The blonde was driving through the rural desert countryside, toward Reno, when her phone rang. She already had her headphones in, and she tapped the “answer” button, recognizing the number of the brunette.
“Hello again,” the blonde smiled.
The brunette returned the greeting, and loved how comfortable she felt, starting this, their second conversation — so different than how she felt when she initiated the first conversation. She realized how much intimacy they’d already built up together.
“I was about to go have a conversation with my husband but really I’d like to base it on our letter. I told him I’d like to send him an email and then be there while he read it, and if he’d have time for that about fifteen minutes from now. He said he did. Problem is, I don’t have a copy of the letter. Would you please email it to me? My email address is …”
“Give me a minute, first,” the blonde asked, and pulled over to the side of the road. Her smart phone enabled her to connect to her business network, so she attached the document to a new email window, and prompted the brunette for her email address. She clicked and typed for a few seconds, and thereby sent the document via email.
The brunette’s phone notified her of the incoming email. She saw there was an attached document, and she verified that it was the correct one. She thanked the blonde, who replied with “I love how empowering technology can be.” The brunette had a less glowing feeling about technology, and said so. “I look forward to teaching you what you need to know, so that you feel empowered too,” the blonde smiled. The brunette was about to say something dismissive and witty, disparaging her ability to ever understand technology.
Then, she reminded herself how humor can destroy intimacy. She instead seriously pondered what the blonde had offered. It would indeed be wonderful to feel in charge of the technology at her disposal. And, with the blonde teaching her, it was by no means out of the question that she would learn, and learn well. She was aghast at how she’d become accustomed to saying disparaging and dismissive things about herself. She was pensive for another few seconds, and then she quietly thanked the blonde.
“That seemed to require a lot of thinking,” the blonde gently observed.
“It did. I look forward to explaining it, later. Right now, I’m in a time crunch. Do I simply forward this to my husband?” she asked.
“That’s an option, but then he’ll have my direct email address. I’m not dead set against it, but make sure that this is what you want.”
“Perhaps this isn’t the best time for that. Explain to me how to forward the document in another way, please?”
The blonde guided the brunette, and she was ready to send the email, but the letter had been written on the premise that the brunette had decided to throw in her lot with the blonde in a dramatic and life-changing way for which the letter was a proper announcement. Both girls were clear that many questions and concerns remained to be addressed before the tipping point would be reached – assuming it would ever be reached. Even so, neither girl wanted the brunette’s husband to have an incomplete and inaccurate picture of the situation, so the blonde and brunette together crafted some highly polished wording as a preface in the email. They hoped that it would accurately clarify the context.
With that work completed, the brunette sent off the email, and almost in unison, the girls each said, “I should go.” They smiled and bade each other good-bye. The blonde continued toward Reno airport, and the brunette walked to her husband’s study, then walked over to his desk and stood near him, as he slowly read the emailed document.
They discussed it. He asked many questions. She thought about each one carefully, and the more complex ones, she wrote down and explained she intended to get back to him with a well-pondered reply.
It perplexed him that the announcement was so conditional, and that perhaps none of this might ever go beyond the status quo. What the two girls had currently, as in: an intense intellectual and emotional intimacy, most of which had until that day been based on conjecture and reading between the lines – it all seemed so lightweight and so inconsequential to him. He said so.
The brunette conceded that maybe it would all fizzle out when they met in person, or maybe it would end up being a fling, maybe an affair, maybe a mid-life crisis, or maybe the most serious dynamic of her entire life. She didn’t know which of these was most likely.
Her husband mused that, typically, when a guy has a mid-life crisis then he ends up driving some or other flashy exotic-yet-practical car such as an Audi, and he has a busty blonde former model as his arm candy and in his bed. So, he was curious as to what form the brunette’s mid-life crisis would take.
She found his observation so ironic that she looked away, trying to not laugh out loud as to how accurately he’d just described what her future might soon be like. Then, she remembered that she would no longer suppress her emotions. He’d said something that she considered funny. She was going to just indulge in however she felt. She felt like laughing and so she was going to simply give in. She was barely able to utter, “That’s really funny” and then she burst out laughing, laughing in release of tension, laughing at how ironic the events of today were. She laughed for a long time, in a way that seemed to include him benevolently as opposed to shutting him out or laughing at him or at his expense.
He noticed that her mirth far exceeded how witty he’d thought his comment was, and he looked at her quizzically. She decided to be open with him and explained that he’d just described the other girl, and that she owned multiple Audis, and would be making one available to the brunette to drive if she moved in with the blonde, and that she found it all very ironic. Her husband had been spending the last half hour browsing social media and he hadn’t found any likely candidate that the brunette had openly been chatting with, or friended or followed, but there was a blonde who had been focused on the brunette and so perhaps this was the girl arriving at the airport that evening. He clicked a few buttons, and a picture appeared. He pointed questioningly, and the brunette took a deep breath and said “yes.” She felt oddly proud upon saying that.
He pointed out how peculiar it was that she’d consider the dynamic with the blonde to be that she was having an affair when their only connection was intellectual and emotional, and that they hadn’t directly interacted before that day, and that they’d never met in person but would meet each other for the first time that evening, when the brunette would pick up the blonde at the airport. He had considered his wife’s thinking to be unusual, but this was surprising even to him – in several respects, including how calm she was, and how precisely she phrased things. As such, he could see the blonde’s influence in the demeanor of the brunette. He said so. She smiled simply and happily.
He studied her. He realized that it was far too late to object on a meaningful basis. Whatever she would decide to do, she would do. She seemed to personify the concept of “irresistible force” as to this subject even though what she was doing, and planning to do, was outrageous by typical standards.
He slowly nodded and shrugged. So did she, in turn. There seemed to be an odd sort of benevolence in their interaction. “I plan to keep you apprised of developments, at a high level,” she said gently. She smiled, nodded again, and left the room.
He sat at his desk, thinking about his life. He was tempted to read some more about the blonde, but he realized that it felt like the duty of unfinished business. Really, that was all pointless now. He closed the relevant window on his screen, and sat back, pondering his past, his present and his future.
* * *
The brunette called the blonde. “I am SO glad we wrote this letter,” she said as soon as the blonde picked up.
The brunette did.
“Good girl,” the blonde said. “This could have been very messy and you handled it very well.”
The brunette was yet again about to say something dismissive and witty, but then she caught herself. She instead pondered the blonde’s point. This indeed had been a crucially important conversation – and indeed, she had handled it well. It deserved to be recognized, even celebrated. She realized how her dismissive quip would have deprived her of her well-deserved recognition.
“Yes, I did,” the brunette mused. “All three of us did. I’d have expected this sort of situation to be disastrous but somehow it seems to be working out for the best.”
“I mean, we’re managing them so that they are working out for the best.”
“I can agree with that,” the blonde smiled.
“It’s vastly important to me that the you-and-I dynamic ends up with us living in blissful harmony ever after, but even if we don’t, I feel so empowered by what I’ve learned, and what I’ve done.”
