The email just sort of emerged out of the void.
The last time I saw him was in 2019, a few months before the Rona party. He was my first solo foray into the sub-domme world.
But there was never sex. Just service. And "making" him strut around for me and my friends in panties. He'd come over and cook for me and always managed to get slapped for choosing the wrong cheese.
I needed it at the time. The service. The dinners. The free lawn care.
I kind of liked him too. He wore panties and heels while pouring me wine and asking about my day. He HAD to be evolved.
But I never broke the game.
So when I saw him at an art market one Saturday and he turned pink as he told me he met someone, I gave him a warm but stern " happy for you," and tried not to think about why that made me feel shitty.
Then a year later, this email.
Summarized: He's had a really lonely summer. A lot of home projects. He still has a job. He thinks I'm amazing and has never forgotten me.
My lonely ass couldn't resist that last part.
I met him a week later at a wine bar courtyard where the tables are an actual 6 feet apart. He showed up with a potted plant. We did the "new-normal" small talk: Everything sucks a lot but we're both pretty lucky and "things will get better."
I ignored his *tucked in* polo shirt and honed in on the fact that he seemed to give a shit about what was going on in my life.
Then he told me he was wearing panties.
Under his pants.
And that he had a WAD just telling me about it.
I began to see.
In the plain of existence that was one year ago, I would have instructed him to go to the bathroom and text me photos.
But I'm pantied out. I'm everything-ed out.
I invited him over to my new house because I actually really just wanted him to see my new house. I ignored the fact that this was probably encouraging the manties.
I made sure his mask stayed on and tried to direct convo back to mortgages. But quickly the crafty nymph swung a sharp U-turn.
Would I like to see them? His panties?
Sometimes when the awkward comes fast and hard, you acquiesce out of sheer adrenaline and confusion.
Then there he stood -- in the unfortunate polo and TJ Max panties -- the kind that were probably chaffing the hell out of his balls from that cheap, stiff lace.
I invented a court appearance I had to get up early for and ushered his lacey bum out the door.
Later he texted and said he was embarrassed by his behavior. Would I give him another chance?
I told my intuition to go fuck herself and soon found myself in another courtyard staring down some pleasant charcuterie. He expressed modest interest in a traumatic experience I'd just been through, asked about my week, and then executed a stunning U-turn to:
"Anytime you want to do sex stuff I'm down."
I was "sex stuff" person to him, and like a rigor mortis-ed corpse, he couldn't let go.
And as I got home, an aftertaste of nutty cheese and regret in my mouth, I actually asked myself if I might be "TOO MUCH?" Too open with my sexuality? Too many ass pics in Insta?? Too much pegging fake dead bodies while dressed as a praying mantis??!
Is this why I haven't had a meaningful committed relationship in SIX FUCKING YEARS?
IS IT ME?
After an hour of self-doubt blackout, I came to, embarrassed at the realization that I was thinking exactly what the lords of the patriarchy want me to believe:
That freedom of sex and sexuality must be punished.
You have to choose: Virgin or Whore.
If you dare to subscribe to neither and still demand respect from cis men, you'll be punished by being deemed as "too much" and nobody will want you.
I called my best friend sobbing and she gave me the smelling salts:
IT'S THEM: The men who see some liberated T and A and can't get past it, no matter how interesting the bearer of the T and A is.
Fuck, you guys. I've devoted a huge portion of my life to unpacking and challenging gender roles and what it means to be a sexual human. It's been painful and lonely and leaves me questioning myself most of the time, but at least I'm giving my spirit a fighting chance.
A disappointing percentage of you cis men that I've met just keep rolling with the ol' standbyes we've all been fed by this fucked up patriarchal system because you're comfy. And lazy. And scared.
And none of that makes me want to do sex or anything else with you.
I know there are men out there who choose to do the work, and if you're on of them, keep going, bud. But if your brain still gets stuck in "virgin/whore" and you can't see women as whole humans,
GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.
Because there are amazing, stunning humans out there who can straddle different worlds with ecstasy, who aren't intimidated into vapid roles and expectations, who explode with nuance and mystery because they're not scared of your opinion.
If you want to get to know one of these people, you'll have to do the work.
Or you just won't be enough.