Several friends of mine have asked whether or not getting involved with MM is going to result in hurt feelings.

My answer? Probably.

Since our encounter last week, MM and I have been emailing and chatting frequently. He's a bit taken with me, and I can't say that I mind the attention. MM has been telling me some of the little things that he can't stop thinking about: the five little freckles that spell an M on my cheek; my soft skin; the dimple in between my mouth and chin; my "achingly perfect back." The attention has been positively intoxicating.

To my surprise, the other day MM proposed a sleepover. The question of how a married man could swing an overnight aside, I was surprised to find myself saying yes. It takes quite a bit of trust and affection for me to want to sleep next to and then wake up to someone, so choosing to build that trust and affection with MM feels like a bit of a dangerous proposition.

I'm headed down a path of multiple and somewhat unknown consequences. On the one hand, I have been given the opportunity to learn more about my ever-evolving sexuality. On the other, if I end up developing more feelings for MM than I intended, I am likely signing up for hurt and disappointment by seeing someone who is ultimately unavailable to me.

Saying yes to being vulnerable is never without risk. And I've decided that whether or not my affair with MM will end up in hurt can't be the measure with which I base my actions, but rather, will the hurt be worth it if I come out of it with new experiences and a renewed understanding about who am and what I want?

I am saying yes to all of it - the hurt, the pleasure, the ambivalence, and the rest of the inevitable unknown.

Last Night

One too many drinks in a dark, divey bar. Intense flirting over passionate debates about food. MM's hand sliding up the side of my thigh under the table. And then again, in the cab. A "we don't even pretend to be what we're not" pay-by-the-hour hotel room on the West side with its mirrored ceilings, black light, and lip-shaped headboard. MM tracing the curve of my hip from behind, pressing his body into my arching back. Clothes in a pile on the floor. Touching everywhere. MM telling me how incredibly sexy I am over and over and over again. Needy and passionate kissing that turns into sweaty, frantic fucking. Fucking that bangs my head into the headboard and that elicits cursing and moans, in equal measure. His climax on my face, mouth, and hands. Giggling and touching post-orgasm, reflecting on the impulsive recklessness of the evening. Hopping into separate cabs and immediately emailing each other to say thank you and wow. Collapsing into bed and getting myself off before falling asleep with a smile. Waking up and wanting to do it all over again.

I have taken up with a Married Man. MM is not married in a polyamorous open marriage sort of way, but rather in an I'm-married-and-my-wife-doesn't-know-about-this sense.

To be completely truthful, "taken up" is a bit too premature a declaration, given that we have not (yet) gotten naked. But I believe that it is imminent.

I know. I know. Don't you worry; I am judging me too.

Have you ever been in such a state of mind where your once orderly life begins oozing through the cracks, and the ground below you feels tenuous at best? And as a way of coping, I suppose, you watch yourself do all sorts of questionable things from a studied distance? That is where I'm at right now. I feel myself unraveling at the seams and externalizing the messiness I feel inside. In short, I want to get in trouble.

I know that sooner or later, I will likely get hurt cavorting with MM. I know that I could find healthier ways of working through my fears and uncertainty about my own future than throwing my energy into a reckless, passionate affair. I know that although I question the transitive property of his marital transgressions on my personal culpability, it feels somewhat unsettling to be a participant in some woman's deception.

MM is a bit of a unicorn. Smart, successful, incredibly handsome, and from what I can gather, likely a passionate and generous lover. He kind of pushes all of my buttons. He is also unavailable (obvs), a bit arrogant in the ways that smart and attractive people often are, and perhaps a bit too cavalier with the emotions of the women (yes, plural) with who he cavorts.

For all of those reasons, good and bad, I find myself hopelessly drawn to MM. He is dangerous enough to provide me with a thrill, a distraction, and a heaping dose of self-destruction, but also not so dangerous that his presence in my life would throw me completely off the rails. I suppose it's hard not to sound fatalistic about all of this, but I think there is something to said about choosing from the lesser of several evils. Would it be ideal if I could work through stress with all the nice girl-approved techniques of anxiety quelling like crying, yoga, long baths, and curling up with a good book? Sure, but that shit is not helping me right now. My other dysfunctional coping strategies - shopping and food - come with their own set of self-destructive properties, and I am choosing to lose myself in the rollercoaster of a new affair rather than in the depths of a bowl of food or through the satisfying swipe of my well-used credit card.

Ay, what a shit show I am right now. At least I give good reads.

