I am Right, I Swear I'm Right... Swear I Knew It All Along

June 17 to 19, 2011

It’s been 168 days, 5 months and 15 days since I started talking to her — since she decided I was funny because I mocked her brother’s sofa on Facebook. She decided to say hi after we had fun at his expense, commenting back and forth over the photo.

Tow and I were probably not meant to meet. This was not supposed to work, it was just wrong in too many ways. Tow wanted a steady long-term relationship, whereas I tried to open up to more play partners. She was pretty naïve, unsure about the kink scene, hoping for babies one day, whereas I hated the screaming bastards and participated in classes about anal sex and fisting on a regular basis. The fact that her brother knew about this whole thing and was going to meet up with us might have satisfied my conscience, but did not help much with the awkwardness of the situation. The fact that I got to know her brother 12 years before I even knew she existed, and that I shared an apartment with him at one point, did not help much either. In a way, however, this was just another very normal episode in the Rollins show.

She ran toward me when she saw me enter the airport guest lobby with a happy “Hi ..!!” and gave me a bear hug. Well then. She was real. This was happening. I am batshit crazy. OK, just checking.

There was not much to to say in her car. We covered every possible topic in the half a year that passed, so we made some small talk. The weather. My flight there. (We turned into her street) Her brother. New York. Her school and studies. (She opened the front door with her keys). Her dog, which was now jumping on me. Her ridiculous non-New York rent and her ridiculously huge non-New York apartment. We sat down on the little sofa ... “OK ...”

“Okhaaay....”

It was time, and this was the plan. Like clockwork, she climbed into my lap and I returned her kiss. I didn’t tell her to strip. I didn’t take out my toys (I ran the TSA security officer, “Sir, is this a weapon...?” script way too many times in my head). I didn’t give her instructions or assignments as I usually do. I just slipped into the role we both carefully crafted for months. But then we talked. We just talked. She already knew everything, and I came all this way to drag her by the hair to the bedroom... but instead, we talked.

She was everything I’ve worked for. My most promising project. The one successful experiment in the midst of failed attempts at Rollins Polyamory Labs Inc. She had long since turned into my No. 1 fan. She was scrupulously honest. Exposed. Heart on a sleeve, as she said. We worked out the details, negotiated some possible future scenarios. She had to stay there for at least a year, and I was to keep living my life in New York; we would see what happens, do what feels right, yadda yadda yadda. It took her a couple of months to calm down, to realize I am not going to disappear, that even though I cannot commit to her, I will always be there for her. With time she changed from a girl who needed constant reinforcement into the best living example of my polyamorous beliefs. She was the proof that people like me have room in this world. She was my trophy, my vindication.

I allowed myself to get comfortable. I went for runs in the neighborhood, washed the dishes, took the dog out for walks, watched movies with her, shared the bed with her, showered with her, had sex with her. I was surprised how natural and how calm I felt. It was a vacation, a break from many things, including me.

When it was time to leave, there was no pinch. No sudden sadness. A short hug (no kiss in front of the brother, who came to pick me up). She was standing, only half sad, but still smiling. She was OK... thank god. “It’s working,” I thought. “It’s really working.”

Or was it?

Playing With Fire

Thursday, June 16, 2011

I knew things were going to be different about Napalm when she finally showed up at the New Nostalgia bar. She was pretty late, wearing a fancy prom dress and high heels, which caught me slightly off guard. Before I could really say anything, she rubbed her hand against my back with a friendly “Hey!” and hopped on the stool next to me, as if we’d been dating for a year. “Uh oh,” I heard myself think.

Talking to Napalm was a brutal experience. I usually miss about 5 to 10 percent of what people tell me until I get more used to how they speak — one of my die-hard traits as a non-native English speaker. Years of practice have taught me to reconstruct gaps in sentences and get out of sticky situations, but Napalm proved to be too fast for my conventional methods. I felt myself sinking deeper into stupidity from minute to minute, failing to register the details of the conversation. I kept asking her questions that she already answered. In my head, I was counting: “strike one ... strike two ... your’re outta here!” as a third reference failed to stick to my slowly-panicking mind. I did manage to maintain my calm, however, and ended the date on a rather positive note and a polity kissed her goodnight on the lips as she got into the cab. I sighed with relief and escaped the battle scene like a wounded dog, ready to attend to my wounds — and sexual frustration — alone at the apartment. On the way back, a red light was flashing, “FAIL!” at me before I crossed the road, as I was mumbling under my breath. I am usually in control. What the hell just happened?

I must have been a bit bored, a bit crazy, or very possibly both, to text her later on. I slipped into my false-confident big-boy outfit and figured that, hey, at least I could be polite and say I had a good time. I somehow managed to ask her out again instead, as I worked things out logically in my head: (“she’s pretty hot, she’s still talking to you, you like to make an ass out of yourself, why the hell not?”)

