“I think you should come to Chicago for I.M.L.,” I said to the Franciscan on the phone. We had been in constant touch since the big masturbatory weekend, and I knew him well enough to know that the International Mr. Leather Weekend, with its parties filled of men donning fetish costumes drawing crowds from all over the country, this was right up his ally.
“Oh, man. I’d love to. But the boyfriend is taking his mom to Hawaii, so I’ve got dog duty,” he said.
“So is that an invitation for me to come visit?”
“Yeah. It could be. If you want to come visit. I’d love to see you and spend time with you.”
In learning to focus on my needs, I discovered that if I didn’t have a pro-active plan for the holiday weekend, I’d feel abandoned and alone. That was the energy I took with me when I found a ticket purchased for a few random miles on a credit card I no longer used; it was a plan, and it would fill my weekend.
I packed every condom I owned. I didn’t pack any lube, assuming he would have plenty; lube is hard to transport across the country – you always have to check your bags as the three-ounce limits for liquids and gels is never enough for one good night. And certainly not three nights with a former Franciscan Monk I met through a weekend of eroticism.
But even as I packed the supplies for potentially the biggest boy time of my life, I packed without expectation, having an open mind and an open heart. If I was in the guest room for three days, then I was in the guest room. And if we had non-stop sex, then we had non-stop sex. Whatever would unfold, my intention was to rest and relax in the company of man who I had a great connection with, and pass the weekend without the abandoned toddler demon taking over.
* * *
I hadn’t been in town for ninety minutes before I was naked and face down on the massage table.
“I’ve always wanted to get a massage table, so I thought this would be the perfect occasion,” the Franciscan said.
“You bought it just for this weekend?”
“Well, not just for this weekend, but seeing you was the impetus. I thought we could practice some of the techniques we learned.”
He ran his large man hands across my back, slowly massaging my body, working out the tension and the knots of the week. Only a few days earlier, I learned the lesbians I had been living with, the situation was going to change, and I had no idea whether I was going to be able to stay or have to move back in with my former partner. My abandoned toddler demon, Little Tommy, wanted to run wild and he clung to every muscle in my back. The Franciscan used tender care as he slowly worked the knots out, layer-by-layer, kneading, stretching, caressing.
He lifted my leg and sat on the massage table, placing my foot in his lap.
“I’ve got a special surprise for you.”
I could hear him open a bottle and squirt lotion.
“What’s that?” I rolled over to look, smelling peppermint.
“Don’t turn over. I’m not done.”
I felt a cool tingling as he massaged lotion into the bottom of my foot.
“It’s peppermint foot rub. I know how much you like to have your feet rubbed, so I went to go get some.”
His fingers slid through my toes, and he massaged the pads of my feet, taking great care not to tickle while he worked through the tightness in my feet.
For over a decade I had tried to convince my former partner to rub my feet.
“I’m not into feet,” he dismissed. I totally understood, not being into feet either, but my feet – on me, on my body – my feet like to be rubbed; it’s a direct line to my heart. I work to make sure they don’t smell and are clean, and for the last year, the toenails have always been painted.
His touch brought tears to my eyes as I started to cry, and I just tried to breathe in the moment, enjoying it for all its glory. For all the pleasure I was experiencing, it gave the Franciscan even more just making sure my needs and desires were met. I could feel his love through his touch, and it was overpowering.
For three hours, I lay on the massage table, as the Franciscan discovered every possible pressure and pleasure point on my body, using his hands, his fingers, his tongue, and the weight of his own body. And when my body could be touched no more, he stood there, giddy with joy and no expectation that anything would be returned, even though it was.
The dogs, needing attention and a walk, and us ourselves needing food were the only two things that brought closure to the afternoon of touch.
* * *
Fed and watered, we went at it again with the vivacious energy of two teenagers, only with the staying power of two forty-year-olds. The Franciscan pulled my legs in the air over his head, his tongue probing a tickle spot. I burst out laughing just as my feet grazed the rotating blades of the ceiling fan circling above his bed.