“I’m glad. So far, so good,” the blonde smiled, and then gently pointed out: “I expect us to have deep intimacy, but that doesn’t equate to blissful harmony. We’ll be open with each other but sometimes we’ll strongly disagree on some issues, perhaps vitally important ones. I expect we’ll have primally candid conversations in which we try to resolve our disagreements or find ways to make things work in spite of them. Those conversations are likely to offer the benefits of the sort of primal candor that you’ve been craving, but they won’t all be easy or pleasant. Bottom line, intimacy will help us work toward harmony, but – it will be hard work.”
“I didn’t think of it like that. Now I feel foolish and naïve.”
There was a pause.
“Aren’t you going to tell me not to feel foolish or naïve, or to argue with the conclusions that most likely have me feeling this way?” asked the brunette, a smile in her voice.
“You get to feel however you feel. As to possible causes, I’m happy to help but it’s best if you figure that out for yourself,” the blonde smiled. The brunette laughed.
“Right now, it seems like there isn’t anything we won’t be able to work through. Our conversations seem to have a sense of allegiance and benevolence — as in, we are on the same basic side, even if we disagree. Regardless of the particulars we discuss, the foundation of our dynamic feels so solid already. The tacit premise is that we’re making the basis of our relationship ever better with each such conversation.”
“I agree, and we’ll establish some ground rules before we need them. Here are some examples of what I intend to include: we have the most-unpleasant conversations only in person, not via text or email or phone. Also, we say what we feel, as opposed to conveying that nonverbally, such as: if I feel tempted to roll my eyes when you say something that I intensely dislike, then I’ll resist that temptation and I’ll instead candidly verbalize my disagreement. Also, we don’t ever say something combative and then walk away. After saying something intense, we stand there and await the response, ready to continue the dialog, however difficult.”
“Wow, this gets complicated.”
“It does, but it’s well worth it.”
“I didn’t think I’d like that you’ve been in so many relationships but I can see one benefit: you seem to have refined how to interact with whomever you’re in a romantic dynamic.”
“I have indeed. I have made a great many mistakes, and learned how to avoid repeating some of them quite so badly,” the blonde smiled. Then: “I’m just turning onto Highway 80 now. You’re on speakerphone but even so; give me half a minute so I can concentrate … okay.”
* * *
The blonde continued: “I recall there was a conceptual hurdle for you as to sexual intimacy, so we might benefit from discussing that. As to emotional intimacy, we resolved your concerns well, didn’t we?”
“Amazingly so, yes,” beamed the brunette.
“As to sexual intimacy, I have a guess as to what your concerns might be. These are probably awkward subjects for you. If I bring them up, it might be easier for you — so would you like me to lead the way again?”
“Okay. You are generally most candid when you write about how you feel, and what you have written has enabled me to understand you much better than if I just had to observe you or go with things you said in a context where ‘keep it light’ was the basic theme.”
“I’d agree with that.”
“In your early 30s, you wrote about your assessment of your own aesthetics. It’s fair to say they were less complementary than my opinion of them would have been at the time.”
“I think I know what piece you’re referring to. And, also, you’re indeed zooming in on a point central to my concern, as to sexual intimacy.”
“By now, the passage of time has probably not improved your evaluation of your aesthetics.“
“As I recall, you felt less-than-pretty right before driving somewhere to meet a guy for your first date with him.”
“Ironically, last week I was driving to meet a guy for a first date with him. I’m mostly focused on girls and I can’t fall in love with a guy or get butterflies in my tummy about a guy, but guys nevertheless have a place somewhere in my hierarchy of values. To whoever wants to meet me, I make it clear how my brain is wired to like girls, and typically the guy wants to meet me even so. Most such dates end up being asexual but then the guy and I become acquaintances and might be mutually useful, and perhaps might one day become friends.”
“I understand,” the brunette prompted her.
The blonde continued: “While driving there, I had an attack of self-doubt as to my looks. It was probably safe to say that I wasn’t hideous by typical standards but it took every bit of self-control I had to keep my car pointed in the right direction and not turn around and call him to say that I had changed my mind at ultra-short notice. I just felt overwhelmingly unattractive, and even that, I’m phrasing mildly. I later took some pictures of how I looked, that same evening. In retrospect, I now think I looked okay. I posted one of them online and got some compliments so I seem to not be the only person who thinks so.”
The brunette was quiet, processing all this. Then, she said: “Your mind is what makes you the most attractive to me, but you would not get a failing grade as to aesthetics, in my book. I’m surprised you felt that way. You come across as very confident, including as to how you look.” She was quiet as she thought about things some more. “I can see where you’re going with this,” she said.
“Even though, by typical standards I probably looked good enough, I just felt excruciatingly hideous and it killed off any enthusiasm I had for the social event ahead. I didn’t want to be seen at all by anyone. Ironically, the date might have included some sexually themed festivities, and I initially looked forward to that, but then how I felt about my looks reduced my enthusiasm for anything sexual to vastly below zero.”
“Evidently, you understand one of my concerns as to sexual intimacy,” the brunette said.
“I’m often showered in compliments as to how I look, and they go in one ear and out the other. I suppose it’s nice that people think I look good but if someone is commenting on a picture that was taken when I was in my 20s, and tells me I’m lovely, that’s not relevant to how I feel today. Even if they are current, the pictures on which people comment tend to be how I look when I have — or a professional make-up artist has — put make-up on me, and then I look much better than I’d look up close and personal.”
“I understand,” the blonde said, gently.
“That’s part of why I’m so wary. I love the idea of sexual intensity as much as the next girl but I have a confidence problem, exacerbated by the fear that whomever I meet will expect me to look like I did, when I was at my aesthetic prime, and/or wearing professional-grade make-up, whereas instead now I look … well … not like that. This, incidentally, also very much describes part of my concerns about meeting you. I can’t imagine that I would, in person, inspire sexual intensity. Perhaps I would, perhaps I do look good enough, but to say that I don’t feel pretty enough – that would be an understatement.”
The blonde empathized, as to how unpleasant a feeling that was.
The brunette continued: “So, I’m trying to approach the you-and-I dynamic with realism, so that I don’t get my hopes up only to be smashed down. I expect that the only intimacy between us would be intellectual and emotional intimacy. If we categorically dispense with sexual intimacy that would solve the problem. I’d still be with someone so like-minded and who understands me so well, and with whom I can be so primally candid, that I’d still be delighted. “
The blonde saw some problems in the reasoning but she planned to bring them up later. For the time being, she kept quiet and let the brunette continue: “Ironically, without sexual intimacy, the you-and-I dynamic might be socially a lot more acceptable. People would see it simply as a quirky friendship when really it’d nevertheless be so much more. Sexual intimacy, or sexual dynamics even without intimacy – that’s what typical people would fixate on.”
The blonde smiled, and the brunette continued: “Part of me wants to vanish and start a new life but I’m not confident enough to just wake up and do it, one fine day. I’d need impetus. Choosing something that I value more than the social disgrace that it would bring – that would be impetus. For example, if I’d be half of a hot lesbian couple who have wild and wonderful sexual intimacy — I would value that more than the social disgrace that it would bring. Problem is, I’d never be half of a hot lesbian couple because by now it’s too late for me to be hot. I hate it, but honestly, that’s how I feel.”
