the dance with me

There has been a shift in my relationship with Donny. Some movement in some tectonic plates has been detected, and I’ve noted it with the armchair detachment of a social scientist and the panic of a lover freaked by the imminently eschatological.

When Donny and I first got together that June in the height of my depravity of SlutFest 2004, our relationship whirled around in giddy erotic adventure. We connected most ostensibly in the slurpy slapping of our interlocking body parts, but if making wet spots had been all there was between us, we would have slurped, slapped and drifted, as I did with so many other men (and a couple of women) that summer. We would have fucked and fled, but that didn’t happen.

We do-si-doed around each other, coming together, coming apart and coming with other people, coming to find the dance had turned again and we were linked  at the arms and then the genitals. We fell in love, as lovers will do. We fell reluctantly.

I didn’t want to fall in love with him, nor he with me, I would suspect. I saw him as hopelessly bourgeois. In him I saw this suburban Jersey white Christian do-gooder, a person who was going to be held prisoner to his cul-de-sac upbringing and batting cage aesthetics. I saw a nice guy, a good guy, but not a guy I wanted to be yoked to for eternity. I fought falling in love with him, and I fought being with him, and I fought with him in order to keep at bay both the falling and the being.

I don’t know what he saw me as that caused him to keep his balance when he found himself poised on the brink of the love abyss. Probably a mess. A hott, hott mess with a hoover mouth and a tiny pussy and a tangled history. But I could be projecting. Donny’s resistance could have had nothing to do with me and my perilous and spiteful adulthood. It could have everything to do with his own.

Imperiled by feeling, we then gladly met on the athletic field of sex. Or the field of athletic sex, either way, really. Our fucking, much documented here on these pages, was epic and inventive. It was a robust fount of sexual activity from which we drew, and though I had much to teach my Donny, and some to learn from him, we drew and we drank deep.

We couldn’t seem to escape the sex. Sometimes, Donny would call me just before bed and it would be twitchy, twinkly, hot hours later that we would get off the phone, only after we’d made elliptical narratives that perversely traversed sundry subjects until, finally, they circled back around to the erotic and first one of us and then the other would cry out into the phone and the darkness and, having come alone and together, we could hang up.

Donny loves phone sex.

Finally, though, we admitted with rue and chagrin and some small measure of joy that we loved each other, and even though it was months and months, years even, after that first admission that we came to accept the mutuality of our love, we did admit it.

And it was a small, pretty thing, our fledgling love. It was teeny, and we took turns warming it in our hands, like a tiny premature being, formless as a bear cub, needy as a kangaroo’s joey, helpless as a baby penguin in the frigid arctic blow. We took turns holding it, this nascent love, because it felt like too much when we held it together, though that hot-potato game too would pass in our slow Loris acceptance of our love.

The sex, though, during this tag-you’re-it love stage remained good. Frequent and strong. Wild and attenuated. Baroque in its play and its accoutrements and its flourishes. This was a time of being tied up, inserted, dripped on, flogged, spanked, and fucked multiply. This was a time of a lot of anal. These were the anal days, my friend. I thought they'd never end.

And then, somehow, things began to change at some point around last June, at some point around the two-year mark. And, yes, those two years had been as stop and go as rush hour traffic on the BQE. And, yes, those two years were interrupted my affair, and Donny’s habitual holiday break ups. And, yes, those two years were difficult, but at some point around the two year mark, we stopped fucking quite so frequently, quite so inventively, quite so well.

I noted it and I did what a desperate girl does. I went shopping. I couldn’t buy a solution, though Donny did buy the book that helped him learn to love giving me head, mostly because now I love him to give it to me, that singular gift of his pointy tongue  and his pervert’s mouth. And the head was good. The head has been great. But still, the armchair scientist and the white-knuckled lover in me noted that the sex was less, less frequent, less dramatic, less passionate, less good.

I did what I do, which is to both keep it to myself and to talk about it with Donny. I brought it up with him, and he pooh-poohed it. No, he said, not true. I was imagining it. I was not taking into account his flu or mine or his work or mine or the exigencies of his schedule. I was, in short, being unfair.

So I let it lay. I noticed, though, that while the sex had grown tame, domesticated, a courtly pas-de-deux derived from a frenetic village pagan rite, while the sex had diminished, Donny himself had grown closer. He was spending time with me more often, he was helping me. He was listening to me, and he was remembering what I said. He was a sensitive, caring Donny, this new loving Donny who had accepted his love.

(Our love was no longer a tender baby animal. It had legs. It was out and foraging for itself. We could stand back and admire its growth and its strength and its beauty. We held hands as we did so.)

To be honest, though, I was conflicted at the thought of giving up the erotic Dionysian for the sensitive Alan Alda Donny. I wanted both—the pleasure bacchanal of Sex Doll Donny and the supporting arms of Care-Bear Donny. I wanted them both and I wanted them together. And I despaired.

I despaired because I couldn’t believe that I deserved a man who really cared for me and who was a demon in the sack, and I despaired because I did. I despaired because I’d spent two years in a sexless love and I didn’t want to do it again, especially with a man whose erotic self I loved passionately. I despaired because I felt I wasn’t worthy, and I despaired because I was. I despaired, in short.

And I brought it up again. And I was shot down again. And I despaired some more, and I realized that Donny was doing what I had been doing during those days before I came to the realization that he wasn’t some middle-class drag, that he wasn’t settling, that he was really fucking special. Only he was doing it all a little differently—he was creating distance by separating himself sexually. He was oscillating between being close physically and close emotionally.

So I told him so. A conversation that in my adolescent infatuation of the eschatological, I was fairly sure would mean the end of us.

