Right Time


Wrong block.

Story of my life.

But it’s a funny story and there is no sad ending.

Just a lot of wry amusement on my end.

And a few hickies.

Yah.

I know.

I’m 42.

Or fifteen.

Guess who wore her hair down at work.

I can’t even imagine the conversation that would have been with the five-year old.

“Carmen, WHAT’S THAT ON YOUR NECK?!!”

“Hickies.”

“What are hickies?”

Cue not getting a raise, which I still have to ask for, yeah, just waiting until the very last-minute, like when I have a year on the 22nd on the nose; cue probably not coming back to work.

Nothing says professional like hickies.

But.

I will admit, they did bring a smile to my face a few times and perhaps a giggle or two of dramatic exasperation, but really, hickies, it’s fun to say it.

Better than dildo.

Who likes saying that word?

Not that any of my collection, a small collection, please, get your mind out of the gutter (like I can even tell you that, here I am writing about sex toys, yeesh.) were brought into play last night.

But.

There was playing.

“What did you guys do?”  My friend asked me after tossing my bike in the back of the car.

It is nice to have friends in the neighborhood!

I got a ping saying he was heading into the Mission and did I want a ride, or was my guest still there, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

It’s like I’m 13 not 42.

“Go?” I asked.

I actually did not understand the question.

“My bed?”

As my friend was saying, “you know, on your date? Where did you go?”

I repeated, “my bed.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, oh.” I laughed.

We didn’t go out at all.

Although my “date” asked me to meet him outside at 9p.m. sharp to look up at the silver sliver of a buttery biscuit of a moon in the sky.

Except.

When I went out, he wasn’t there.

He was on the wrong block.

Oops.

But he figured it out.

And there was a lovely reunion of hugs on the sidewalk in front of my house a few minutes later.

“Listen, I just want to make something really clear,” he said looking at me with mossy green eyes after we had gotten comfortable on our “date.”

Uh oh.

I know this conversation.

I know this song and dance.

And yet here I am again having the conversation.

I like you, but.

I want to spend time with you, but.

I don’t have much time, but.

I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but.

But, but, but.

Sweet heart.

I know.

I knew the minute you told me what your circumstances were.

A pattern of being delicious to men who are not entirely available seems to be resurfacing and I acknowledge it and say, hello, I raise you five bits, because, I’m going to keep trying and I am going to keep having experiences, and one day.

Maybe one day sooner than later.

I will be with someone who wants me and is after me and goes for it despite or because of his circumstances.

“You are not responsible for my feelings,” I told my paramour.

No labels.

There are no labels.

When there’s a handsome naked man in my bed who I’m not dating or in a relationship with, in the conventional sense, since he’s not exactly available in the conventional sense, what do I call said person?

I am speaking lightly, perhaps glibly, but I am also finding my way with my words.

The experience at Burning Man was amazing, intense, awesome, and fun.

There was intimacy on the playa and there was intimacy last night.

There was much looking into the other persons eyes.

“I wasn’t going to say this, but i can’t help myself,” he paused and looked into my eyes as I was lying against him.

“You get more beautiful the more I look at you,” he stroked my hair and kissed me, “it’s like I can see what’s behind your eyes.”

Ah.

Nicest compliment ever.

Now fuck me like a man.

I jest.

Sort of.

Thing is I knew, I know, I am possessed of the knowledge, that yes, the connection is special, but also that it is a complicated situation and I have the very simple part of the equation, my busy is nowhere near as busy as his busy and I’m busy.

“I’m not going to be around much the next six weeks,” he told me last night.

“I’m ok with that,” I said.

I’m not chasing, I am being the ball, you want me, court me, come after me.

I’m busy too.

Graduate school.

Life.

Doing the deal.

Work.

Fuck.

Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, is my first “day off” in five weeks.

It’s been a busy ass time for me.

The school retreat, working out-of-town in Sonoma for my employers, Burning Man, working, starting school last weekend, working all this week.

I’m busy.

Do I want to be dating someone exclusively?

Yes.

Do I want to be in a romantic relationship?

Yes.

Do I allow myself to play when the time is right, do I let myself have a break from the tedium and stress of work and the grind of school, why the hell not?

“Girl!” A friend of mine said last Monday when I expressed the situation, how I met the guy at Burning Man, that we were going to see each other this week, that I didn’t have expectations, that I don’t have time for expectations.  “This is perfect for you, you don’t have time to pursue a real relationship right now, go have fun, blow off some steam, get it.”

It got got.

Thing is.

I don’t have to figure anything out.

I can just show up as my best self, in my best way, with my honesty written all over my face.

“I have never met anyone like you,” he said with a catch of wonder and awe in his voice, “you’re so transparent, you can’t hide your feelings, they are just all over your face.”

I was a little abashed, but not much, I know this about myself and have accepted it.

And I know this too.

I have an affect.

He has feelings.

He just has nowhere to go with them and I don’t have to wait for him to find a place either.

I am a free agent.

Not that I have anything big planned for this Friday night.

A cup of tea.

A video.

Catching up on my sleep.

There wasn’t much sleep last night.

Heh.

But there were hickies.

Ah.

Hahahaha.

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