“I understand …”
“You must be the only person I’ve mentioned this to, in a very long time, who hasn’t then argued with me, dismissing my concerns, and telling me that I look gorgeous and that I’m ridiculous for feeling concerns about my aesthetics.”
“I understand that what matters is how you feel. …”
“Exactly. After those so-called reassurances, I just feel worse yet.”
“Ironic,” the blonde said, sympathizing.
“Initially I hated the idea of you being polyamorous but by now it’s a relief to me. I know I wouldn’t have to worry that lack of sexual intimacy with me would mean a complete lack of sexual intimacy for you in general, with me then being concerned that you would miss out as such, and then it might be like a pressure cooker that can’t release steam and eventually blows up, ending the relationship. You seem so sexually intense that I wouldn’t want to deprive you of that, or expect you to do so for my intended benefit. It’s also tremendously reassuring for me to know that if you meet someone new and gorgeous then she wouldn’t replace me in your life; that you have room for me in your life regardless of whatever else happens. I know it’s impossible for you to promise ‘forever’ but if I end up being with you, my hope is that the time frame would be indefinite. If I felt I had to be the hottest or most interesting girl in your life so as to keep your interest, it’d be vastly intimidating for me, and I wouldn’t even want to try.”
“That’s very logical of you.”
“For example, if you‘ve just found out that some or other former Miss Nevada is into girls and has a crush on you, and you’re going to go have a hot night with her, then I’d sincerely say ‘have fun’ and I’d look forward to seeing you when you get back, and I’d enjoy you telling me whatever would be appropriate to share, so that I can enjoy your sexual energy at least vicariously, so to speak.”
The blonde smiled, since she had a very different dynamic in mind that she was looking forward to explaining. Even so, it was important to guide the brunette toward that carefully, so the blonde said: “If you’d like to dispense with sexual intimacy in the you-and-I dynamic, I would want you in my life even so. We can sleep together in each other’s arms, wearing as much or as little as you like, and there would nevertheless be much mutual value in intellectual and emotional intimacy.”
“Thank you. I feel relieved,” the brunette said, and yet instead, she felt, and sounded, very sad.
“You don’t sound very happy saying so,” the blonde observed, gently.
“No, I’m fine … I … well,” the brunette reminded herself that it was okay to feel whatever she felt, and be open to the blonde about it. “I mean, I should feel relieved but instead I suddenly feel so sad …”
“I don’t think you should feel anything different than what you’re feeling. If you feel sad, you feel sad and that’s okay.”
“I really have a hard time getting used to that. But yes, I agree. And yes, I do feel sad. I also feel ridiculous about it because whatever I’ve just tried to convince you to accept, you accepted, and instead of being happy and relieved, now I feel sad.”
“I understand, “ the blonde said, gently.
There were a few seconds of silence.
“I don’t know what to say,” the brunette lamented.
“I have some thoughts on the subject. Okay if I elaborate?” the blonde asked.
“I’d love to hear them.”
“Thank you. The issue here, as I understand it, is that you are far from disinterested in sexual intensity, and I’m choosing the word carefully as in ‘intensity’, which is not the same as sexual intimacy. Fair statement?”
The brunette was shocked. She was tempted to deny it but then made a face … and then realized it would be better to verbalize that. “Wow, this open-relationship stuff is hard. I just made a wry face. And I feel very tempted to deny what you just said. But actually, yes, you’re accurate. Please continue, even though it might be excruciatingly embarrassing for me to hear.”
“Until today’s set of conversations, you craved sexual intensity without feeling the need to bundle sexual intimacy along with it, nor would you have felt the need to include emotional intimacy and intellectual intimacy.”
“How would you know that? I mean … you’re accurate but I’m surprised that you know this.”
“I didn’t know. It’s conjecture based on many subtle hints that you’ve been dropping over many years, the gist of which is an intense focus on sexuality, and significantly outside the mainstream of bland-and-pleasant stuff.”
“This conversation is embarrassing to me beyond any level that I can emotionally process right now. I’ll just consider myself in total overload as to this subject, so — please continue.”
The blonde smiled. “I used to be a professional dominatrix, so I understand the concept of obsession. In its simplest form, the perfect recipe for creating obsession requires only the ingredients of guilt and a focus on sexual intensity. Those feed on each other’s energy in an infinite loop of sorts. Does that describe your mindset?”
“You probably know the answer since you have figured out this much already.”
“Yes, but we are still candid and open with each other, right? I’d rather not have a monologue.”
“Yes, and so yes to your embarrassing question, too.”
“Thank you. So here you are, highly focused on sexually intense things, and you feel guilty about it for several reasons, yes?”
“Yes! — and this is sooo excruciatingly embarrassing.”
“In your current personal, social and professional context, you being the wild girl wouldn’t reconcile very well to that, would it?”
“Totally not. And I don’t just mean, with you. If I were to have a one-night-stand involving straight sex with a straight single guy of non-controversial age and social standing and looks, even that might deeply damage my current personal, social and professional situation if word got out.”
“I understand. And yet what you fantasize about includes much more controversial activities, yes?”
After several seconds of silence, the brunette managed to say a strained “yes.”
“If you sign up to be my girlfriend – or more controversially yet, one of my girlfriends since I have one already — even though she doesn’t live with me or near me — then if word gets out, you will have been much downgraded in others’ opinion of you. You could hardly sink any lower anyway, so you might as well then make the most of your downgraded social reputation and go and enjoy wild sexuality, yes?”
“Well, yes. It’d be a nothing-to-lose-anyway mindset. That would be sort of a relief, in a way.”
“In such a situation, it’d be very ironic if you were so close to being able to experience what you’ve been craving, and then you still chose not to.”
“You would choose not to, because you would not want to imagine a wild, sexually intense event that’s marred by the presence of one unusually unattractive person, that person being you – yes? I’m not saying you would be unattractive but you feel unattractive.”
“Can I hang up now? I didn’t realize embarrassment could be almost physically painful.”
“Stay with me. It gets better, I promise,” the blonde reassured her. “But first, it gets worse. Ready?”
The brunette threw up a hand in a gesture of futility and despair. “Sure, why not, pile it on. I’m experiencing something similar to what you said, though in a different context, as in things are now so bad that I might as well try and see if anything good comes of it since I’m already paying the price and things are about as bad as I can imagine they can be. In your analogy it was to my social reputation; in this context it’s how embarrassed I feel but it’s the same principle.”
“So, how can this possibly get worse yet?”
“You crave intensity but you’re still shy. So, you require somebody else to be the icebreaker and to take the lead, and then you would be delighted to follow. Yes?”
“Okay. Ready to start dissolving the problems?“
“I can hardly wait.”
“Let’s assume for the sake of argument that I’d be happy to take you along to many sexually intense events, assuming we can get your other concerns addressed. So for now imagine yourself looking as hot as you think you need to look so as to feel hot, and that you will be guilt-free, and that we will have sexual intensity as well as sexual intimacy. Good?”
“Wow, that’s quite the vision I have to adjust to. Wait …” a few seconds went by. “Okay, wow. Now I’m enjoying this. Fun fantasy. And, please continue.”
“In the Dominance/submission context of BDSM, the submissive person is the one who prefers to let the Dominant person take the lead, be the ice-breaker, provide the inspiration, and so on.”