She must have been bored or a bit crazy, too.

Determining our next rendezvous point was up to me, so I made a fine choice of one of the darkest dive bars I know. To face this woman again, I had to hide and speak from the shadows - this much I knew. I was also somewhat self conscious and couldn’t figure out what to wear, so I figured darkness will help there, too. Finally, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to bring up the usual polyamory discussion or let it sit a bit longer. I usually bring it up on the very first date if not before. Second dates are usually for games. What is going on ...?

We sat close, real close. Her eyebrows were talking, her eyes making quick decisions as she gazed at me, the corners of her mouth defying her control and outlining her smirks. Alcohol made things move faster, including the time. She blamed me for keeping her up again on a work night. I almost made the terrible mistake of not walking her home (I never read the manual to traditional dating. I don’t do traditional dating), but I managed to redeem myself at the last minute.

I knew kissing her that night was an introduction, but to what, I could not even imagine. In the days that followed, my already upside-down world was brutally shaken. Years of carefully planned lifestyle spilled on the sidewalk as I grabbed her by the throat, cutting her air supply, pinning her against the wall of her building. I think I heard myself growling. I wasn’t kissing her neck, I was tasting her. I didn’t just rub my nose against her skin, I was sniffing her. Suddenly, I wasn’t really there ... I was looking at myself from the outside. Somewhere far, far in the back of my mind, a demon was nodding, his red muscular scaly arms were crossed over his chest. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about,” he said.

Ring of Fire

Spring, 2007

“You have to tell me to do it.”

Mr. Universe’s eyes were set on mine. We pulled over to the side of the street somewhere in
Newark, and he shifted the car into “park.” In his right hand, glowing between his fingers, was the lit cherry of a Marlboro-Light cigarette, its smoke curling in an upward spiral close to my left arm.

His other hand was now pressing a single dollar bill against the side of my bicep.

The plan was simple enough: Mr. Universe was to press the cigarette to my skin and burn through the dollar bill, and I was supposed to hold still until he was done. The reasoning behind the plan, however, is not something I can explain easily. But I’m going to try.

Mr. Universe was waiting for me to give him permission. Little did he know that he had formed a sacred custom that day, a little ceremony I play out with almost every submissive partner that comes my way. The power of being granted permission to do something can be intoxicating. Even though there were only the two of us in the car, Mr. Universe was not really there. I was there with myself — he merely served as a vessel for my own demons.

“... Do it.”

The heat turned to pain after a split second, and then to a powerful burning pinch which intensified and forced the voice out of my mouth. I wasn’t crying or yelling, I was roaring. I was trying hard not to sound so pathetic, and I don’t remember if it was Mr. Universe who told me to keep quiet and take it like a man, or my own mind who scolded me.

The dollar bill remained whole, showing only little discoloration where it was sandwiched between the burning cigarette and my arm. Mr. Universe suggested we try for a second time. Continuing was not logical. It was dumb, it was stupid, it was idiotic ...

You can do it. You WILL do it.

Mr. Universe pressed the cigarette down at the same spot, burning the already blistering little round wound. I knew it would leave a mark. That was the point. This time I held back a bit longer, perhaps for a split second. I was fighting my own arm that was trying to pull away from the pain and the cigarette. When Mr. Universe stopped again, the dollar bill was smoking a bit. No hole.

“Oh god,” I thought, “he can’t be serious.” I was to take it until the cigarette burned through. I couldn’t. The pain was getting through to me and my brain was yelling at me that I was insane.

I don’t remember asking for a third round, but apparently, I did. The scar I proudly carry on my arm today is made of three dots of pink skin connected together roughly in the upside-down shape of the UK. After the third failed attempt, Mr. Universe explained that the cigarette will never burn through the dollar bill. Something about physics mixed up with fraternity lore Mr. Universe had picked up. He was testing me. Was I testing myself?

My first self-inflicted punishment was severe, but necessary. It was time to let him out for the first time.

Hello, Defeat

Saturday, April 30, 2011

To me, running is not a sport, it’s a religious practice: a holy individualistic-spiritual practice. There’s nothing between the sky, me and the pavement. I take this solitary road to redemption (quite literally) at least once a week. I make it a point not to compete with anyone else but myself. I go as slowly as I need, stop as often as I want and take my time.

This is why, of course, I registered to run with a running group.

I showed up Saturday morning at the meeting location on the Upper East Side exactly when the group concluded a discussion and rushed through the door. I had less than a minute to toss my bag into the bag-check area. Rushing through the door, I chased the group, still trying to untangle my earphones with my hand and teeth, setting up the appropriate running playlist on my phone with the other, and I managed to do it all within four blocks while keeping pace, but not for long.