“Stop!” I yelled.
He paused, smiling. “Stop, stop? Or stop, may I please have some more?”
“Stop, stop getting my feet tangled in the ceiling fan, but please may I have some more?”
He laughed, then sucked on my toes, as he let me lay in a more traditional position on the bed not requiring the use of triceps to maintain one’s balance.
“Sorry.” He grinned at me.
“You better be. Yoga Girl would be upset if she knew you ruined a perfectly fine pedicure by getting my feet tangled in a ceiling fan.”
“I think she’d be proud.”
“Okay, she would. But still, it’s a perfectly fine pedicure that cost good money.
“I don’t know that I like this color, though.”
“You don’t?” I sat up on my elbows and looked at him.
“I think I prefer the bright reds.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Of course you would. You’re a twelve-year-old girl. And teenage girls like bright colors.”
“Do you not like them?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like bright colors. Just not on me. I like a color that is more complex. Sophisticated in tone.”
“Oh, well of course. And so what color is your favorite?” The Franciscan massaged my feet.
“Whatever color speaks to me. Usually the deeper shades of red, with either browns or purples in them. They compliment my skin tones nicely.”
“Do they now?”
“Yes. Of course. I mean, you didn’t think I just painted my nails for the sake of painting my nails, did you?”
“Never.” He laughed, and kissed the bottom of my foot. “So this color? What color do you have on now?”
“Romeo and Juliet.”
“Oh, Montague.” The Franciscan laughed as he climbed on top of me. I pushed him off of me, rolling over on top of him.
“Yes, Lady Capulet?”
We stared into each other’s eyes. He ran his hand along my face.
“You are so amazing. You don’t even know how amazing you are.”
I grabbed his hand along my face, and whispered, “Lady Capulet, this story might very well end in a tragedy.”
* * *
I woke up, the bed next to me empty. I was surrounded in that lazy haze of morning that lingers on when there is no agenda and no place to be. I stared at the ceiling, my mind wandering. For all the attention I was getting from the Franciscan, I couldn’t help but think about the Paralegal and the Lawyer. And how much I really wanted to spend the holiday weekend with one of them. The Paralegal, in rehab, just wouldn’t have been an option, and even if he weren’t I don’t know he would have shown. And the Lawyer, he was still running around with the flight attendant. Unhappy as ever, I’m sure, and still making the bad choices that led to his unhappiness. The Franciscan seemed to have the playfulness and listening skills of them both. He believed in me and was supportive in the way they both could. For some reason, the Franciscan made me miss both of them more.
“Hi there, Sunshine!” The Franciscan brought me a toasted bagel and climbed back into bed with me.
“Hey.” As he nuzzled up next to me, I rest my head on his shirtless chest.
“Everything okay?”
“Just waking up.”
It was nice to be in the vulnerable part of the morning, before one is fully aware, wrapped up in the protective energy of the Franciscan. Yet, I was filled with mixed emotions. It was weird to be lying in the arms of the Franciscan and having thoughts of the Lawyer and the Paralegal running through my head. Both had appeared in my dreams during the night, and I wasn’t sure what that was about. I could feel my throat tightening up. How could I tell the Franciscan as I lay there, I was thinking of two other men? How could I be with a man who appears to adore me, and yet be thinking of two other?
I didn’t know the answers, so I bit into my bagel, waiting for them to come.
* * *
It was the night before my return to Chicago, and the Franciscan put a couple fryers on the grill. It was a lovely evening, so we sat on the deck and emptied a couple bottles of wine as the sun went down.
“I’m not much of a wine drinker,” the Franciscan said.
“Why’s that?”
“It doesn’t sit well with me, sometimes.”
“Then you’re not drinking the right wine. Because good wine will sit well with you.”
“Are we drinking good wine?”
“I don’t know how good it is, but it’s the right wine for the weekend.”
“How’s that?”