“So where do the whips and chains come in?”
“They essentially don’t.”
“They can sometimes make things more interesting if added in, and they can often make things worse if added in, so for now let’s focus on the essence of things: the dynamic.”
“So, you’d lead the way and I’d be happy to follow you, so we’d be in a D/s dynamic with you being Dominant and me being submissive, yes?”
“Wow, being a BDSM submissive … sounds hot.”
“It can be. It mostly reduces your stress level, and makes events more enjoyable to you because you and I will be clear on what we each do and don’t like, and in that context, we’d show up at an event and you would not have to wonder what to do. I’d guide you. In a high-protocol event, the submissive could be on speech restriction, so you wouldn’t have to wonder what to say because by prior arrangement, you wouldn’t say anything as part of that event’s dynamic – unless I specifically ask you. Also, in a fairly-high-protocol event, the other people would not speak to you. Since you’re my submissive under my protection and control, if they wanted to know anything about you, they’d ask me. If someone did violate the rule, you’d simply look at me and point to me.”
“That sounds … very right for me, somehow. Wow, so there might be sexually intense things happening and yet the structure you described would immensely reduce my stress level. It actually sounds really nice. I always thought BDSM meant some really dark stuff.”
“As I approach it, BDSM provides a set of structures that enhance interpersonal dynamics.”
“I like that. I’m learning a lot. Wait …” the brunette had a sudden thought. Several seconds went by. She felt the strangest sort of exhilaration rising within her. She hadn’t felt that in many years. She decided to not suppress it but to just enjoy it. “I just had the most delicious feeling …” she said and then squealed in delight. “Wow.” A few more seconds went by. She shivered with delight. “I just realized that in the conversations we’ve been having, you’re essentially guiding me, comforting me, being protective, and generally making things as nice, low-stress and safe for me as you can even while being primally candid, yes?”
The blonde smiled. “Clever girl.”
“So aren’t we already in a D/s dynamic then?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Well, don’t we officially announce it or do I wear some sort of … “ she didn’t want to say the word … she searched for a synonym … “symbol, showing I’m under your protection?”
“Yes, but all in good time. What matters is the essence of it — and I agree, that’s already in effect.”
“Wow. So, as I sit here, I’m someone’s BDSM submissive.” She shivered with delight.
“That’s quite the mood change,” the blonde observed.
“I’m a happy girl,” the brunette admitted.
“Let’s move on to the next hurdle,” the blonde suggested. “As to the guilt, once you experience what you’ve been obsessing about, the obsession falls away and the guilt doesn’t have anything to sustain it, so it slowly evaporates. When I was working as a Dominatrix, clients were obsessed with the idea of finally spending in-person time with someone like me, and they could hardly wait. They conveyed enthusiasm to book sessions with me every week from then on, for weeks or months on end, or stretching into the indefinite future – yet once they experienced what they’d obsessed about, they stopped obsessing. Initially I thought that I must be the world’s most disappointing person, but eventually I learned that this wasn’t the only possible explanation nor the most likely one.”
“So by me going to wild sexual events, and experiencing what I obsessed about, I’ll stop feeling obsessed and guilty?”
“Yes. Or, to be precise, at least the obsession-based portion of the guilt would eventually cease.”
“Well, would I still then enjoy going to such events?”
“Yes, but for more-balanced reasons.”
“Wow.” A few seconds went by. “I can imagine that happening. Wow.”
“As to another source of guilt, perhaps based on you craving wild activities that are inappropriate to the context you’re currently in, if you should find yourself out of that context ….” the blonde said gently.
The brunette continued her sentence: “… by being ostracized by everyone in that context…”
“… then you’d be in a new context where sexual intensity is just fine …”
“ …specifically, living with you. Hence, starting a new life as to both location and mindset.”
There was silence for a few seconds.
The brunette mused: “Its funny how it’s one thing to state a blue-sky desire for some or other dramatic life change, and then when it’s suddenly close to becoming reality, that path forward seems terrifying due to its uncertainty.”
The blonde agreed. More silence.
The brunette struggled with the conflict. “Part of me abhors everything about this and part of me wants to embrace it fully. As to the former, I can envision it vividly. I could still bail out. I’d just tell you I’m not meeting you at the airport, and I’d hang up.”
“I don’t know that I could live with myself after that, in more ways than one, but even so, I can envision that path forward. I’d tell you I never want to talk to you again, and I’d block you on all social media and my email service and my phone service. I’d go announce this to my husband and most likely, things would largely then continue as they were before. If word of this leaked out, I’d explain it with the perfect measure of what-was-I-thinking self-reproach while hinting you’d manipulated me. I might actually end up with this being a boost to my general popularity. Guys would rush to sympathize with me, and some of them would show how much they liked me by making your life miserable.”
“Then, on my eightieth birthday I’ll remember this conversation and would not be able to stop crying. So next I’m exploring the alternative consciously,” the brunette announced. She mused. “It’d really be like starting over … a brand new start, and without pride based on the past. My name would then more be a liability than not.” She thought for a while, then asked: “Is it hard to get a legal name change in Nevada?”
The blonde smiled. “No, it’s easy.”
“I mean, first name, last name, everything.”
“I understand. And yes, it’s easy.”
“Would my old name be announced in the paper?”
“Normally yes but there are legal ways around that, too.”
“Wow. A brand-new start, with a new name, new place and new mindset.”
More silence. Then, the brunette asked: “Help me envision things, day to day. So every day could contain a wild sexually intense event, at home or elsewhere?”
The brunette pondered this for a few seconds. “What does your place look like?”
“From the outside, intentionally nondescript. Inside, it’s very … what’s the word … Bohemian. For example, it’s a combination of things that are almost as practical as the inside of an automotive engine, and then there are specific elements that celebrate my personal values.”
“That sounds interesting. Such as?”
“My bathroom looks like the bathroom in a commercial airplane. Everything that needs to be there is there, and nothing more or less. My living room has a bank of eight commercial-grade computer servers, black and orderly, with a row of mice and keyboards, backup units, and external drives, so at night there’s utter darkness in that area yet with dozens of green, blue, red or orange lights blinking. I store my items in numbered banker’s boxes whose number, content and position I log in some customized database software I made, so in various practical locations, you might see a tower of banker’s boxes. So, if I need to find something, I’d look it up in the computer and it might say box number 1152, front room, south wall, near the door, 2nd column from the left. I grew up with a dad who was an engineer so even though I could just crank up the air conditioning or heating and pay a higher utility bill, I like to be thermally efficient so my place uses a lot of insulation that also doubles as internal décor.”
“Wow. That sounds very efficient. But, that doesn’t sound very Bohemian.”
“In the living room, there’s an acoustic guitar on its stand. There’s a flag of my favorite country and my favorite state, and a huge print of Las Vegas at night. The kitchen, living room and bedroom have sexy framed pictures.”
“Above my computer workstation is a sexy picture of a girl wearing a stripper outfit that I like and now own, and sometimes wear.”
“Wow. Speaking of dress code, what DO you typically wear?”
“A thong, and sometimes some 6” stilettos.”
“No, I mean over that?”
“Wow. But what if you have visitors?”