I found myself with a group of five or six men, all towering over me, on the east side of Central Park. I was running at a speed I usually reserve for self-punishment sessions, the “ I ate junk food for two days in a row” kind. It didn’t take long for the gap to grow. At first I was keeping up — I even managed to get in front of the men briefly, but the expert runners quickly passed me and left me behind.

I felt Betrayed. Angry. Disappointed. I knew I couldn’t keep up, not if I want to be able to use my lungs for the walk back. Looking at them disappearing beyond a curve up ahead, I started feeling the same way I have been often feeling since I moved to the Catalyst's apartment. Now, for the first time, the self-disgust was focused enough for me to finally name it: Defeat.

If I were a normal, healthy-minded person, I would probably feel lousy for a couple of minutes, perhaps sad as I’d walk out of the park, looking down at the pavement, snailing my way back to the meeting point. But I have a weird relationship with negative feelings.

The defeat fueled me in an unexpected way. I felt happy. I was smiling, a second after I realized I was utterly, spiritually and religiously defeated. I was out of my league. I slowed down and started walking, eventually finding myself in the conservatory garden, which led me back out to the street, about 50 blocks away from the starting point. I still do not know how I managed to run 50 blocks up hill at that speed, but I had no choice beside walking my way back to the starting point. Running was not an option anymore.

By the time I got back to the meeting point, it was probably an hour since the last runners picked their bags and left. “How was the run?”, asked one of the organizers, smiling in a “you-suck-snail’s-ass-and-we-know-it” kind of way.

“Great,” I replied sarcastically, but after a short moment I grinned happily: “You know what,” I said, “It wasn’t. It sucked. It was terrible.” I went into the changing room and picked up my bag. “See you next week!” I told him as I closed the door behind me and disappeared into the nearest subway entrance.

Like in any other religious practice I know, running requires its participators to be humbled, even humiliated before before they can be enlightened. That Saturday, I got my dose of enlightenment. In order to be able to get better, I have to fully acknowledge I suck first.

Waiting is Not For Pussies

Wednesday, May 11, 2001

It was our first “official” date.

Mouse was cute, dressed in black, skinny, and taller in a way that almost bothered me. She was mostly baffled, talking to me about her drawings. I was mostly relaxed, sitting back in the chair, checking the time. Looking at her nervous hands, her fingers playing with the tips of her shirt, I felt somewhat ashamed of my naughty thoughts, but I couldn’t help myself. Sex screamed at me from every direction. We were at a free STD clinic after all.

I didn’t plan on meeting new girls, at least not for a while. I held back from digital match-making and for the most part shyed away from anything more physical than a hug. I was focused on getting school work out of way, organizing the apartment, hunting for a job, and basically trying to live like a normal human being. Unfortunately, my logical side signed up for a part-time position.

In about a week, I somehow found myself engaged in kink-related conversations with a several girls and women. When you live my kind of lifestyle, you talk about sex and kink at the same rate other people talk about the economy, politics, or the weather. The fact that I was effectively punishing myself with tighter isolation seemed to have helped this situation somehow..

Slowly, day after day, my ego started shading the “you suck at life” skin. I got angrier. I started to write more frequently. I changed my eating habits, usually making my own food. I started to run more often and lifted weights. My skin got tan from walking outside most of the day instead of staying indoors behind the computer. “Heeeeeeeeeeeere’s Johnny!!” I said to the mirror one day, grinning like a circus freak. When you let a crazy guy like me have his own space, he redefines the term crazy.

But something changed.

Even though I was hungry for new victims, I felt something different this time. I was in control. My recent close encounters were only close. Not only I had the patience, but I found out I enjoyed torturing myself with the wait. This process was starting to be fun.

So there I was in the clinic with Mouse. We both knew that the test results were the last official barrier between “happily platonic” and “it’s complicated.” After that, I could do whatever I wished with her. Right then, I was looking forward to long talks over tea and hookah smoking. I was looking for confessions, pain and cure. In a way, I realized, nurturing her like this was even more selfish of me than anything physical I’d like to do with her. I felt good about holding back my perverted thoughts.

The clinic did not offer all the tests they usually do, which meant waiting even longer. Good. I’d like to handle more of my needs. Down below, my other not-logical part was twisting in pain or in arousal (or probably both) as I considered a couple of naughty ideas. I’m pretty sure it said “go fuck yourself.”

CDs, Girls, and Quality Control.

Monday, April 25, 2011

In Vanillaspeak, Kittycake’s my girlfriend. In Scenespeak, she’s my pet. In neither am I her lover, but the guy on the street in front of me is. They were both chasing each other, giggling, half-drunk with joy and alcohol. Mr. Universe was walking beside me, watching the scene as well. “Kids,” I said, shaking my head. He nodded.

I guess I can be this old.

