I was about to head out to the wedding when I received an email from Mr. Thereltls:
So my txt was not really well-considered. I was delaying writing you because I've got mixed and confusing inclinations about all this and was hoping I could figure them out before writing. So I spent last night drinking too much and ranting with friends about unrelated topics, which surprise turned out to not have helped me figure my shit out at all.
I'm just feeling intimidated and uncertain about our kinkiness. On one hand I've been feeling "aaa this is weird, run away". But I'm also feeling like this is fun and new and hot and fascinating, and I should get over my bs and try it again. So if you can forgive my impulsive txt and my erratic emotions.... I'm free on your free nights this week.
And if I've spooked you or your schedule has filled up, then I would be disappointed... but I'd understand. Sorry about the drama. I'm usually drama-free, I swear.
It was amazing how much further my internal anxieties resolved themselves upon receipt of this email: it was not only concrete evidence that men are human beings who are frequently just as confused as I am; not only concrete evidence that men are different from each other, and assumptions should not be made about how they're feeling; but also, it was concrete evidence that a man (a vanilla-but-questioning man, no less!) might not inevitably fall into the stereotypes that feed my fears.
I was still a little bit spooked, of course, but I did indeed see Mr. Thereltls later that week, and it turned out great. And as I was pulling myself together to leave his apartment, I raised my eyebrows at him. "I don't know if I'll ever see you again,” I said, fishing. I didn't have any nights open before I was due to catch my plane out of the city, but maybe some other time....
"You'll see me again," he obliged. I zipped up my backpack. "I wonder why we have so much chemistry."
"I don't know," he said, "but I'll read about it on your blog when you figure it out,” and he laughed and caught my wrists when I pretended to punch him. It was such a stupidly adorable moment that I am almost ashamed to write it down, but it was also such a cypress moment, I've got to mention it.
As for The Artist, we went to a charming museum a few days before I left, and had a fine old time. There was almost no tension at all. Right before we parted, we inevitably ended up discussing our brief romance, and the conversation was gloriously friendly. "No hard feelings," I said as I walked him to the bus, and meant it.
I then tried to walk away from the bus, but it turned at the same corner I did and chased me down the street. Ack, I couldn't help thinking, so much for a nice clean exit. I was suddenly possessed by ridiculous performance anxiety, knowing he could see me, so I paused and took a drag of a passing gentleman's cigarette, and then deliberately zigzagged away from the bus again.
The Artist texted me fifteen seconds later: "That puff of a cigarette looked mighty tasty."
"I needed it to relieve my feelings of being watched from the bus," I texted back, then
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