“That doesn’t change my at-home long-term dress code. I mean, if they’re coming over for dinner and then they leave, I’ll put on a nice dress or skirt-and-top, but long-term I wear what I like, at home.”
“Wow. So I’d get a topless-blonde show every day.”
“All day, every day.”
“Would I have to follow your dress code example?” the brunette asked, suddenly feeling breathless.
“Only if I had the slightest inkling that this is what you’d want but needed me to take the lead as to initiating that.”
The brunette’s throat felt suddenly dry. She gulped. A few seconds went by. “You seem to somehow understand me, or my mindset, very well,” she admitted. “Wait, I want to savor how I’m feeling.”
Half a minute went by, with the brunette envisioning how things might be in the context she was considering. It seemed visceral and intense, enticing and exciting — and yet somehow unobtainable too … but not totally unobtainable.
“I almost wish you’d make the decision for me,” she mused out loud.
“Tempting,” the blonde admitted.
Then, the brunette’s mood fell. “I still have the same basic hurdle, though, as we’d discussed initially. Believe me, if I looked like a former Miss Nevada then I’d probably ask you to take me with you, when you leave to go back home. We’d be a hot lesbian couple, I’d experience the sexual intensity I’ve been craving, and in the context with you there would also be sexual intimacy on top of emotional intimacy and intellectual intimacy, and it’d be protected by primally candid conversations with someone like-minded, and it would all be so wonderful.”
“So, really, the only remaining problem is that you don’t look like a former Miss Nevada. Or, to be really precise, if you looked like her and didn’t feel pretty it’d still be a problem, so the key issue here is that you don’t feel pretty, regardless of how pretty you actually are, yes?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to be delusional to where I feel hot when really I’m hideous. And, I know how old I am and there’s no getting around that. I’m not young any more. Anything wild that I do would somehow feel age-inappropriate and I’d feel embarrassed about that. It’d be like an 80-year old entering a wet white t-shirt contest in which the next-oldest contestant is nineteen. Not that I’m eighty years old, but you get the idea.”
“So unless you have a time machine, this is really all a pointless conversation,” the brunette said, a hard and cold edge to her voice for the first time in a long time.
“Imagine you WERE eighty years old and by that time you still hadn’t experienced anything with the wild intensity you’ve been craving.”
“Oh gawd, what a nightmare scenario.”
“Well, isn’t that your future unless you do something about it, or allow someone else to do something about it?”
The brunette was silent, then said: “Sometimes I hate how you say things — especially when you’re making sense on so painful a subject. I can’t embrace such a future vision of myself. I’m willing to live life one day at a time and let things gradually drift to where that becomes reality, but as a package deal, I can’t accept that this is, without any hope, what my future holds.”
“That’s very candid.”
“I can now understand better than ever why some people who thrived in their youth despaired of the idea of growing old, and then died before growing old.”
The blonde agreed. They were both quiet, thinking of several examples. Then, the blonde continued: “anyway, back to my point. Imagine you do nothing and the years go by, until you’re eighty, and by then you still haven’t had the wild sexual intensity you’ve been craving, and one morning you wake up and to you and to the rest of the world, you look like a former Miss Nevada. What would you do?”
“Oh gawd, I’d go live it up. I’d find you and contact you, and … “ she paused. Dare she say it? “Actually, no offense intended but I’d find a hot, young version of you and then go and experience with her the sort of dynamic that I am today considering having with you — but that am ruling out because I’m already too old and I don’t look nice enough. Or, as you’d put it, I feel too old and I feel that I don’t look nice enough. I feel the need to defend myself since I feel awkwardly superficial about this. As to these issues, I’m specifically focused on the sexual aspect. I know that you and I have an amazing intellectual and emotional connection, and I greatly value that. But as to sexual intensity and sexual intimacy, how I feel about my own looks does then matter.”
“But you’d be fine with such a dynamic even when you’re much older. So it’s not about how old you are. If you were doing age-inappropriate things but you didn’t look old, that would solve the problem, yes?”
The brunette thought hard. Suddenly she felt better. “Talking to you sure is an emotional roller coaster.”
“So what if you were eighty years old, looked and felt young and hot yet your personal, social and professional situation didn’t reconcile to you being the wild girl?”
“Are you kidding? At that age, I wouldn’t care. I’d have one last shot at experiencing what I’d be craving, and I’d take it.”
The blonde smiled.
The brunette was pensive for a few seconds. “Really, all of that applies to me, today, too. There’s no reason for me to waste all those interim years. So if the good witch were going to make me look young and hot, then I’d fervently hope that she would cast her magic spell today, not when I’m eighty. Gawd, I don’t wanna waste my life away,” the brunette exclaimed, shivering suddenly in revulsion at the thought. She was pensive for a few seconds. “So, yes, how I look – actually, how I feel about that but also how others see me and treat me and how I feel about how I look based on their reactions – that really is the only problem.”
“Okay. So to summarize, the only problem is: how you feel you look, and we are both clear that you refuse to be deluded into feeling pretty when objectively you’re not. Can we agree on that?”
The brunette thought hard. “Yes.”
“The use of ‘objectively’ in such a context is not a great choice of words but my point is that if the general consensus is that you could be a twin sister of Mother Teresa, then it’s safe to say you’re not all that pretty in the aesthetic sense we’ve been discussing.”
The brunette agreed, and then pensively added, after a few seconds: “I’m still troubled by the premise that unless you or I solve this problem, I get to be eighty years old and have the same desires — and I’d feel much worse yet about things. So, much as I see this as hopeless, if you can solve this problem, I’m your girl.”
* * *
A few seconds went by, as the blonde collected her thoughts. Then: “I have a confession,” the brunette said.
“This is going to sound so superficial I really don’t even want to say it. But … the intellectual and emotional intimacy casts a welcoming warm glow, almost like light shining from the windows of a cozy country cottage at dusk. It’s really great to have that sort of mental connection with somebody so like-minded. And, if I move in with you I can have that 24×7 and that’d be even better than having it long-distance. For my emotional health, really I should move in with you for that reason alone. The problem is… “ she hesitated.
There was silence for a few seconds.
She continued: “… that doesn’t energize and inspire me enough to make the break. I’d prefer to then stay where I am and enjoy whatever we have long-distance, without throwing the rest of my relationships away. You and I would have long-distance, wonderful intellectual and emotional intimacy, yet without a sexual element, and the rest of the world would just see it as a quirky friendship.”
“You’re not upset?”
“Basically part of the draw was the lure of possible sexual intensity, since you exude it. But now that we’ve worked through the issues and found an insurmountable hurdle, it’s really all pointless now. To be explicit, I’d hate to be taken to a wild sex club or sex party and feel like an out-of-place freak. I’m not all that keen on you seeing me in the nude or without make-up, either, day to day. And, every day will be worse, as I age. It’s simply too late. I wish I’d met you when I was younger.”
“If I’d met you when you were in your early 20s, would you have appreciated me?”
The brunette laughed in spite of herself. “Perhaps but I was not ready to be out as a lesbian way back then.”
“Your mid and late 20s?”
“Still not plus I’d have chosen my career over you.”
“Your early 30s?”