“Just read the label.” I picked up the bottle. “ ‘Since the Gold Rush, Amador County winemakers have been mining the rich robust characteristics of Zinfandel, California’s heritage grape. At Montevina, our Zin happily embraces its wild-at-heart legacy…’ ”
“Ooo. Wild-at-heart.” He put his foot in my crotch.
“ ‘…It’s fruit-forward and sassy, with irresistible cassis…’ ”
“Like you, with your sassy nails. I have to say, the darker color is growing on me.”
“It’s about time. ‘…with irresistible cassis and pepper aromas, and lush blackberry, ripe plumb and spice flavors followed by a long, smooth finish.’ ”
“I’ve got a long, smooth finish for you.”
“ ‘If you’re looking for a rollicking good time on the palate, this Zinfandel is for you.’ ”
The Franciscan grabbed my hand and led me into the house and down to the basement. It was not yet finished, the ceilings had yet to be sheet-rocked and there was no covering on the concrete floor.
“I’ve got a surprise for you.”
He led me to a room in the basement, and there, in the middle, from the ceiling, hung a sling.
I laughed.
“See, the bottle was right, Lady Capulet! We’re going to have a rollicking good time!”
The Franciscan pulled my clothes from my body and then told me to get in the sling. While other people were at home watching prime time television, or gathered around the kitchen table playing board games, we were taking turns at a different type of play where we made up the rules as we went.
When the height of pleasure had been exhausted, the Franciscan hung in the sling, in a blissful afterglow of sweat, lube and the fluid of our love.
“I’m so sorry the Paralegal and the Lawyer have hurt you. And my hope for you is that your soul mate will come to find you.”
His statement pierced through my heart. It was as if he knew what I had been thinking all weekend, and without judgment, acknowledged their meaning in my life.
“I’m so sorry that have taken advantage of your love. I want you to be happy, and I can see how ready you are for a man who can love you the way you can love him.”
I could not hold back the tears. It was as if he was saying, I’m your soul mate, but not your soul mate, and neither are they, so keep looking. We made our way to bed through the shower, and the tears continued to flow, washing down the drain. I realized that both the Lawyer and the Paralegal were right there with me, in my heart. That I had their love, and will always have their love, and that both of them have given me the most they possibly have to give. And while I might want more, I received what they had. But to continue to want more or hold on to hope that it can still be more with either one was just standing in my way.
“What is it that you want? What is it that you need?” The Franciscan echoed the questions from our big masturbatory weekend, holding my hand as we lay in bed, my leg over his.
I had no answer for him, but a voice in my head said, it’s time. It’s time to tell the Lawyer he can’t be in my life anymore. That if he can’t embrace the energy between us, then he just needs to go away. That’s it’s not fair to me to be there for him when he needs me, and for me to always be waiting for him to show up and be present. My waiting is preventing me from being fully present with a man who is right there with me. And the Paralegal, I just didn’t know what to think and feel. He was in rehab, and I was going to have to either put my feelings on hold, or let him go.
“I’m so afraid I’m going to be the next man to hurt you,” the Franciscan whispered. I knew he had a boyfriend, and my joining him for the weekend was more about me keeping my abandoned toddler at bay, more than it was holding onto a hope that he might be the one. If anything, the fact that I couldn’t get the Lawyer or the Paralegal out of my mind seemed to suggest that the Franciscan was far from the one. But the fact that I had trouble receiving the love of a man who was right there in front of me at the moment he had to give it because two men who weren’t even present, bothered me.
It was almost as if I was being held hostage. By them, or myself?
That night, the Lawyer showed up in my dreams again, the second night in a row. He sent me a text message.
“When is a time when we can have a serious conversation?”
I felt so confused. On the one hand thinking this was it, my opportunity to tell him he can’t be in my life on any level. But at the same time, thinking maybe he’s figured it out and this is the call to say that he wants to try to make something work. Or is this the call where he says its not working out with his flight attendant boyfriend and wants to blame me for scaring him away?
I woke up knowing exactly the work I was going to have to do: let go of the old so the new could come in.
If I didn’t, this would work out to be one messy tragedy.
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