When you make it together for fourteen years in a relationship that our society says isn’t legitimate, it should end with a celebration. Instead, ours ended with simple signatures on legal documents. Closing this chapter of my life so that I could freely move on to the next one did bring a bit of relief, but it was far from a happy moment. We shared very good times together and the finality of our signatures underscored that it was truly over. Done.
We were both getting what we wanted, relatively. We met in the conference room at his office, and signed all the paperwork. Most of the major details had been worked out, but there were still a few loose ends that still need to be cleaned up. And given that we hadn’t really reached a stalemate during any part of this process over the past two years, there was no reason to believe any details would fall through.
He got the condo and I got the car, as well as my freedom. Without a legal mailing address, I had half my clothes at the condo – my winter wardrobe, and a few other items. The loose ends were minor, like leaving your jacket at a friend’s house one night while watching the Miss America Pageant and you just have to schedule a time where you can retrieve it.
He handed me the car key. He still had to sign the mortgage papers.
“That’s all you need from me, right?” I stuffed the copies of my paperwork into my bag.
“That’s it,” he said.
I stated to get up.
“Oh, the condo keys,” he said, “could you just leave them with the doorman?”
It felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. I knew I would have to give him the keys at some point. But keys were a big deal to us. In our life together, we gave keys to friends who we trusted to come sweeping in at a moment’s notice to do things like feed the cat in a crisis, or if we were stuck in traffic, they could get the vodka chilling on ice before we arrived. And now, even with half of my wardrobe still there, a dog we have cared over for fourteen years, and boxes of stuff that I needed a place, he was asking me for the keys. I had figured when I had those details worked out, I would volunteer the keys to him, suggesting he leave my name on the emergency contact form with the doorman.
If I were the crazy lunatic ex-boyfriend who left boiling rabbits on the stovetop, I might understand, but I’m not. Since moving to the lesbian pad, my arrival was always announced. And when I came to get something I needed, I always cleared it with him first. I felt that all we had left was respect, and if I didn’t at least honor that, we’d be throwing chafing dishes at each other.
“Okay. They’ll be with the doorman.”
It took everything I had to hold it together until I could get out of the building—the building for the job that my professional network helped him get. I practically ran to the street, where I lost it. Walking to the condo to get the car, the finality of our separation and the depth of its sadness hit me like a city bus squashing a bicyclist.
I walked to the condo to get the car, unable to hold back the ugly cry, making it one heck of an ugly walk.
I am alone now, I thought. I don’t even have a mailing address. All I have is a car.
I walked past the Paralegal’s building. Alone, I walked the route we took to discover gin martinis. I walked by myself down the sidewalk where the Lawyer and I plastered “You Are Beautiful” stickers on street signs and overpasses. The stickers were still there, staring me in the face. Permanent mementos to the bliss we once had.
* * *
The Franciscan and I had the opportunity to cross paths three times since our big masturbatory weekend. I had a few miles I was able to cash in to visit him during Memorial Day weekend, and it provided a great distraction, for a weekend where I would have been, otherwise, alone. On another occasion, we both found ourselves traveling for business to the same city at the same time. And most recently, when he was traveling for business, he delayed his Chicago layover long enough to attend a pool party hosted by another member of our big masturbatory weekend workshop.
I picked up the Franciscan at the airport, and then we drove off to Michigan City, where our friend and his partner have a second home. In the car, as we passed through the toll plaza, he popped the question.
“So because I’ve already had two bourbons, can I ask, what are our rules?”
It was classic man: the feelings come out after the second cocktail. I found it interesting that he wanted to know what our rules were, having not really even defined what our relationship is. He’s a man, who came into my life, and I felt close to, safe with, and the feeling was pretty mutual, only he lives in another city and has a boyfriend. Knowing at the end of the day, I will most likely be the one with a broken heart, I decided to tread lightly, meaning passive-aggressively.
“What do you think our rules are?”
