Wednesday night, I was seven different types of id on display. I know this is hard to believe from a blogger, but most of the time I hold quite a bit in. I don't speak my mind half as often as I'd like, and that's probably in everyone's best interest (particularly mine; see musician uproar).
But the other night at Daddy O, I was at ease among good friends, so I was telling stories that were, as TK puts it, surprisingly frank. I think that the comfort level, not the martinis, was how we got to talking about morning sex. Oh, and the fact that I was sort of trying to seduce Bachelor #2, or maybe just mess with him a little bit.
Back when I was first dating the cokehead alcoholic, he lived on the Lower East Side, in a nicely renovated apartment with a bedroom that flooded with morning light. My bedroom on the Upper East Side looked out onto an air shaft, and never got any natural light at any time.
Unaccustomed as I was to daylight, I was awake at the crack of dawn whenever I slept over his place. Accustomed as he was to the conditions of his own apartment, and usually sleep-deprived from the activities of the night before, he was most definitely not awake.
Oh, how I tried to be good.
I would cover my head with the blankets. I would look for something to read. I would repeat sleep-inducing mantras in my head.
But when I'm awake that early and next to the boy, there's only one way I'm going back to sleep, and that's post-coitally.
I'd start with the foot. I'd wrap my foot around his ankle, while still trying to keep my body away from his. I was turned away, but the foot would reach back. Slowly I'd creep back over to his side of the bed, trying very hard to be good, and failing miserably, until finally he'd say, without opening his eyes, and having given no indication of when he'd woken up, "You're not going back to sleep anytime soon, are you?"
Then he'd jump me.
Then we'd both call in sick to work (if it was a weekday), we'd have some breakfast, watch some cartoons, fool around some more, and eventually have a nap.
This one morning, though, when he woke up, he reached under the bed and handed me a wrapped box. In it was a strap-on, complete with harness.
I was lying in bed, in his t-shirt and soccer shorts, and I strapped it on right over the shorts. But I'd put it on facing upside-down, so I had to check his to see which way it goes. Then I turned mine around so it was right-side up. Then I was prancing around the apartment with this thing over my shorts. He just watched me and laughed a bit.
Finally I got back in bed. I lay there, flicking at it,
and giggling. And he said, "See, that's why I gave it to you. Because I knew you just wanted one of your own to play with."
I know I totally forgot about him in the last post, and then what I appended wasn't too flattering. So let me say once, for the record -- I will always love him. When I see someone who looks like him on the subway, my heart still skips a beat. But I wish it didn't. It's more than the drinking, and the (probably continuing) drug use. We have different expectations from life, and I always felt like I was holding myself back by staying with him.
But he made me laugh, he gave me some drama to keep it interesting, and believe it or not, I was happy.