Dee's Journal

'Sadie' might be appropriate now. I'm not a Sadie Hawkins hunting for a husband, but I'm definitely in pursuit of guys. Still...maybe just 'Dee,' again? With that, the whole name has a nice mouthfeel: 'Dee Campanella.' But a while back I had to tell a guy in no uncertain terms that his coinage of 'Deezie' was an absolute no. 'Dee' might reopen the door to that. Still, I'll try it for a while. With Curt.

Yeesh. Despite having made food my life, the word 'mouthfeel' now insists on meaning some other things, which make me salivate for the wrong reason. I really gotta get laid. Attention, stack of lined, spiral-bound paper: Stay under the mattress and communicate with nobody but me.

There now arises the question of what Curt and I would do together, aside from gaming. He might try conventional dating. Not something I care about much, but I should be ready if he takes that approach.

Dates usually involve dining, or some kind of meal-sharing. I tell a guy right at the top that I'm serious about the food thing. I'm an omnivore, so I don't shame about animal products, but what I do eat, I want to be clean, and decently sourced. I'm not going to insist that some guy I want to bang has to be a convert. Even if he treats his body like a toxic waste dump, I won't fret about those parts of him that make intimate contact with me. I have a whole standup routine about vegan sex, how condoms can't be lambskin, and semen should never enter a human body (which, in time, would eradicate environmental damage by humans).

***

March 21

I might be breaking a rule of journaling. I'm putting in stuff that isn't handwritten.

Curt and I exchanged some texts over the weekend. He started it. This spared me from having to raise the subject on Tuesday, and I had been fretting about how to do this privately, with us now on Get-A-Room Watch.

I saved the texts and printed them. They're paper-clipped to this notebook page. So, Goddesses of Journaling, I was too lazy to transcribe them. What are you gonna do about it?

Curt: Thanks for giving me a moment Friday. I may not be too good at picking up what people are really thinking. Would you rather not have me hanging around?

Mercedes: No problem. Sorry if the bachelorhood remark cut too deep. Hanging around is fine, but at the store I can't really relax. Game night was fun.

Curt: What I'm trying to get at is, I don't have anybody special in my life right now. Is it okay if I ask if you do?

Mercedes: It's fair to ask that, since I showed up alone, and never mentioned being involved with anyone. Lately I've shackled myself to the store, and I want to change that. So, I don't have anybody special. I may not want one, either, but who knows?

Curt: Thanks. Not sure what I want either, but being alone all the time definitely isn't it. Still, feel free to tell me to back off, if I get out of line.

Mercedes: Count on it. Let's have fun on Tuesday.

Okay, more truth. Printing, instead of writing, was a teensy bit irresponsible, environmentally. So why did I do it? Because having the texts as digitized phantoms on my phone wasn't enough. I feel better having a physical manifestation of what he wrote to me. Maybe I'm even lonelier than I thought.

In spite of that, during the texting, it took about ten minutes for me to work out how to answer when he asked if I have someone special. I could definitely put Curt into my fantasies. I'm petrified at the thought of a close, deep relationship with him. Or anyone.

***

March 22

I guess we had fun on Tuesday, but maybe not as much as we could. Or should.

Damn.

What I'll spill into this journal is that I was scared tonight. Of myself, of him, of everything. I didn't stomp on the brakes, but I sure didn't do anything that would draw comments about room-getting.

I had some chatty moments, and some of them involved Curt. Then I realized what I was doing, and got shy.

At one point I even 'escaped,' I guess, by getting into one of the electronic, alien-slaughtering games. I didn't like it, I wasn't good at it, and I had to fend off the store owner's questions about whether I wanted to buy this game, or a system console. (He's usually relaxed, but if he sees a chance to move a big-ticket item, he's all over it.)

I give Curt credit. In the context of our text exchange, he picked up that I was really subdued, and he had a hunch about why. He gave me the space to be me. Or something.

So I guess I listened to whatever noise my mind made about this, and have to concede that whatever caused this, it must have had some validity. But I'm beating myself up about this being a missed opportunity. I now have a specific desire for body contact with Curtis Mayerhoff. That may mean that the panic room in my mind had the right idea. But my mind also makes me remember him, sitting across from me at a table tonight, getting and giving glances.