“I’ve been reading this book about polyamorous relationships called, Ethical Slut, and it’s turning me on to an entirely new language for relationships. But, as the book points out, this language doesn’t even really encompass reality. For example, it talks about primary relationships and secondary relationships. And my relationship with my partner would be my primary relationship, and my relationship with you would be my secondary relationship. But as the book says, there really isn’t a language, so even though its secondary, it doesn’t really mean secondary…”
I interrupted. The Franciscan tends to intellectualize everything. Even a hand job, so of course he was going to intellectualize his feelings.
“I’m familiar with the book. And I’m familiar with the challenges and the concepts of polyamorous relationships.”
“So you’ve read the book?”
“No, but I’m familiar with it, and I’ve seen enough documentaries to know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, well, then you understand the concept, so you know about secondary relationships. I would consider you my secondary relationship and I want you to be happy. So when a man comes along who provides you everything you want and deserve, I’m fine with you having another primary relationship. I want that for you.”
I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or not, but it was clear to me he saw us in some sort of relationship, and as such, could be defined with some form of negotiated structure and rules. But I still had no idea how he felt. How can you begin to negotiate structure and rules without first being confident of feelings?
“I totally understand the theory, but what I don’t understand, and what you haven’t said is how you actually feel.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Okay, well, in no particular order of importance. I really enjoy the sex we have. It’s hot. Very hot.”
He reached over the center console and squeezed my inside thigh. I was beginning to sense that this was primarily just about the sex. Maybe it went deeper, but it certainly was on top of mind for him.
“I agree. But that’s an activity, not how you feel.”
“I enjoy the time we’ve spent together, and I am looking forward to the time we’re going to spend together. I’m so glad to see you. I’m grateful for your friendship, for your presence in my life. For the conversations we’ve had. I really appreciate your playfulness, and how you challenge yourself to keep improving yourself. To learn and expand.”
“Well, thank you. The feelings are mutual. I enjoy your company, and I appreciate your ability to listen, and the way you validate my feelings.”
“I just don’t want to have a situation like what happened with the Veterinarian, which is why I want to know what the rules are.”
The situation he was referencing had unfolded between me and another member of our big masturbatory weekend. The Veterinarian and I had hit it off, and he lived around the corner. The problem was grounded in the fact that he has a boyfriend. But unlike the Franciscan, whose boyfriend knows about the masturbatory weekend, the Veterinarian has kept everything in the dark. In fact, I didn’t learn he had a boyfriend until the second time we got together after the big weekend and he offered to give me a foot massage. It was then, as he was rubbing my feet that I realized this man is a catch.
“So where is your boyfriend?” It’s a magic question that needs no words to be answered. An immediate response and the man is single. Any awkward pause, and he has a boyfriend he doesn’t want you to know about. The Veterinarian had an extremely awkward pause.
“It’s complicated.”
“As complicated as you make it.”
He explained to me that they have been dating for six years, but have never lived together. For the past two years, his boyfriend has been unemployed, and the Veterinarian doesn’t have the heart to break it off while he’s unemployed. So as a result, he slogs through life, making himself miserable because he caries too much guilt to be able to take care of his needs first.
Having a non-existent sex life with his boyfriend, the Veterinarian was really looking for a fuck buddy. And while I wasn’t opposed to serving that role, I knew I needed friendship more than anything. Particularly at this point. When I told him that was all I was really asking for, to be able to call him up on Saturday morning to see if he’d like to go to brunch and then to the beach or to a movie, he told me that wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t figure out how to tell his boyfriend about me and how we met. To acknowledge me would be to acknowledge he was messing around on the side because they were no longer having sex.
It all seemed so complicated, and the truth, to me, seemed so much more simple.
After dinner one night, the Veterinarian asked me back to his place, which I knew would have us naked in bed. That was a lot of work for someone who had to keep me a secret. He still wasn’t willing to provide the level of friendship I wanted in return, so I told him to take me home.
I didn’t feel an obligation to keep his secrets and insisted he take responsibility for them. He could either tell his boyfriend the truth, or dump him, which he confessed he wanted to do. And when I held my ground, he blew up in frustration, and hasn’t been in touch since.