“Still not. I’d still have chosen my career over you. And I wasn’t ready to be out as a lesbian, hot or otherwise. I also craved to somehow regain the mainstream life path of being married to a nice guy and raising a family. I would not have chosen you over that.”
“How about after you got married?”
“I was busy being a mom, and a wife, and being respectable. I would have chosen that over you.”
“So when did you stop being busy with that?”
There was a long pause.
“Very recently,” the brunette conceded.
“So really, this is the perfect time, yes? Sooner would have been too soon.”
“Oh gawd, you’re right and yet I’m too old. I hate this,” the brunette lamented.
The blonde was silent.
“I feel to miserable to even cry about it, somehow,” the brunette said. “How bitter I feel now, about it all, is probably adding years to my face.”
“The timing does suck,” the blonde admitted.
A long pause.
“This would be a really good time for you to come up with something positive,” the brunette said, not happily.
“Okay. I anticipated this concern and I’ve worked through it.”
“… and you’ve announced we found an insurmountable hurdle. We haven’t. We found a hurdle that YOU consider insurmountable.”
“You mean, you have a logically substantiable solution to this mess?”
“I do, though it’s possible you might find flaws in the logic.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Challenge accepted,” the blonde smiled.
The brunette felt suddenly irritated at the blonde. “I’m having an intense up-and-down emotional whiplash roller coaster ride, and you’re just always bland and pleasant. Somehow that irritates me.”
“I understand. I am feeling perhaps the same highs you’re feeling, just not the lows.”
“Somehow, hearing that made me feel worse.”
The blonde smiled. “Come join me in this mindset, then.”
“I’m trying, dammit! But I see an insurmountable hurdle and you’ve already figured it out, so tell me!”
“Okay. It’s a creative solution that will require your help, but the basic principle seems workable.”
“I’m looking at it like an engineer trying to figure out how to solve a problem, and you might look at it like a painter trying to figure out how to capture the spirit of something that she sees but would be daunting to represent on canvas. With my engineering mindset and your artist’s mindset, I think we might just be able to pull this off.”
“I’m intrigued … wait, you’re going to build me a suit like in the Iron Man movie, and I’m going to paint it to make it look hot, so that I look and then feel like Miss Nevada and then I feel comfortable being a wild girl. Yes?” she joked. Then: “I’m sorry. I know what you said about humor destroying intimacy. I guess I just needed some comic relief. Anyway, please tell me your idea.”
“Well, that’s it.”
“What you said. That’s it.”
“Oh, gawd,” the brunette wailed. “Why did I even talk to you, ever?” she exclaimed in despair. “I thought you were smart. Can I hang up now? I need to go sit in a dark room and scream insults at your picture for a few hours, and I’d like to get started right away.”
The blonde smiled. “Not quite yet. Hear me out.”
“This is your last chance, and you’re on micron-thin ice. I mean, how would I not feel utterly hideous and like a fraud when I show up as Iron Girl?”
“In the movie, is Tony Stark hideous?”
“Well, no, he’s kinda handsome,” the brunette conceded. “But …”
“Sorry to interrupt. I’m cutting you off intentionally. There are a thousand ways in which this doesn’t make sense. There’s one way in which it does. Will you let me guide you along that path?”
“If you can pull this off, and convince me, I’ll have your name tattooed on my forehead with the announcement that you’re the smartest girl who ever lived. Heck, if I even talk to you, or send you a somewhat friendly message every ten years or so, after this conversation, it would still be a major achievement on your part. Right now it’s only morbid curiosity that is keeping me on the phone. I have no hope as to you solving this problem, not least since you’ve lost all credibility. You might have been able to conversationally manipulate me into it one step at a time like someone gets manipulated into something they’re initially opposed to, but you totally spilled the beans and now we both know what you’re proposing and I hate it, and I think you’re being ridiculous. But go ahead.” She sighed, expressing her annoyance, and then added “And yes, I sighed and I’m annoyed.”
“It would almost be a relief to see you get upset, even if just once.”
“I understand. Anyway, as to the issue at hand: Are you aware of the aesthetic aid that some girls call chicken cutlets?”
“Oh, the things we stuff into our bras to make our boobs look bigger?”
“How do you think a girl feels with her boobs artificially enlarged as such?”
“Will be ever have a conversation that’s not embarrassing to me? Perhaps one, day, on my birthday, as a special gift from you to me? Perhaps my eightieth birthday?”
The blonde smiled. “Please answer the question.”
“I suppose she feels strangely hotter than she otherwise would have.”
The blonde let that sink in.
“I see where you’re going with this. I hate it but I can see the logic,” the brunette conceded, now even more annoyed. “And make-up is essentially more of the same, and so is hairspray or the effects of straightening irons, so really it’s all a slippery slope and I’ve already bought into the premise that the times when I looked my best, it wasn’t me looking like that but a technologically enhanced version of me, so I’m already being ridiculous and I may as well run with it and do a head-to-toe immersion in this stupidity?”
“Well, not quite,” the blonde cautioned. “Do you have any features you don’t hate?”
The brunette paused. “What, we’re going to have holes in the Iron Girl for my few good-looking parts to be seen?”
“A good defense lawyer or good district attorney can phrase things to make anything sound ridiculous, and that could be done with many things that you’ve accepted as part of life. But, described differently, they might make sense. Ultimately two plus two add up to four, but it takes longer to get there with a highly resistant audience.”
“So you’re asking me to be more receptive?”
The brunette was silent. Part of her wanted to refuse, and part of her wanted to apologize. She suddenly felt ashamed of her attitude.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be nicer. Please continue. You are onto something valid but you have a long way to go.”
“Thank you. Would you please answer the question?”
“As to any of my features I don’t hate?”
The brunette thought.
“My legs are my best feature, visually.”
A pause …
“Well, would you agree?” the brunette prompted, a little indignantly.
“You and I have such a vast disagreement as to your aesthetics that I don’t even want to get into that,” the blonde smiled. “It’d derail the conversation.”
“I would like to insist. Just give me a quick overview. Do YOU think I’m pretty? … and I can’t believe I’m asking you this.”
“Yes, I do, in a way that doesn’t use old pictures and that discounts the effect of make-up.”
There was a long pause.
“Wow, now I feel strange,” the brunette continued. There was another pause. “Now it’s almost like …. how I feel about my own looks, and how strangers at a sex club feel about my looks … somehow that matters a lot less to me, now that I know YOU think I’m pretty.”
“And even as I age, and you think I look less pretty over time, it’ll be so gradual that maybe I could accept that. At least we’d have a good starting point.”
“Also, we’re almost the same age, and I don’t look like a former Miss Nevada either. I just take many pictures and throw away 95% of them. With that technique, I could make anyone look hot, in pictures — including myself.”
The brunette laughed, and said: “Somehow that bit of humor, and what you said, makes me feel closer to you,” she conceded
“I’m very glad, and it’s very much mutual,” the blonde said gently. Then: “I agree, your legs are lovely. What else?”
“Would you like to tell me?”
“No. It’s about how YOU feel. If it were up to me I’d put you in a revealing stripper dress and a pair of high heels, and enjoy the view at home and take you to sexy parties with you looking like that.”
Something about that appealed to the brunette. She said so.