The Tourist

It seems that the time for my annual cis-boy romp has come, and inevitably when this time of year comes around, I'm asked by a suitor what the deal is with my sexuality - why I'll fuck cis boys but not date them. And why, even though I have fun fucking them, I don't identify as bisexual.

Forgive me the extended analogy, but it's like this.

I am a New Yorker. I have a lot invested in being a New Yorker: my job is here; my apartment is here; and my friends and community are here. I love being here and don't plan on leaving anytime soon. Yet, I also go on vacation to the Caribbean at least once a year. And when I'm there, I fucking love it. I lay on the beach, drink the tropical drinks, swim in the lovely waters, and sightsee around the island. But when I'm there, I'm a tourist. I don't live there, nor do I want to. As much fun as I have while I'm in the Caribbean, I just couldn't see myself living there long-term. And of course, enjoying the Caribbean while I'm there once or twice a year doesn't make me half Caribbean or a non-New Yorker.

There are many people who are such die-hard New Yorkers that they won't leave the boroughs. Hell, some of them won't even leave Manhattan! But me, I like to venture outside of New York from time to time. Sometimes it's because being here for really long stretches of time makes me feel like I'm kind of trapped on a really small island. Sometimes it's because I need to luxuriate in the sensation of a cold piña colada in my hand and the feeling of warm sand between my toes. And sometimes it's because I want to experience something different, even if only to remind me at the end of the trip why I love New York like I do.

It happens every time I have high levels of prolonged anxiety in my life; I am fixating on someone I could never have, and moreover, who even passively rejected me by dropping off the face of the earth about a year ago. Unfortunately for me, this person suddenly re-appeared by accident and now I am thinking obsessively about all the fruit I can't have from a tree that I can't even get to.

I tried to stop this in its tracks by writing a "you wronged me email," but I'm still obsessing, so instead I'm writing here with the hopes that I can make the Want go away.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

A Night of Cabiria

I don't know that I've ever over-identified with a film character before, but after watching this film, I'm feeling pretty heartbroken.

Short plot summary (spoiler alert!): Cabiria is an aging sex worker who constantly feels out of place and like she doesn't belong in polite society. She has built a stable, financially independent life for herself and because so many men have fucked her over, tries to be all tough and shit by putting up a cranky hot-headed exterior. She then meets a man who she doesn't trust at first, but who she eventually believes is the love of her life after he courts her hard. In the end, he fucks her over big time by taking all her money and leaving her.

When I type it out like that, it sounds really cheesy, but it's a really moving film. As y'all can tell, I've been feeling a bit doom and gloom of late. Cabiria's resigned sense that she's damaged goods who has all but given up on finding love kind of hit me hard. During the film, I thought about my relationship with The Bad Ex who never wanted to hear about my sex working past, and who eventually used it against me during our first big fight, calling me a slut and a whore and everything else she could think of to bring me down.

Years later, that sense of shame sometimes finds me, as does the suspicion that there's something wrong with me that I haven't found love yet at 30, and that moreover, there's no guarantee that it will come. Cabiria reminded me of that feeling of waiting for the shoe to drop every time I find someone wonderful who seems too good to be true, because they are. I also thought about my fundamentally broken picker that leads me to looking for fruit on tree branches that are just out of my reach.

During the final scene of the film, Cabiria smiles through her tears as she walks the long road home. I am also trying to grin and bear it during this uncomfortable transition into the next step in my life, and like Cabiria, I don't quite know what lies ahead.

Well...Scandal arrived, and Scandal was less than fulfilling.

Scandal was a bad kisser, a boring conversationalist, and wanted me to do strange porny things with my tongue. Scandal also bossed me around in a way that made me roll my eyes. Scandal didn't get me off, mostly because I stopped caring about the sex about halfway through it. Scandal slapped me real good, though - just the way I like.

Better luck next time, Lusty! 

There's nothing quite like Being Wanted. More than any drug or alcohol or heavenly food has ever done, the high that follows an intensely focused need for me, my body, and my hands, is fucking intoxicating.

For a girl with a long storied past with an easily shattered self-esteem, I guess it makes some sort of sense. I sometimes hear people write and talk about amazing sex as an experience that empties the mind. But I feel like some of the best sex I've ever had have is when I'm able to leave my body and feed my brain on a richly complex feedback loop of reading them read me, watching my actions register in the nasty part of my lover's reptile brain, watching their verbal and physical reactions to me, and then mirroring back their desire. It's pure fucking unadulterated self-indulgence for a lifelong close reader of people.

Tomorrow, I have a date. And I want me some of that.