And those mind parts don't seem to be what I think with! Do you remember thinking, Campanella? What an intelligent human does?

I think it's self-care time.

***

March 24

I've never used dating apps. I don't want to use them now. But I've tried to get over that.

I keep going to the home pages of three sites that aim for middle-of-the-road, one-on-one, straight single clientele. The sites' mood is neither romantic nor frisky.

I've written, on the last page of this notebook, attempts at profiles for myself.

I've scratched them all out.

Finally, I wrote what eventually became, after partial scratchouts, a text that I sent to Curt.

M: I'm sorry if I was a bringdown on Tuesday. I didn't expect that, but somehow being with that whole group was a problem for me. Could we, maybe, get together somewhere and talk, just the two of us?

His reply arrived nineteen minutes later, but to me it felt like six months.

C: I'm free Saturday. How about coffee? Do you know a place that meets your high standards?

M: You better not be laughing at me, bachelor! Yes, I frequent a place that specifies all of its fair-trade bean sources and minimizes its waste streams. So there!

I was grinning as I wrote that.

I gave him the name and location, and we agreed on 2 p.m.

I only printed one exchange this time. Maybe that's an improvement.

***

March 30

Saturday was fine but Sunday Mom went to the hospital with chest pains. No time for journaling.

***

April 6

Mom is back home, and is okay, but Dad and Donna and I have been taking turns making sure she follows the aftercare rules and takes her meds. She's never been prescribed anything before, and she's being very irascible about it. That's actually a relief, it means she's still Mom.

I skipped the last two Tuesday nights. Things settled enough that I met Curt for coffee again this past Sunday, because the family dinner was canceled. All situations are now stable (even at TruFoods, where there are low-level crises every day), though I'm usually exhausted, now included.

I may have something to write about, and time to write it, on Saturday.

***

April 9

The movie today was our third time-spent-together, with only the two of us. Every time, we went Dutch. We took walks after meeting for coffee, so I don't know if those would count as 'dates.' Talking during the walking wasn't especially personal, and once I filled him in on Mom's condition, I steered us away from that. He was suitably sympathetic. Because I had gone through all of it and knew her prognosis and saw her improvement, I may have been less worried about that than he was.

I've drawn him out a little on his work, to balance his visit to my store. The poor guy does customer support, fielding complaints phoned in from angry people.

We haven't divulged our hopes and dreams.

Neither made a point of impressing the other with wit and humor.

We were shallow, and boring.

But the act of conversing led us towards comfort with each other.

Over time, that worked with our text exchange to get me to calm the hell down.

We agreed on the latest walk what we'd do during the movie.

Which was why we picked a movie that wasn't very popular, at a late-afternoon start time on a Saturday, when we were both off work. As hoped, we were among fewer than twenty people who showed up. We got far from everyone else, and whispered quietly.

"I like you," he began, "and I hope you like me."

"I do," I said, approving his approach but already impatient.

"I don't want that to change. If we talk about, um, this, can I know, at least, that we'll still be okay? As, uh, friends?"

He might have been completely sincere, but we hadn't approached this with simple friendship in mind. I was pretty sure he wanted, from that first game night, to nail me.

No, I didn't write that before. It seemed harsh, to commit that to paper about someone I'd just met. This journal may have a lot of what-I-really-meant-was moments.

Back to the movie house. I hadn't yet found anything to dislike about Curt, and I was starting to think of him as good company, as well as a prospect for physical entertainment. His try for pre-emptive damage control fit in with his general behavior. He tended towards joking self-deprecation and at least feigned insecurity.

"I know what the 'this' is," I returned. "I won't get mad at simple questions about it."

"Okay." A pause. "Good, thanks." Another pause. "I'd like to have sex with you. Would you like that?"

I turned so that he could see my smile, even in the theater's dimness. "You're being very sweet, and blameless. So please take this as the joke you left open. I can't guarantee that I'll like it, meaning the sex itself. But I like the idea of you having sex with me. And me having sex with you. So let's go from there."

