“I can’t talk to Lady M.” Special K is texting me about his dilemma.
“Oh?” I text back. “Why is that?”
“Because my girlfriend is dating my lover, so I can’t talk to either of them about the other, even though I generally talk to both of them to get their insights.”
Apparently, this is the problem with being possibly-bi, and dating your boyfriend’s lover…
I can’t tell if I feel incredibly modern, or deeply confused. I’m opting to merge the two into “incredibly deep,” and “modernly confused.”
Lady M had kissed me at her birthday party as Special K and I had left. After over a year of not drinking, I had had three glasses of white wine, in a row, and proceeded to suck K’s face nearly off of his head. The poor dear may be disfigured for life.
“Did that…? Did she…?” I stuttered, like a bad scene from a film.
“It did. She did. I think she’s interested in you,” K says, while walking me out. I decide, as I do, to take control of the situation, so I ask Lady M out on a date. Because, why the hell not.
“So…. are you bi now, or something?” My friend texts me after the date, in which nothing happened other than me shoving Lady M up against a concrete wall on a drizzly evening for a quick kiss. The truth is, I’ve never thought much about my sexuality. It’s there. I’m attracted to people whom I find attractive. Some of these people are conventionally attractive, many are not. Some are men, but a few have been women, and some have even eschewed the gender-binary structure, altogether. I try to find a witty and insightful way to sum all of this up for my friend in New York.
“Meh,” was about the best I can do, because apparently my brain hit a heretofore unknown word limit.
I’m mostly-straight, certainly kinky, not overly interested in how my lover(s) sees him- or herself, but I find random things unattractive and off-putting. Is there a title for that? That’s my sexuality, I suppose.
“So, who do I talk to now, about my girlfriend and my lover?!” Special K is making a big show of his predicament, in an attempt to make me smile. Foolish sub; the heart of a Domme is made of ice and the tears of little subs like you…
DAMMIT! He’s good…
“Hard for you to talk to anyone, once I get that ball-gag in your mouth, isn’t it?!” I type back.
“Touché,” he says. Or something else cute. I can’t read his texts; I’m thinking about him, struggling, his pretty mouth stretched around a black rubber ball.
Mmmmm…. sorry, what was I saying??