I shared his frustration and his disappointment. When he kicked me out of the car, he expressed that we could have really had something. It struck me that it was a really big secret at my expense. And I just couldn’t do that.
It was different with the Franciscan. He lived in another city, and it’s not like we could have a casual dinner after a rough day at the office to decompress. Our time together had to be mapped out. And, in spending that time together, he was in touch with his partner, or his primary relationship as he was now referring to him, and I was not hidden.
“So rules? What do you think is going to happen?” I asked. It was only a ninety-minute drive from the city to Michigan City.
“I don’t know. Honestly, if it could happen, I’d love to hang you over the edge of the hot tub and fuck you from behind.”
“Well two things. One, there is no hot tub. Just a pool.” I glanced at him.
“Okay, over the edge of the pool.” His grin extended ear to ear.
“Two. While they want a naked pool party, they don’t want an orgy.”
In planning the party, I had a lengthy conversation with our friend about what they were looking to have—a pool party where people were comfortable swimming naked. But they didn’t want it to evolve into an orgy. We talked about how just hosting a party with boys, mixing them with a pool and serving up alcohol, and eventually the swimsuits would come off. But if they were to invite people to a naked pool party, it would start at a different energy level that would be just plain creepy.
“Okay. So what does that mean?” The Franciscan seemed to be pretty confused. So I made it pretty clear.
“It means I’m not going to be the one who pushes it over the edge and makes it an orgy.”
“And I’m not going to be that person either. But if the opportunity presents itself to play with someone, either alone, or in a three-way with you, or even a four-way?”
“If the opportunity presents itself to do that privately, that’s one thing. But I’m not going to throw that energy out.”
“I think it would be kind of hot to play with them as a couple.”
His constant focus on heightening the sexual was a bit exhausting. It’s not like we were talking about a swingers club that was going to end in an explosive orgiastic finale, we were talking about a backyard barbecue.
“You are free to do what you have to do.”
He grabbed my hand.
“I just really appreciate you in my life, so I want to make sure I’m clear on expectations. I’ve told you how I feel. What are your answers to the same questions?”
Even without my emerging clairvoyance, I knew he was going to turn this around and eventually ask me the same questions. On the one hand, I felt a little relieved to know that he wasn’t looking for something from me I couldn’t provide, like the Veterinarian. On the other hand, I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for from him. I thought about my words for a moment, knowing they would resonate energy long beyond our time together that weekend.
“I see you as practice.”
“Practice?”
“Yes. You are practice until the real boy comes along. Beyond that, I’m not really sure what I need from you or even what I want from you. So until I figure all that out, you’re just practice.”
I realized that my words could be perceived as cutting, but he had already labeled me a solid second place. It only seemed fair to declare this a practice race that doesn’t matter other than preparation for the final competition. I continued with my thoughts.
“I really appreciate you listening to me, validating my feelings and concerns, and you provide an opportunity for me to not just figure out what I need but to also practice articulating those needs. And I really appreciate that.”
“Well then, I’m glad to be your practice. And when the real boy comes along, I’d be happy to continue our secondary relationship.” He squeezed my hand. “I really do love you, and I want you to be happy. I’m grateful for the love we have, and if we have that for ten minutes, or ten months, ten years, or a lifetime, I’m grateful to have it and share our connection with each other.”
I squeezed his hand. My heart broke a little, as I wondered what was so hard about what the Franciscan just said that the Paralegal or the Lawyer could not say that. They could not step into the common space that we share. The space that is filled with our love for each other. But then, I don’t know that I’ve been fully honest with either of them, declaring that my love is real and that I feel it is mutual, and that I want either of them to step up and participate in that love.
I reminded myself that I was coming in second place, but this was just practice and didn’t count. That soon, very soon, I’d be in shape to bring home the championship trophy husband. Or, at least that was what I was hoping for.
About a half-dozen couples came to the pool party. Shortly after dinner, the youngest one in the group, in his early thirties and in a six-year relationship, came over and sat down next to the Franciscan and me on the screened-in porch.
“So how long have you two been together?”