Which was when I became the insecure one. Through a lot of back and forth, we agreed on going somewhere private for a makeout session, with clothes gradually going away, and hugging, fondling, mouth-on-mouth kissing, him kissing my tits, and crotches being touched, but only by hands. I made it clear to him that if he tried to go past that with me, at that time, the consequences would go beyond not-being-friends.

We both live alone. We agreed on using his place. There can be downsides either way. I could be trapped at his place, or he could be a danger at mine.

I visited the ladies' room on our way out, called my sister Donna, filled her in, and asked her to check up on me in an hour or two.

Curt's apartment is a one-bedroom, smaller than mine.

At my request, we used the living room, and he lowered the shades.

At my next request, he turned on enough lights. I wanted us to look each other over, closely and without shyness.

I also wanted this to happen where there wasn't obvious sex furniture. His sofa didn't seem very seductive.

That didn't stop us from making out on it.

My attempt at restraint was asking that all garment removal be done by the person wearing the garments. He agreed.

When I saw how much he enjoyed what I did, particularly as I pulled off my sweater, I realized that separate stripping didn't make this less enticing.

With more flesh exposed, it got tougher for the makeout to stay platonic.

"Can we finish this standing up?" I said quickly, pulling away and standing. Our main erogenous zones were still covered.

"Okay," he said, with a wheeze. Cooperating with me was taking a toll on him.

He stood, facing me, and shoved down his boxers.

When he straightened up, I got my first look at his equipment. It advanced, perpendicular to his body, from a sandy thatch.

Selectively, I remembered those times when that sort of thing felt really good storming my gates.

For some reason, I calmed down. Curt standing there, naked, tumescent, in his living room, wasn't threatening, or disturbing. It was...acceptable?

I was on the brink of laughing at myself. For his sake, I held back to a smile. "Thanks! I guess I should return the favor."

Still smiling, and keeping my eyes on his, I casually removed my humdrum bra and blah panties.

He smiled.

I was less calm.

"I think we should keep standing," I said, "but go ahead with what we talked about."

And everything went fine, apart from the fact that I really wanted to fuck! More every minute. Starting from a whole-length embrace, ascending as he handled and wet-kissed my boobs, and on through my stroking of his snake, to assess its dimensions and sturdiness, which I judged to be...acceptable.

Then, still standing, we took turns two-handing the other's ya-yas, with detailed instructions, and him darting away briefly to get a towel.

We got the intended results. The towel did what was necessary.

Enough detachment! I felt great, even with a mostly-empty pussy. I shimmied to get more contact with his fingers, a man's fingers, giving me heat, and thrilling tremors, where only my fingers had been, for so long.

My feelings towards the owner of these new fingers went to a higher level of liking.

Then there were some more hugs and kisses, with our bodies no longer nervous.

I assured him that I'd probably like to go farther, but I wouldn't say when.

We were getting dressed when Donna called. I said she could stand down from general quarters, and thanked her.

Curt figured out what that was about. "I understand," he said. "You wanted to be safe." But he looked unhappy.

I didn't give ground, but I realized that he probably wanted me to have told him that I'd asked for that check-in. "My very-slightly-bad," I said. "I may do that again. I can't read your mind, and you're stronger than I am."

Actually, I wasn't sure of that, and he might not be, either. But something else occurred to me, as I wondered whether setting up Donna's call invaded his privacy.

"Do you want everything we do to be private?"

He looked surprised. "Uh, yeah, I guess. Details, anyway. But if we start going steady, I'd be okay if other people know it. Uh, you wouldn't?"

I got a bit hand-fluttery. "That's going way ahead. Um, no, it's because I've been journaling. Would it bother you if I write about what we just did? Pencil and paper, it goes nowhere near the internet." I got more defensive. "It's a woman thing, lately."

I couldn't tell if he was concerned about this, or wanted to look like he was. "As long as you keep it secret." Then he chortled. "I haven't told you my social security number."

I smirked back. "Yeah, identity thieves are behind the whole journaling fad."

We kissed at the door and promised not to ghost each other.

***

April 11

So, if things actually work with Curt, is that a problem? What I mean is, if I'm the only person he's banging, and he's the only one I'm banging, do we become exclusive by default? Will that create assumptions, or expectations? Denise had us welded together at the beginning. Is it better if we both sleep around?

