German Riesling aerates better in an earthenware dog bowl, the minerality comes out a little more when it’s lapped from the floor, the tags clinking gently, rhythmically with each sip. And you learn to appreciate things more in small sips, or so was the timbre of the weekend. The Writer and The Photographer and I are deepening, us three, we have discovered throughout a weekend our paths can diverge and cross and loop around in endless sets of patterns. They are not The Couple, nor am I simply The Fuck, or The Sub. They know they’re more than their archetypes, and I, my writing.
We move past it all into beautiful spaces.
I was housesitting this week and made a point of getting fucked on all available, tenable surfaces. Sorry, but I’m not sorry. Confidential to the proprietors- you would have done it, too. You have a stunning, beautiful house. It deserves to feel my love in the space, like an actress alone. It was gorgeous, though, from the moment they arrived to the second we transitioned to the house and took care of the dog. I like when we are moving together in the house, when everything else is closed off and shut down and we are dancing in the kitchen, a tango in the bedroom, when the windows fog with our lovemaking and cooking and I feel lulled into comfort and pleasure betwixt my fingers and gently clutched between my teeth.
We eat risotto and make careful conversation. I am steeled and skeptical, as I can see them shooting glances to and fro and want to know what the secret is. The Writer asks me if I have ever had a drink thrown in my face, and I tell her that I have, regale them with hilarity, and, as I am securely seated in smug satisfaction, I fail to notice that The Photographer has her drink aloft until it is thrown atop me. I sputter, they grab me, and I am frogmarched down to the guest bedroom.
They shove me on the floor, and the lights click off. I’m alone with the shallow pulse of my heart and my fingers’ feeble grasp on the carpet, swivet running through my veins. When they come back, they buckle a dog collar around my neck, attached to a leash they carry together.
“Through the powers of magic, you are no longer human,” they say, “You are a dog, and you will perform tricks for us.”
My relationship with roleplaying is tepid at best. My own imagination often exceeds others, and the tired scenarios of sexy nurse and sexy patient, sexy robber and sexy victim, and sexy archaeologist and sexy dinosaur bones and/or underpaid graduate research assistant fail to captivate me. With these two, it is different. They are well-trained at improvisational banter and at times, I found myself wishing I was not the sole unspeaking participant as I would have loved to add my two cents.
That being said, they were adept at ensuring their dry interplay would be both entertaining and damning, as dogs who laugh and protest as humans do, no matter how swift they are at barking and fetching golden dildos on command, are subject to rigorous and invasive physical examination well into the dark of the night. I yelped as I came, I forced out barks I knew would come naturally, to my own chagrin.
I watched them seduce each other, I watched them meet and fall and care in the space of minutes, and it astounded me. They turned me back with magic and then, we went to sleep. My curiosity is as piqued and peaked as the pointy ears I cocked alongside my head.
With magic on my mind, I think back to how gleeful I was with them at my biweekly meeting with my therapist. He accuses me of being bored, that I’ll never be satisfied until I get settled into discomfort. And yes, things are different. The first days are the hardest days, as they say, even in the sixth month, the eighth month, but I am starting to ease in and get comfortable. This, though, interactions like this where I can get my hands dirty, this is deeply satisfying in light of things like jobs and school and bills, like time stops and I’m basking in the sun, like the first sip of a gin and tonic. If this is what it means to relax and change, I could do this for ages. It’s a simple declaration that doesn’t call for frippery. It is smooth and cool on my tongue: I like them.
It’s funny, four days of beauty and I could have gone for days after. The exhaustion only sets in when they are gone, and it’s like a switch has been flipped. I wander around the house in a lurch, raspberries plump and taut staining the whorls of my fingertips. I linger in the sun because I want to taste the last of my Spring Break on my tongue and soles of my warm, warm feet. I am spoiled, I am rotten, I am filmy with my own juices covering my face and swallowing it whole. But fuck, I’m so smug, so quenched, that I don’t even mind.
So now you know, I asked if you’d watched Shortbus, so you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that I cried and clenched then, at the moment I realized time hadn’t stopped and I wasn’t alone.