“I’m very glad, and it might come to that.”
“Oddly, if you think I’m hot that’s almost all that matters. Almost, but not quite.”
“I do think you’re hot.”
“It’s funny, if you’d said it earlier, it would have damaged the dynamic, perhaps irreparably.”
“I love how much you understand me.”
“Yay!” said the blonde. “Now, as to your next-best feature?”
“My hair …”
“Is lovely. Agreed.”
The brunette beamed. She felt like she was a teenager again, and was tempted to feel ridiculous again but then she announced how she felt, and somehow she didn’t feel ridiculous then.
They both smiled.
“More?” The blonde pushed. “Most girls don’t like their middle or their tummy. Where do you rate on that?”
And so, the girls analyzed the brunette’s features, from head to toe. What she had concerns about ended up being a very short list, mainly two aspects. She wished her face looked younger and nicer, and that she was curvier.
“Story time,” the blonde announced. “This is based on someone I know and love …”
“A girlfriend? A former girlfriend?”
“A former girlfriend.”
“Okay. Sorry for the interruption.”
“So, I’m going to speak only in the broadest of terms so as not to divulge anything she wouldn’t smile about, were she reading this. Hence, the lack of specificity.”
“I like that,” the brunette opined.
“This particular girl is, and was, very lovely in my opinion and the opinion of others who met her and offered their compliments. I could tell they were sincere and that they also lusted after her.”
“That’s a very sincere compliment indeed,” the brunette chimed in. “And lovely girls seem to feature in your selection of girlfriend material.”
“Yes, you do,” the blonde smiled.
“I didn’t mean to include myself.” the brunette protested.
“I understand,” the blonde assured her.
“Now I feel awkward,” the brunette complained.
The blonde sympathized, and continued her story. “A friend of mine has high standards. He saw her and he was impressed. He liked what he saw, but he preferred to see more and more of her, as in less and less clothing. This ended up being the case. He loved what he saw, understandably. Even though he and I, and many others, thoughts she was lovely, she felt lovely only because she was obscuring one part of her body that she didn’t like. With that out of the way, she felt confident.”
“Her waist area. So, she wore a corset, and felt fine.”
“Was how she looked really all that problematic?”
“No. Later on, the corset came off. She was initially very nervous about that, and she had a hard time believing how she looked wasn’t a turn-off.”
“And it wasn’t?”
“No, it wasn’t. The one item that bothered her a lot did detract on the scale of sheer perfection, but it wasn’t problematic for me, or my friend. But, she felt very non-sexy at the club, with the corset off, even though she was utterly gorgeous, corset or no corset. What mattered was how she felt.”
“I can understand that.”
“When she and I were alone, she didn’t wear a corset and she felt very sexy. It was only at the club where she wanted to come across as extra-pretty. So from then on, in such situations, she wore a corset and was happy and very sexy, and sexual.”
“I like the story.”
“I have two similar stories. In each case, for different reasons, each girl felt very hot while wearing a corset that obscured the one part of her that she was self-conscious about. With that problem out of the way, each girl enjoyed the experience greatly and was very sexually intense.”
“I can relate.”
“With her corset on, each of the three girls was wildly uninhibited.”
“A fourth girl had a different problem. What she was self-conscious about would not be obscured by a corset.”
“What was it?”
“It’s too specific to say. Anyway, she was excruciatingly embarrassed about her perceived flaw. It brought her a step away from sheer perfection in that respect, and would have cost her points off in a swimsuit beauty contest, but with or without this issue, she was lovely. She craved sexual intensity but had always held back due to this aspect of her being, in her opinion, so hideous that she would never dare be seen naked anywhere as such.”
“Awww,” the brunette sympathized.
“So, we came up with a weird sort of carnival-show booth thing, a wooden structure, almost like a crate, that would hide part of her body and allow the rest to be seen, and, um, accessed.”
“More intense than the Iron Girl suit, yes?”
“Even so, that changed everything for her. From being totally resistant yet intrigued, she became 100% green-light and totally enthused. You might think she’d feel ridiculous but if she was I couldn’t tell, and she was super-enthused and sexually gung ho — and a lovely girl with or without the crate.”
“Wow, this reminds me of a movie ….”
“There’s a valid premise in there. Many girls are focused on one or two issues, and with those addressed, we’re happier and more confident, and much more wild.”
“We? As in you have similar confidence issues?”
“Yes. They’re less severe but … yes.”
“I’m surprised. What are they?”
“I’d rather not focus on that now because I’m trying to help you beyond that one last hurdle,” the blonde persisted.
The brunette tried to make light of the situation, and said, “perhaps, if we stuff some things into my underwear and put a bag over my head, we’re good to go.”
The blonde smiled. “Anyway, on a serious note, can we agree that the way many people are wired, then if their one or two aesthetic concerns about themselves are addressed, they seem to feel basically fine?”
“Would that include you?”
“How do you mean?”
“If you were as curvy as you wanted to be and had the facial features that you wanted, and you looked as young as you wanted to look, then would you feel hot at a sex club or sex party?”
“With those two issues having been addressed, totally, yeah.”
“With everything else about you still being as it’s now?”
“Actually — yes. I mean, there’s always room for improvement — but basically, yes.”
“Okay. So, did I give each corset girl the perfect waist, and give the crate girl a perfect physique, or did I just obscure what was bothering her?”
“Wow! Okay, I see. Now I’m surprised how well it worked.”
“Here is some additional information. Some not-yet-out trans girls buy complete latex or rubber bodysuits that obscure them from head to toe, including their faces. The body suits help them tuck and hide their bulges ‘down there’ and add some curves in the places where naturally they don’t have them, but would have had them had they gone through puberty with hormones that match their brain structures. Their skin is replaced with completely smooth skin courtesy of the latex or rubber texture. These suits are very expensive – thousands of dollars — and they are custom-made in the US. The few companies who build them can’t keep up with the demand. And the girls feel, when wearing this, hot in a way they would not feel otherwise. Sometimes someone dressed like that shows up at a sex club, and looks and feels sexually very hot. As a side comment, as to feeling hot, my impression is that the suit is temperature-wise very warm inside so it cannot be worn for long periods of time.”
“I’m learning a lot. So, maybe I can wear a top and bottom that’s sort of like that with-curves-added latex suit, if I wanted extreme curves?”
“And I wouldn’t be the weirdest person there?”
“Very much not. One of the things that will surprise you is how young, nice and normal you look compared to some of the people at some of these clubs — and I mean this with no disrespect to these good people intended.”
“Wow. Wow! I could get into this. Part of me feels almost duty-bound to feel ridiculous but really it makes sense and if it works, great – and it’s at a sex club so it’s not like everyday life.”
“I agree — though … well, I had a medical condition called ‘young person’s cataracts’ and I got surgery for that, so I now have plastic lenses in my eyes. Also, some of my teeth have veneers. Even so, I don’t feel like Miss Cyborg. When my own boobs were still growing, I wore something like that every day including out and about. A funny thing happened. At some point it started feeling almost like these fake boobs were a natural part of me. They weren’t implants under the skin; I put them between my skin and the bra, but even so after a while somehow they started to feel like part of me psychologically. So, you could do that. Girls who’ve had mastectomies do that too. “
“Yeah … it seems odd, though.”
