Because I Made Him

I don't date in "The Scene." I don't know how. The formal etiquette bores me to tears, it's harder for a switch to find a partner, and the observant Jewish men are hard to find.

Instead I find the boys whose idea of a sexual fantasy is having some. Boys who know that there is this thing out there called "kink," but have no direct experience. And I tell them what gets me hot. What "lifts my luggage " as Dan Savage would have me say. And because getting me naked is something they want to do anyway, they're willing to oblige me my proclivities.

Then something beautiful happens. They discover that they like it. The mild-mannered vanilla guy discovers his inner dominant or submissive. Sometimes both. And the sex is amazing, because we both enjoy what we're doing so much that there is this deep emotional connection.

Sometimes they leave, after staying for a time. They usually leave me better than they were before. Better partners, better lovers, better men. And they often leave me kinky. Toys have been acquired, tastes have become wired into the brain.

When my ex got together with his now-fiancee, I was horribly petty in my enjoyment that he hadn't told her about just how kinky he was. I knew how much he loved it, especially how much he loves to bottom to a woman. And I would giggle to myself that after he left me, he wasn't getting that anymore. I got to shock her with my boots (that he bought for me no less), corset, mini and fishnets at Wicked Faire.

And then I saw that they were engaged, via the lovely monster that is Stalkerbook. And all I could think of was how much this hurt me. That I wasn't good enough, that it took him far less time to decide he wanted to marry her than to decide he didn't want to marry me. And now all I can think of is that it's a waste of my hard work. I took time and effort to craft a beautiful sexuality, to mold a man to some exquisitely perverted tastes. And what has he done with my work? Left it to gather dust.

Of course, it's possible that her good girl face is just an act. She could have a leather wardrobe, a perfectly crafted inner bitch goddess. But he was supposed to be the last one. The one I got to keep. And now she has him.

And all I can do is cry.