A couple of hours earlier, Mr. Universe and I had been talking about music as we drove down the road to my new dwellings. Mr. Universe is one of these rare people who have a technology defect: even though completely capable and technology savvy, Mr. Universe does not have the urge to tweet; he rarely logs on Facebook, and if he does, it’s mostly for his girlfriend. His phone would probably have him kicked out of any hipster cafe in my neighborhood, and his somewhat old-fashioned ways (and attire) used to make me think he was a southern brute, as he grew up around the kind of guys who hunt and gut deer. Yet, Mr. Universe is intellectually amazing, witty, and on his way to a Ph.D. in mathematics — something I never imagined him doing when we met years ago.

Considering the above, there’s nothing odd about Mr. Universe’s strange collection of music, consisting of burned CDs shoved into a visor sleeve that had lost its proper place, and was now shoved into the door panel of his car. We discussed the collapsing quality of music, which we agreed was mostly the fault of the “random” function found on any mp3 player in the market today.

“When you go on a trip today,” I noted, “there’s no need to make choices anymore. Your music comes with you. At work, at play, when you drive, when you take a shit … ” Mr. Universe concurred: “There are no longer mixes, or need to choose. Music has become something in the background ... ”

“Something you don’t have to think about anymore,” I said, completing his thought.

Later that night, at the New Nostalgia bar, we had our beers and yelled at each other over the loud music and overly-excited patrons. I coined the term “the twitter effect”: when faced with a choice and limited options, we make better decisions. Twitter’s 140-character limit or a CD’s 12 or so track limit follow the same quality principle. You can’t fit three full Red Hot Chili Peppers albums into one CD, so you choose the one that works best for you. You can’t switch between “anger” and “energy” modes instantly, so you carefully pick up two different mixes.

As for Kittycake, she came to see me the next day again, excited to tell me about her feelings and experiences with her new lover. It was enough to just listen to her voice: I knew how happy she was — I could see it. My head rewound the conversation with Mr. Universe. I had been so limited with my options of my own “lovers” (for a lack of a better term) in the last year, ever since I started dating her. I was thankful for that. The “quality” of my carefully selected close few lovers is apparent.

Perhaps I should start collecting CDs again.

The Apartment.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

I’m a masochist,” I said into the empty space.

I was looking at her backpacks, the ones I should save “in case of fire,” she said. They were leaning against the wall in the long hallway of the apartment. “Why here?” I thought to myself. “Of all places available in this damn city, I chose to move into hers, so I have to face her every day. All day.”

The mute backpacks offered no answer. Neither did her shoes and sandals, (what is it with girls and shoes anyway?) nor her silent DVD player and TV, now disconnected and certain to be left unused. Her coats did answer, however. The fragrant of Herbal Essences mixed with a certain perfume, sneaking out of the closet toward my nose...

ENOUGH.

I’d already ran the Williamsburg Bridge, saw the graffiti that no driver sees, noticed the consistent “nightowl” graffiti on the way back toward Brooklyn. Under the bridge, a ship ripped the water into foamy waves. How many times did she run across...?

Because you’re nuts. You’re fucked up. That’s why. Because you have to earn your way. Because you have to prove to yourself you can do it. GET UP.

The move the previous night wasn’t easy. I managed to almost rip my nails out helping my roommate pull up a queen size mattress up four flights of stairs, driving him mad. I had him help me carry my own things the same way up until one in the morning. Kittycake did not get to sleep as early as she’d intended either. She wanted me to go back and not wake her even later, when I was to return for the final move. “Fine,” was all I said, ignoring both her and the roommate, aggression’s red fog clouded my sympathy toward everyone and everything. I knew my bed was not even set up. I knew I would be too exhausted to try and put it together that night. For all I cared, I was ready to sleep on the subway.

Eat. Get food in your system.

The room started to find shape the next day. Things turned out alright, and I got all the help that I needed at the end, even more than I expected. Kittycake gave me her keys, and I ended up sneaking in without waking her up. My roommate did not bail on me, until the very last minute, shortly before 2 am when he had to return the trailer to U-Haul. My other friend helped me at noon, coming especially from New Jersey, and stayed until after midnight. Slowly, what was once her living room turned into my bedroom. This was where her stand was... This was where her books were... This was where the futon was, where we started drinking beer and my hand....

Sneakers. Fresh Socks. You can use the same shirt for the workout, take your jeans. Earphones.

I saw a picture frame leaning against the wall. I thought it would be one of her art pieces or another photo of some unknown location, one of many decorating her walls. When I turned it over, I saw that it was her looking back at me. The Catalyst.

Earn it. Feel it. Go through it, not around it. Own it. MOVE IT. LEAVE.

“I’m a fucking masochist,” I told the door as I locked it. I took its silence as agreement. Gym was waiting. It was time for my punishment.