It hasn’t. If anything, we seem to be growing closer. I haven’t yet again found myself bent over, spread legged, hands on the wall and tiny tingly welts growing on my naked ass, but there is hope. There has been more sex since the conversation, and better, and Donny hasn’t retreated into some emotional hidey-hole.

Neither have I. My life, sometimes, amazes me.

Comments

[Traboyk]

Muah. That was a sweet story. You are a nerdy pervert's dream.

[Isaak]

Hi
im crazy! ur somebody ive never met and probably never will but i sure feel happy for u. im just 21 but i do know that nothing beats good and open communication in a relationship. so if u will excuse my youthful enthusiasm: rock on sis!!!

[Isaak]

oh and ur tip jar is giving me error msgs.

[chelsea girl]

Isaak,

Thanks for the encouragement and the tipping attempt. I know about the tip jar issues and have contacted Typepad, my blog's server. It's sad, really, when good coding goes bad.

We're all crossing our fingers for a speedy tip jar recovery.

kissykiss,
chelsea girl

[Alan]

It can be odd when your perception of somebody changes. my Girlfriend and I have been together nearly two years now, I'm a bit of a softie, nerdy romantic and I fell for her pretty quick, we were in love before you could snap your fingers and I've never been happier. But it was a long time before I could see her as somebody I could fuck, there were times when we made love and times when we both just wanted to fuck and I held back, I didn't want to let that side of me out. I was afraid to show it to her in case it scared her. I wanted to pin her to the bed and fuck her like my little whore, I wanted to hold her head and slide my cock in and out of her fantastic mouth, all those things I held inside me. But she was my lover, and I had a big pink soppy heart full of love and couldn't do it.
It's taken time to see her as that full person and not just the romantic ideal. She wanted this as much as I did and it was unfair of me to be holding it back from her, she wanted to be fucked and wanted to fuck me too. There are days now when we are close and slow and snuggly and days where I throw her up against the wall rip her knickers off and make her come in my hand while she whispers into my ear how wet her tight little cunt is, there are days to where she turns up in nothing but a short skirt and stockings and she throws me on the bed and rides me until the bed has squeaked itself halfway across the room.
I can't allude to knowing anything about how you and Donny work, but when I read this post this came to mind.
All the best

Alan
Dublin/Ireland

[Alana]

So cool. You are just so cool.

Alana

[M]

In many ways I can sympathize from my own past. I'm highly gunshy of relationships and have been for far too long. It's become instinctual for me to avoid them yet deep down I want to enjoy one. Not just the idea of a relationship, but a relationship, warts and all. Yet I sabotage with the simple thoughts of my not being someone to date... A terrible cycle I know, but once in a while something comes along to break the cycle as it seems to have done for you in Donny. Bravo and congratulations. I am happy for you.

[S.P.]

People change, relationships change, sex changes... After two years with the Ms., we've "settled in" as well -- but having become both best friends and best lovers, there's immense satisfaction on both sides (albeit not quite the same urgency, admittedly) in knowing that either one of us can say "Spank/Fuck/Lick/Suck/Bite/Tieup" to the other and get an immediate smile and energetic, inventive response...
Having the ability/freedom to express your every erotic desire openly to your partner without hesitation is a rare and special thing... Use it or lose it, CG...

[Justin]

Wow. Just...wow. I've read your page while sitting through conference calls, hitting mute when I needed to laugh out loud or wince. But this post? This one just hit very close to home. My GF and I came together through a CL "Casual Encounters" ad that I had written when I had decided I could no longer deal with dating and/or the idea of being in love. (As if that was some sort of goal that I was supposed to be working towards.) That my kinky past, coupled with my dysfunctional upbringing had spawned something wildly popular, but wholly defective.

My ad was long and very descriptive; if you were going to fall in love and want more, don't reply. If you aren't in to a certain amount of BDSM, don't reply. If you can't swing, don't reply. On and on it went, and then the responses poured in...married women, disturbed women, hate mail, gay men...response after response of what I didn't want. And then, Melissa. 10 years younger, clearly brilliant.

The first year was a fuck-fest of flogging, threesomes, parties, bondage, and fun. More fun than I thought I could have. We met each other's friends and laughed at the blank faces. No one really got us. We barely got us. After all, she’s a socialist academic, born of two psychologists. I am a capitalist to the core who works as a VP for an IT firm. We had nothing in common except for a love of Bob Dylan, but it worked.

We pushed on, never fighting, always fucking. It was too simple to be so complex, and vice versa. We broke up, got back together, fell in love, hated each other for it, loved each other for it, and found ourselves stuck in a complete and total logjam. It's now been three years, and we admit freely and happily that we are in love. But we JUST. CAN'T. FUCK. We've tried talking about it...and I, like your Donnie, dismiss it as some sort of trick of the cosmic hand. Then another month would go by, and I would deny and she would ask again. We never fought about it, but we couldn't fix it either.

Just recently, I've admitted that I don't know how to fuck someone that I love so completely. And more recently, I've admitted it to her. To her credit, her response was "so we'll figure it out".

It was right about then I bought the ring that I am going to give her this weekend.

Thanks for being that little nudge that got me to stop hyperventilating every time I looked at her 2 ct "I love you and want to fuck you like a bad girl" ring.

[chelsea girl]

Thanks, you all, but especially Justin and Alan.

I had a suspicion that my experience was not singular, and it's reassuring to know that my analysis of the situation, as welll as my living of it, is true for me and others.

It's yet more reassuring to know that there are men like you who have met the problem and begun to solve it.

Thanks so much for commenting.

kissykiss,
chelsea girl

[Black Angel]

I came across your blog after Lolita made mention of it. I have read several of your blogs and they are all so well written and have great content within. Keep up the great work and I am looking forward to reading about more of your experiences.

[jill]

Did you write more about your two year sexless relationship? I'd like to read those posts..