The “smooshed boobs club.”
She giggled a little and gave me a pink ribbon pin on my way back out to the dressing room.
She also said.
I don’t believe she was responding to my sideways mashed breast, rather, the tattoo on my arm was drawing her attention.
“You’re doing really well, so much better than some, so good for your first time.”
“Hold still, hold your breath, ok, and……”
This conversation could have been much more uncomfortable, but I am just that, comfortable in my body.
I remember going into to the same room, the same dressing area, with the same grey back drop at Kaiser Geary years and years ago with a friend who needed moral support.
It wasn’t so bad.
Her hands were not the hands that I wanted to be man handling my breasts, but at least it was not painful. I rather thought that it might be.
It was certainly uncomfortable to be half-naked in front of a stranger, but I have taken showers in the communal shower trailers (although not nearly as many as I thought I would this past burn) at Burning Man for the staff, that stripping down wasn’t such a difficult thing.
I did not feel vulnerable or scared or uncomfortable.
I felt all those things last night.
Counterpoint with the absolute thrill of being with a person I really like making out while the stars exploded over our heads.
“There’s the moon,” I said pointing it out in the sky, a bit facetiously, trying to make light conversation, trying to not wear my ragged little heart on my sleeve, trying to be funny in my own way.
Then the fireworks.
The Giants won the World Series last night.
Not that I am really all that big a fan of the sportsball thing, in any of its various manifestations, I’m not even a fair weather friend.
I think I have been too traumatized by too many sports teams and the inevitable fall out of drunken revellers.
Whether I was drunk or not.
Most of the time when a large sporting event was happening that was a big deal, I was working.
I was working last night and then I went to do the deal.
“I don’t know why he cancelled,” the text read, “would you be able to fill in?”
I wasn’t even thinking that it was game seven of the series.
I was just thinking, when you’re asked, you say yes.
So I did.
And I am grateful for it because it gave me something to fixate on rather than the text I received about being in my neighborhood and would it be alright to drop by and say hello.
“If sex is very troublesome, we throw ourselves the harder into helping others.”
Good Lord, let me help some others.
So I can stop thinking about what I am going to wear, do I have enough time to get home and shower and what am I going to wear, oh, did I already say that?
What the fuck am I going to wear?
I think I could have answered the door in a gunny sack, but I do believe that effort means something.
When a person is meaningful, I want to reflect that and show up for it.
I mean, I won’t lie, I debated taking the shower and getting back into regular civilian clothes, not that any of my clothes are all that civilian–tomorrow is Halloween and I didn’t go out and buy a costume, my costume is from my regular wardrobe, just slightly rearranged into a conceptualized idea.
Then I thought, that’s stupid, you’re just getting home from work, you’ve had an adrenaline inducing ride through the wilds of San Francisco and its drunken environs, put on your pajamas.
But I couldn’t bring myself to pull on my yoga pants and my Hello Kitty nightshirt.
I compromised, but on a dress that looks like a sexy night slip and slipped into a sweatshirt that is a tiny bit fancier than my Bicycle Coalition hoodie.
I didn’t wear makeup, but my color was so high from the ride home that I doubt it was necessary, and something about being freshly showered feels glowy and pretty.
And there were fireworks.
Of course they were commemorating the World Series win, but I could extrapolate that to my situation.
I felt like fireworks.
Let me reassure you.
I suppose it’s me.
I so want to get carried away, swept away, take me away, ravish me, have me.
There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to rush to.
It’s been awhile since I have felt like going it slower.
This, this speed I am at, is still above average, I do have a lead foot, I do like exhilaration, I am not good at reigning in passion about anything, let alone being alone with a handsome and sexy and delicious man.
Gotta get right with God, and there is no judgement here, no trying to wrangle it or snag something, it’s a building up, is what it feels like.
A slow steady burn rather than a flash of light and heat and fire and the embers faint and fading as they fall into the sea.
The fireworks were dreamy and I felt my body shake today, flashes of color and heat on the inside of my eyes and I was swept back up in the feeling of passion that was there.
As well as the excitement of knowing I will get to see him again.
It’s Halloween and I have a date to the dance.
I mean that literally.
I have a date to the dance.
It does feel like high school, I feel like high school, nervous, giggly, then ravaged with hormones (just because I was welcomed into the smooshed boobs club does not mean that I don’t still have a surfeit of hormones), giddy.
And I am going to run with that feeling as long as I can.
Unlike high school, though, or college or last year, I suppose, I haven’t capitulated on waiting a little, slowing it down, it could have happened the first night I met him.
That whoosh of feeling and magnetism.
I could have stripped down and done a little dance of lust in the basement.
There is something to that bonfire of passion, but I don’t want it to burn out.
I want to bank it and feed it and build it up.
I think it’s only going to get better.