of her. Recently single. Still living with her ex-boyfriend. Financially unstable. Biggest of all, her last significant relationship was also with a photographer/rope artist.
None of which makes it a bad idea to play her like an orgasm-a-tronic cock-sucking device. If only that was what I was looking for.
Priceless Pearl, who I saw in person on Sunday said to me, "You're not scared of commitment, you're scared of Christine." She admonishes me for constantly looking for the roadblocks on the horizon. She chides me for always seeking that mythical Happily Ever After. PPearl reminds me to live in the present, and remember to enjoy life. Stop working at it all the time.
Growing up means learning to perceive consequences. Laughing Mother Muse talks about how her daughter can't understand that the world will still be here when she comes back from the bathroom. I've learned that it will, and I've learned that no matter how long I dabble in earthly delights, I will still be the guy I am not satisfied being. High Riding Bitch reminds me, "You're 32, Amul, it's no good waking up the next morning and thinking Oops, how did that happen?"
And I know this is intense and pleasurable because all the women in my head are speaking up, letting their voices be heard. The icons inside me chant their ominous songs.
But god damn, I want to get with her. I want to get with her. I want to get with her. I want to decode her interface, I want to learn what makes her tick. I want her to be a pleasurable surprise that gets naked and wraps her long soft limbs around me.
But I am broken. No, wait, I promised (f)AD I wouldn't say that anymore. I am damaged -- no, wait, I promised Radiant Idol. I am still scarred by the women I have loved, and I am scared that those scars will be rough to a tender touch. Assuming that she's interested in tenderness with me. For all I know, she may just have reaped some wild oats from her last relationship, and thinks I look like a good field to sow them in.
[The cliche is suddenly vivid in my head. Wild oats, seeds scattered on the wind, the laughing hand that spreads the seeds without even looking where they land. A headlong gallop down an unfamiliar path, a careful harvest turned to weeds in someone else's garden.]
I am freaking out, because as healing as my relationship with LDB has been, I still can't look myself in the eye, can barely look LDB in the eye. Freaking out because I presume that intensity must yield duration, presume desire must suggest willingness, because I am so narcissistic that I assume any girl who feels me inside her once will want it a second time.
I am scared, because she's shy, because I'm afraid that underneath that gleaming paper will be another Christine, and I won't know until it's too late.
She's attractive, has a very definite personal fashion sense, and she seems quite interested in me. Or at least, she seems really interested in my camera and my big bag of rope. That's new, unexpected, and intriguing, but also somewhat disconcerting. I am forever worrying that the only kinky people I'll ever meet are the ones who have come to let the fetish overshadow the emotions that caused the fetish in the first place.
Here's the real kicker, though: she's shy, yet adventurous enough to make her interest in me clear. This is a major one-two punch for me. I really like shy girls, there's something about the whole process of learning a shy girl, the careful unthreading of her barriers, the intimate process of learning her interface, getting her to trust you enough to open up. Plus, of course, they make really good listeners, and I like to talk (or, at least, I used to like to talk). Getting to know a shy girl is like unwrapping a present, savoring every sweet moment as I slice through the tape and carefully avoid tearing the paper.
The problem, of course, is that just like unwrapping a present, you don't actually know that you'll like what you find underneath. My Ex and I met this one girl through My Ex's work, and we were both charmed by her quiet politeness, her blushing ways. Then we got to know her, and the more comfortable she felt, the more obnoxious she let herself be in front of us, until she ruined our guest bed by jumping on it.
Then the other half, that she's actually pursuing me a little bit. In my efforts to stop dating the same type of woman all the time, I've focused on the idea of finding a girl who isn't afraid of anything, someone bold, adventurous, someone who feels like she is complete all on her own, who chooses to be with me because she finds it fun, not because she feels I complete her. This girl, while being generally timid and soft-spoken, also performs and dances at nightclubs. She isn't afraid to go out and enjoy life.
Nor was she the least bit timid about approaching me. That's hot (in my head, a Jewish mother nods approval: "That's very hot.") As soon as she heard that I was a photographer, she asked about it, asked if I needed models. I gave her my card, and the next afternoon she wrote me an email telling me she'd checked my website and she wanted to pose for me, even showed me samples of her previous modeling work to whet my appetite. Whet, a stone applied to the blade of my creative passions. Wet, like the trail of kisses up to the ear you whisper in.
Then she found out I was into Shibari, and the tone of her few, hesitant words developed a very definite "I wanna get fucked by you" feel.
The problem is, the problem is -- the problem is me. Neon warning flares in the dark of night, as I touch myself and think of her. Recently single. Still living with her ex-boyfriend. Financially unstable. Biggest of all, her last significant relationship was also with a photographer/rope artist.
None of which makes it a bad idea to play her like an orgasm-a-tronic cock-sucking device. If only that was what I was looking for.
Priceless Pearl, who I saw in person on Sunday said to me, "You're not scared of commitment, you're scared of Christine." She admonishes me for constantly looking for the roadblocks on the horizon. She chides me for always seeking that mythical Happily Ever After. PPearl reminds me to live in the present, and remember to enjoy life. Stop working at it all the time.
Growing up means learning to perceive consequences. Laughing Mother Muse talks about how her daughter can't understand that the world will still be here when she comes back from the bathroom. I've learned that it will, and I've learned that no matter how long I dabble in earthly delights, I will still be the guy I am not satisfied being. High Riding Bitch reminds me, "You're 32, Amul, it's no good waking up the next morning and thinking Oops, how did that happen?"
And I know this is intense and pleasurable because all the women in my head are speaking up, letting their voices be heard. The icons inside me chant their ominous songs.
But god damn, I want to get with her. I want to get with her. I want to get with her. I want to decode her interface, I want to learn what makes her tick. I want her to be a pleasurable surprise that gets naked and wraps her long soft limbs around me.
But I am broken. No, wait, I promised (f)AD I wouldn't say that anymore. I am damaged -- no, wait, I promised Radiant Idol. I am still scarred by the women I have loved, and I am scared that those scars will be rough to a tender touch. Assuming that she's interested in tenderness with me. For all I know, she may just have reaped some wild oats from her last relationship, and thinks I look like a good field to sow them in.
[The cliche is suddenly vivid in my head. Wild oats, seeds scattered on the wind, the laughing hand that spreads the seeds without even looking where they land. A headlong gallop down an unfamiliar path, a careful harvest turned to weeds in someone else's garden.]
I am freaking out, because as healing as my relationship with LDB has been, I still can't look myself in the eye, can barely look LDB in the eye. Freaking out because I presume that intensity must yield duration, presume desire must suggest willingness, because I am so narcissistic that I assume any girl who feels me inside her once will want it a second time.
I am scared, because she's shy, because I'm afraid that underneath that gleaming paper will be another Christine, and I won't know until it's too late.