I smiled. It reassured me to know that others saw the energy between us, that it was real. I laughed silently to myself, waiting to see how the Franciscan would answer.
“Ahhh, well, we’re not together.”
The Franciscan’s words cut through me. I may be in second place, and completely satisfied with that finish with the Franciscan, but that is not how I would have described our relationship.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the guest said. “I thought you were together.”
“Well, it’s complicated. See, my partner is back home. And the two of us met in May at a workshop, which is where we met our host. I was traveling for business and it just happened to work out that I was able to arrange my travel to come for the pool party.”
The man’s head was practically spinning.
“Oh. I see.”
The Franciscan continued to dig a deeper hole with his psychobabble.
“It’s sort of complicated. See, my partner is my primary relationship and he’s my secondary relationship. So it’s sort of a polyamorous situation.”
I had to put a plug in it.
“What he meant to say is that we’ve been dating since May, but his partner is back home.”
“Oh. I see.” Our fellow guest nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to refresh my drink.”
The Franciscan looked at me confused. I just rolled my eyes, shaking my head.
Later that night, when all the guests had gone, our clothes scattered through the house creating a trail to the pool, the Franciscan and I bobbed around in the pool together, naked.
“I think we scared that one guy away.” I dove under the water, swimming through his legs, coming up behind him, wrapping my arms around his thick torso.
“Correction.” I whispered in his ear. “YOU scared him away. I didn’t do anything.”
I licked his ear.
“I don’t know what it was I said?”
“Your psychobabble about primary and secondary relationships.”
“I didn’t know what to say!” His tone was defensive.
“Why not just say, ‘We’ve been dating since May.’?”
He broke my embrace, turned around and kissed me.
“I love you so much. I’m so grateful for you in my life. I just love your energy. Your enthusiasm. How you just live life to the fullest. Your outlook on the world.”
“Thank you. I love you, too.” It has taken months to understand that love is all around and to get used to receiving it when it is given.
“So we are dating is not an accurate statement?” I asked.
“Well no, but it’s complicated.”
“It’s as complicated as you make it.”
“God, I love you.”
“That’s the alcohol talking now.”
He laughed and kissed me again. We got out of the pool, dried off, and climbed into bed, falling asleep tangled in each other’s arms.
The next morning, I drove him to the airport. While I didn’t know when I’d see him again, or the context, I somehow found comfort in our conversations over the weekend. While I didn’t know completely what I wanted from the Franciscan, I had articulated exactly what I did know, and I was proud of myself for being okay with all that was unknown.
* * *
In bringing together the details of the closing of the condo, I had completely forgot the life details of my exhibitionist compulsive sex therapist boyfriend. The Franciscan had told me he would be wrapped up in the Folsom Street Fair. I had never been to the world’s largest leather and fetish street fair and found myself a little envious of the adventure he was about to have, myself facing the prospect of a weekend alone in Chicago. So when he was sharing with me the details, I checked out last minute airfare to San Francisco, thinking a spontaneous boy adventure was the very thing that would prevent me from plummeting into the bottomless pit of a boy deficit.
To my surprise, airfare was ridiculously inexpensive; a weekend in Chicago out on the town would cost more, particularly with a chocolate martini night on the horizon.
So I texted the Franciscan asking him if he was open to me joining him.
“OMG! I’d love to share this experience with you.” He shot me a text back immediately. He had the enthusiasm of an alcoholic searching for the next person to toast. I put a ticket on hold and decided to sleep on it.
The next morning, I got up, completely unsure if I should join the Franciscan in Francisco, or just bail. On the upside, I’d have a great story. I’d see a freak show I have always wanted to see. I’d be in the company of a man who seems to adore me; a requirement for my companionship these days. And, I’d be completely surrounded by men.
On the downside, even though it was cheap airfare, it wasn’t going to help me achieve my financial goals. Based on the conversation with the Franciscan on the way to the pool party, I wasn’t really sure he would be totally available for me. Even with me second, he was still going to want to flirt with boys and mess around should the situation arise. And if all the willing boys on the planet were to dry up, from what I heard, Folsom would be the last place boys would have a drink.
