“Thanks for coming over.”

“My pleasure, definitely.” I pause. We’re rolling around in bed, sheets tangled, hands sticky, reaking of sex. “I am enjoying this invite-myself-to-your-place-to-fuck-you thing.”

Joy laughs. “Oh, I guess that answers that question.”

“Of whether or not I’m enjoying myself?”

“Of what we’re doing. I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday and she asked asked if I was dating you or just fucking you. I told her you were coming over tomorrow to fuck me for four hours, from 11 to 3, and she said well, then you’re fucking.”

I pause again. We shift and she lays her head on my thigh. “Is that okay?” I ask, voice tender.

She almost nods. Her eyes are disappointed. “I’ll think about it..”

“It’s … all I have to offer right now.”

She nods again, almost. Looks away. I cradle her for a minute longer, lay her back out against the pillow, and then rise to gather my clothes.

She walks me to the subway. “Have a good time at the concert,” she says, with a chaste kiss on the lips.

“It was good to see you,” I say as she turned.

She looks back. “You, too,” and leaves.

That wasn’t really how I’d hoped that conversation would go, but it’s out there now.

-

Later last week, she emailed me: What I want out of a hypothetical relationship is flexible, as I am no longer in either my must-get-hitched phase nor my Era of Skank, so I am pretty open to whatever comes along and works, What I want from you is pretty open too, but I do know that I like spending time with you …

But something has shifted in me, and I may’ve already lost interest. I like her, the sex on this date was incredible, actually, better than ever, we are learning each other impressively, she is bottoming in a new, dynamic, interesting way. And she’s smokin hot. I feel like I should want to keep her, want to work to be in this with her, that she is giving me everything I’m asking her for, that she is interesting and smart and fucken sexy and eager and GGG.

But that’s not it. Something is missing. And since last Saturday, something has already shifted.

I don’t want someone who is willing to do what and be who I am looking for, I want someone who is desperate for someone with my interests and dynamics, the flip side of my coin, who is looking for precisely what I have to offer.

And what do I have to offer? Well, there’s the kinky-queer-butch-top thing, you know all about that. There’s gender theory and swing dancing, flowers and occasional dates out on the town, intellectually stimulating conversation and social theories and the study of oppression. There’s emotional exploration without attachment or clingy-ness, without demands or expectations. There’s my GGG streak which means I will work my ass off for just about anything you ask me to do. There’s passion, stimulation.

And I have a date tonight with a new girl who may exactly compliment these things. In response to my short, aren’t-I-interesting email, she wrote:

I will know more tonight. We are meeting at a wine bar. I will be packing of course, and wearing a tie and button down, leather jacket, motorcycle boots, now that it’s fall.

I told her she better be wearing her glasses. She wrote, “I will wear anything you want, sugar.”