There's so much that could keep that from happening. First, jealousy. I, at least, don't know how I'd react if someone I've bedded beds somebody else. The subject never came up before, because I never spent very much time bedding the same guy.

Okay, I just dug seriously through the memory. One guy, Diego Carrasco, holds the record for Whoopee With Mercedes. Three separate occasions, over a two-month stretch, three years ago. Two party hookups, one actual date. We were both kinda settling. The fact that I couldn't remember right away that I banged him three times says a lot. The sex was nothing to write home about.

That cliché got me giggling. What would writing home about sex look like? 'Dear Grandma, Last night I went home with a guy, and he fucked me real good. I shoved him onto the kitchen table and rode him, and he didn't mind that I had to rub my clit. I told him he was too big for my asshole, but he was fine with that, because I swallowed when I blew him. You already knew I'm not a virgin, right?'

Waaay off topic. I like that scenario, though, except the swallowing. Not my thing.

Back to the point, I hope. I'm thinking about dating more widely as a way for us to avoid getting serious about each other, for a while at least. But for me to have two FWBs, I'd need to have good sex with both of them. Odds are against that. I'd also need time for both of them, and depending on Mom's health, I may not have time for one. I'd also need to be okay with Curt dipping his wick somewhere else, and as I imagine that, I can't say for sure that I am.

Maybe that's because I imagine him with somebody way hotter than I am. Some hard-bodied porno chick.

Curt and Denise? In heels, she's taller than he is.

I started imagining that...and I stopped.

I don't think I've ever stopped in the middle of a fantasy.

I just now thought, I skipped two Tuesdays! And now I can't stop the imagery, of them entwining on a table laid out for a game of Risk, spilling into the Pacific the armies massed in Kamchatka.

Which just means I found a way to make myself miserable.

While laughing.

***

April 12

So, tonight I returned to game night. And I dispelled all of my nonsense, and got another reason to feel good about Curt.

First, there was absolutely no sign, even to my over-heightened senses, that there was any difference in how Curt treated the other women, or how they treated him. Nor in how he treated me.

Second, Curt hadn't disclosed to anyone why I had skipped two weeks. He had that information, from me, but hadn't told anyone at the previous game night. So, on his own, he extended my request to block a Public Display of Anything between us.

I therefore had to explain my absence myself. Not a big deal. By then I had a short-form summary of Mom's situation. This was less trying than at TruFoods, where when asked by staffers about her, I'd give almost daily updates.

Curt was so good at acting like he was hearing this for the first time, that I almost wanted to call him out, even at the risk of giving away our not-a-relationship.

***

April 16

My place this time.

We had planned that first we'd talk about whether we'd go The Rest Of The Way. We did talk, sorta kinda, but not in a calm, reasoned, fully-dressed fashion.

As soon as I welcomed him in, I said that my sister would be checking on my well-being. Then I went to joke level. "And I've left instructions with the District Attorney that if I don't call in three hours, he'll open the envelope with the evidence in it."

He chuckled, but said, "I hope someday to be someone you can trust."

I held out my arms. "I trust you for plenty. Starting with a hug."

Which felt good. I could tell that he really likes being the taller person when doing body contact stuff. He hooked his arms below my armpits to hold my back, and nuzzled my hair. And, damnit, I liked him doing that, but I try not to adopt the state of mind of a kitten curling up in a lap.

He has thin lips. In our previous session I convinced him to work with me on kissing, and not only tongue-dueling. Lips, even his, can provide a variety of sensations to other lips, and mine enjoy those very much. It's why I groove on a good makeout session, and then upset the other maker-outer, and myself, if I have to remind him it won't go any farther.

Now, I slowly unbuttoned his shirt while we reached comparable lip activity. Also slowly, he lifted the back of my blouse out of the jeans' waistband.

I broke lip contact to say, "We still have to talk."

He said, "I know," and resumed our kiss. Very nicely.

I already wanted to fuck, in an even greater frenzy than last time.

My glasses were close to steaming. I needed to see his face clearly, so I dragged my mouth off of his and said, "Boundaries?"

"No pain," he wheezed. "Either way. You?"