My biggest fear in going was that the weekend would send me into a boy deficit tailspin, reminding me of my loneliness, unleashing my abandonment demons. In weighing the upside and the downside, it became clear to me that I was not going for the experience a romantically intimate weekend with the Franciscan. Rather, I was in search of an adventure with boys, and tagging along with a compulsive sex therapist as my guide.
I called the Franciscan to tell him I was purchasing the ticket. I figured that if there was ever a weekend to train wreck, it would be this weekend. If I were to spend the weekend in the basement bedroom of a lesbian couple where I was living, it was sure to be bad. But if I was open to an adventure on the other side of the country, I might just be okay.
“Well, you’re welcome to come, but here’s the thing.” The Franciscan had called me to confirm the details.
“Yeah?”
“We’re headed to a play party on Saturday night.”
By ‘play party,’ I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about a night of Connect Four.
“Okay.”
“So, if you’re okay with me playing with other people—watching, and/or participating—then you’re welcome to come.”
“Okay.”
“I just had this all set up in advance.”
For a moment, I wondered how productive he could be if he had an actual hobby. A hobby that didn’t involve lube.
“So when you say play party, what exactly do you mean?”
“BDSM. Demonstrations. Participation. I can get you an invitation if you want to come.”
“So what does one wear to a ‘play party?’”
“Boots and a jockstrap.”
“Well, I’ve got the jockstrap, but boots, that could be the make or break. Are boots mandatory? What about Chuck Taylor Converse High-tops? They’re black.”
“Let me check on that and I’ll get back to you.”
“Okay, I’ll wait to book my ticket until I hear from you.”
I researched the play party, and learned that the doors closed only an hour after I was to arrive. A few hours past before I received another call from the Franciscan.
“So I got you an invitation to the play party. You should receive it by e-mail and then you have to go on the Web and sign up.”
“Here’s the thing. The earliest flight I can hop on gets me there in the middle of the play party. I might be able to make it before the doors close, but there is a chance that I won’t make it if I’m delayed at all. So if that’s the case, what do I do?”
“Well then, you’re only coming for basically one day then, so it’s up to you if you want to spend the money to come for that one day.”
“I know. It’s not about the money, or the rules you’ve created in life. People fly across the country for one day to go to a two-hour meeting. Why not a street festival? What I’m asking is what are you doing after the party? Where would I meet you afterwards?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re going out, right? To the Eagle or something?”
“Well, see, here’s the thing. I’m not exactly in charge this weekend.”
There was an awkward pause. It finally hit me what he meant by ‘not in charge.’
“Right. Because you’re going to be on a leash all weekend.”
“Exactly.”
“So this raises a completely different question: you’ve made all sorts of arrangements in advance; am I raining on some daddy’s parade by coming at the last minute?”
There was an awkward pause.
“I’d love to have you come. I’d love to share this experience with you.”
“So am I inserting myself into the middle of something?”
“I wouldn’t say that; you just have to please my sir.”
“Right. Right. And what would I have to do to please Sir?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he hot?”
“Umm, I don’t think you would think he’s hot.”
“Really?”
“From what I know about you, I don’t think you would think that he’s hot.”
“Right. Right. Does he have a pulse?”
* * *
One of the things I love about living in a large vibrant city is that you can find sexy underwear and a pair of used boots on a Friday night long after Macy’s has closed. I fired off photos to the Franciscan’s cell phone of my new underwear, asking which pair I should wear. About twenty-four hours later, I found myself on Bart, headed to a play party that the Franciscan had secured an invitation for. I emerged from the subway in the Mission District, in my bad-ass boots and under my jeans the box-cut briefs with the lift and thrust technology that the Franciscan had picked out remotely. I had changed in the airplane lavatory.
My boots clopped on the sidewalks of San Francisco, past the homeless guy vomiting nothing but alcohol into the street gutter and past the locked-down residential treatment center. The grittiness of San Francisco is always jarring at first, and I thought of the numerous people in my life who would think I’m a complete fool for what I’m about to do, one of them being my former partner.
