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v u l v a l i c i o u s Unsure, dark groping, a lack of sleep, and 13 It is not about the way anything felt so much as the mere fact of anything actually happening, of having the moment or moments of knowing that something will happen, but not quite expecting it to come to fruition. We've been flirting since the first time we met and I let her paint my toenails as I sat queenlike in a party chair, patting her head when she did a good job. It has continued through performances and nights out, in groups of thoughtful women who exchange compliments freely. It has felt right and good. Last night she was giving out kisses, and I had one. And another. She was tipsy, and I backed off a bit from inside my head. She is married. To a boy. There are wedding rings. There is a child. I believe in sharing all sorts of love and touch and physicality with the people I care about, but not while one of them is under the influence of any substances that may later be used as excuses. The question of other relationahip boundaries is a bit more sticky, of course. My mind was backing away and leaning in all at once, so much so that even I was getting mixed signals. At the hotel, we stayed up even after the others had gone to bed. We watched the sun rise until its brightness hurt our eyes and we had to seek shelter and breakfast. We talked, and had more in common than I had realized. And I could feel that pull, the familiar itchiness that tells me that I will kiss this person, I will touch this person, I will develop a deeper physical bond with this person. I stopped backing away and started leaning in. It was morning, and we let HBO run in the background as we sat together soft touching backs, arms, legs, torsos; stomachs, backs, hands, breasts; ears, faces, breasts, body; anywhere. Kissing. Very wet tongues. Eyes mostly closed. Closer. She traced my stomach lower, but I wasn't sure that she was going where I knew she was. There is the moment of turning back, when the tips of fingers have just begun to wander below traces of clothes still left on. This moment, for me, is filled with the feeling of reckless abandon, of surging forward with giddy delight, of arching my back just so and then pushing searching fingers lower. I wondered in this moment what her moment was, and how it would make her feel when it was over. I wondered what would happen when she was walking in her front door. I thought about our conversation, about the fact that she had probably played these questions out in her mind--in the restaurant, looking at me sheepishly from across the table; in front of the hotel room, legs crossed into one another and talking like we were. I told myself that if she was doing it, it was something she could handle, and that I would just have to brace myself for the awkward conversation that would inevitably arise at some point: that night; yes; it was; I know; but really good; right; and; and; and. A pattern develops. Sleep with her once and only once, move on somehow, feel like a failure and success all at once, repeat every 6-12 months. I'd like for something to happen. I'd like to talk with her more, to have fun with her more, to continue flirting, to develop a deeper emotional relationship that has a corresponding physical component. I'd like not to feel as though all of this means she's actually mine, like a cat I've accidentally adopted by the simple action of caring for its well being. Driving home, it hit me that today is July the 13th, and that I got my tattoo one year ago today. That I found a sticker in the restaurant that said "13 OK" on it. That important things happen to me around 13s. That important things can be good, bad, ugly, indifferent. This is not about the feeling that this was somehow a sweet, unsullied little experience or the start of a terrible affair. Unless it is.
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