“In a culture where people actively hurt each other including with outright abuse and violence, it seems a far smaller concern if someone enhances her look with something like this. Not that it’s really any concern, but in the grand scheme of things humanity should be self-conscious about, this should rate ultra-low on the scale of questionable human behavior, assuming it should be there at all.”
“So, as to your face …”
“Strangely, if I have curves, I’d be OK with my face showing. It doesn’t really look bad, I just wished it looked younger.”
“I’m glad. But, younger than what?”
“Younger than my chronological age.”
“Don’t you think it does?”
“Well … actually, yes.”
A few seconds ticked by.
“Now I feel happy and ridiculous, both,” the brunette smiled.
“Even so, wait, there’s more,” the blonde added. “Many people wear masks, such as carnival-style masks, at sex clubs. Being anonymous enables many too feel very uninhibited.”
“I can understand that.”
“In my opinion, putting a mask on you is like throwing a tarp over the Venus de Milo but it’s not about how I feel; it’s about how YOU feel. So if it’ll make you feel more wild yet by you wearing a mask, then we can try it and see how that works for you.”
“Really? That would be fun to try. And now that I know people do that, I wouldn’t feel ridiculous. Or not much, anyway. Probably not at all, though.”
“So, at sex clubs and sex parties, problem solved. You can experience intense sexuality and feel confident about it. Yes?”
“Yes!! Wow! Thank you!”
“We might be at a wild party at most once or twice a week, and perhaps as little as once every few months. So, at home …” the blonde began.
“At home, I would feel so energized from memories from the party that it’d keep me afloat and confident. And how you think I look, without a mask or my curvy-suit, would be good enough for me. Plus we’d have sexual intensity, just the two of us, plus sexual intimacy, plus emotional intimacy, plus intellectual intimacy. Perfect.”
“So, the hurdle is gone, yes?”
“Yes! Wow! Yes, yes, yes!! … but wait, what if I have a bad day and feel hideous and I don’t want you to see me in the nude, in bed?”
“Then you could turn the light off. You’d be self-conscious about how you look more than how you would feel in a tactile sense, yes?”
“Yes but what if I wanted to see you, but I didn’t want you to see me?”
“For that session, you’d then blindfold me.”
“Wow. This could work – and be fun! But … is that fair?”
“Yes. It’s fair, albeit not symmetrical and very little of our dynamic is, anyway.”
“How do you mean?”
”As an example, I’m about to stop at Del Taco and get a chicken and avocado salad. In return I’m giving them money and that ends the transaction. I’m happy, they’re happy. It will have been to mutual benefit, and consensual, hence fair. It doesn’t mean that later I have to go make them a salad and then they pay me money, for it. Similarly our dynamic can be, and will be, and already is, far from symmetrical yet as long as it’s to mutual benefit and with mutual consent, it’s fair.”
“Wow, I think that many artificial barriers in the way of some of my thinking have just been blasted away.”
“Life could be very intense, and hot, and fun.”
“It could,” the blonde agreed. The brunette tried to find any other remaining concerns. She found one.
“What if we get bored with each other … wait, you’re polyamorous. Does that go for me too?”
“I don’t know. It’s a brain-wiring thing. If you can love multiple people romantically and simultaneously, then yes, you’re polyamorous.”
“No, I mean … you will continue to sometimes spend hot times with other people whether you love them or not — so can I, too?”
“Yes, but … I’m so shy I wouldn’t meet anyone else anyway, or want to. So somehow that now bothers me. You might have wild times with others but I won’t.”
“I plan to take you along on many of my adventures. I’d enjoy being the best part of your sex life but not the only part. So for example, maybe instead of me going solo to have a hot night with the former Miss Nevada in your example, you would come along. Maybe she likes you more than she likes me. Maybe you wear your curvy suit and your mask; maybe not.”
“Wow! But, I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“My role is to guide you, yes?”
“So I’d guide you.”
“Wow! This has possibilities. So, if you’re ever with a guy, could I watch?”
“Sure,” the blonde smiled.
“Maybe you just watch, maybe you do more, maybe you are an active participant, maybe you are a passive participant. Maybe you’re an immobilized participant if that would be a hot fantasy for you.”
“Exciting! … But, wait, doesn’t all this fun imply unsafe behavior?”
“It depends. Each person chooses to use barrier protection, or not. Nevada brothels use barrier protection and it works very well even in the context of, um, high-turnover activity.”
“As in, plastic?”
“Yes,” the blonde smiled.
“But what if I’d rather not?”
“Then you’re taking a risk –- at best, a calculated risk.”
“Even with you?”
“Yes. Ultimately, each person’s sexual health is that person’s own responsibility. I think I’m 100% healthy as such but what if I’m mistaken?”
“What about tests?”
“I’ve passed every one, many times, but tests are not 100% either. “
“For example, two of my friends got, um, bugs from their not-supposed-to-be-having-sex-with-anyone-else husbands.”
“Wow. But aren’t you supposed to watch out for my safety?”
“Yes. By shattering your illusions here and now, on this subject, so that you’re no less careful than you should be, I am looking out for your safety.”
“Thank you. You’re sort of ruining the fun mood, but it was good to have a sobering reality check.”
“I’m glad. I’m all for wild times, but the best sort of fun doesn’t preempt future fun. For example, I really wanted to drive a nice car at an intensely high speed. So when I was in Britain, I bought an old Mercedes-Benz with a big V8 engine, took it to Germany, and drove it at close to 140 miles per hour on the Autobahn. That was fun, and risky, but it was a fairly well-calculated risk: legal context, dry road, daylight, light traffic, reliable car, good tires, careful and sober driver.”
“That’s seems to be a good analogy for how you live your life.”
“It is,” the blonde smiled.
“I like it,” the brunette announced, and added, “I’m looking forward to my future.”
“You seem to have made a decision.”
“I have indeed,” the brunette smiled.
“Yay!! I’m very glad!” the blonde replied.
The brunette was quiet for a few more seconds, and then asked: “moving in with you, as in when you leave, you take me with you … that sounds so great, but if I can somehow still also keep part of my old context alive and well, is that OK? Maybe everyone will ostracize me and tell me to get lost, but I don’t just want to assume that and burn my bridges preemptively.”
“I agree. At the very least, give the people in your life the opportunity to accept the real and newly-out version of you. Isn’t that why we carefully wrote that nice letter, on the premise that you care enough to try to preserve some key relationships? If you didn’t care about that, then you could simply have handled your coming-out announcement in ‘Sex Pistols’ style.”
The brunette smiled. “In other words, less graciously?”
“Much less. Anyway, I’d better focus on traffic. I’m finally approaching the Reno-Sparks area.”
“Yes! Drive carefully. You’re my only hope for an exciting life.”
“No, I’m not. You now understand the principle and you can go and apply it, and not just with me. If I’m your best option, I’m delighted but I’m certainly not your only option.
“I see your point. Wow. That’s encouraging. I love how you explain things to me.”
“Yay! “ the blonde said, and added: “I plan to text you when I’m at the gate.”
The two girls said good-bye, each smiling happily.
More: Part 4