I had left a fourteen-year relationship for the ability to freely explore an adventure. The list of protests would have been long: we don’t have the money; last minute airfare is always expensive; you can’t stay with a stranger; you always fall asleep when you go out on the West Coast because of the jet lag; that’s a bad neighborhood; you don’t have boots; what are you going to wear? You can’t just go to a leather festival without leather and you don’t have the money to get a leather outfit. And besides, when would you wear that outfit again? You’ll get syphilis!
I thought about all those protests and how ridiculous they are. Even more ridiculous than the fact that I found myself walking down the street wearing a pair of lift-and-thrust hot pants under my jeans and big clopping boots. What’s the point in having a savings account if the money in it is never used? That’s like not opening a nice bottle of wine because it’s Tuesday.
Why not?
I arrived at Department 15, the location for the play party, and an older gentleman wearing leather chaps and a leather vest welcomed me at the door.
“Hi. I just got off an airplane from Chicago.”
“Oh, well, welcome.”
His eyes scanned my body up and down like a Homeland Security screener.
His eyes scanned my body up and down like a Homeland Security screener.
“I’ve never been here, so what’s the story?”
“Once you get checked in, you can head upstairs. There is a clothing check and bag check, and then you’re free to wander around.”
I moved upstairs to the clothing and bag check, where a man in nothing but a white jock strap and leather boots was manning the workstation. His belly hung over the strap of his jock. I explained to him that I had just arrived from Chicago.
“Well, when I arrive somewhere and I’m feeling maybe a little over-dressed, I like to start with taking my shirt off.”
“Oh, good idea.” I took my t-shirt shirt off and he hung it on a hanger.
“And you could take your pants off if you want.”
“Oh, well thank you. I do have a pair of new underwear on.” I flashed him a smile.
“Really? Maybe you’d like to show those off.”
I took off my pants and rolled them up, stuffing them in my backpack. He stood back and looked me over.
“Very wise decision. And your underwear is a very good choice for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course, you cold take those off, if you’d like.”
“Maybe later. I think I’d like to maybe build the crowd’s anticipation first.” I had no idea where these words were coming from.
“Honey, anticipation has already been built.” He handed me my coat check tag, which I slipped into my sock.
“Thank you. We’ll just have to see what’s going to happen next, won’t we?”
I turned and walked into the crowd. It was mostly older gentlemen, and I was one of the youngest in the crowd. There was a group clustered around a table of deli and vegi trays from Costco. A bowl of nacho chips sat next to a vat of salsa. A tray of store-bought cookies made up the dessert tray. I had always wondered what type of snacks one might serve at a sex exhibition party.
I rounded the corner, stepping into a large, open warehouse space. Red and blue lights illuminated the space dimly. Men in various states of leather dress wandered around the room, which had several bondage stations set up. Men tied to crosses were being flogged and spanked, while other men stood around watching the action.
I scanned the room looking for the Franciscan. I spotted him, in the corner. His hands were handcuffed behind him. He had a collar on, and man standing next to him held a leash that was attached to it. The Franciscan was kneeling on his knees, sucking a man’s cock.
I watched him pleasure this man to a shuttering conclusion, when the man who had his leash bent over to unlock his handcuffs.
“You did a very good job,” he said.
The Franciscan stood up, turning around. I waited for him to see me, and when he looked at me, I smiled.
He smiled, running over to me, throwing his arms around me, his harnessed chest rubbing up against my shirtless body.
“Oh, baby. It is so good to see you. I am so glad you are here. So excited to share this with you.”
He put his hands on my face and kissed my lips and then held me.
“I’m so excited to move our relationship to a new level.”
I laughed.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I’m laughing at you.”
“I just love you. I love you so much, for being here. I love your spontaneity, and the way you just want to experience life.”
“Thank you. I love you, too.”
“How long have you been standing here?”
“Long enough.”
He laughed. I had no idea what was going to happen next. Not a day from then, not twelve hours, not even twenty-five seconds.
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