First Step into the Demimonde
"You'll have to be patient with me. I've never done anything like this."
"Trust me, I get it."
“How did you get your start in this?”
My first step into the demimonde was on the other side of the table. Today is the anniversary of waking up completely unpunished.
I'd finally had the rendezvous I'd been fantasizing about for years. I lingered in my hotel bed for as long as I could, dressed, and got a ride to the Mother's Day brunch at my favorite Italian restaurant. I ate quattro formaggio pizza with gusto and sipped my Aperol spritz. Flying high from the festivities of the past evening, the starch and fat of the pizza grounded me again.
I had vacillated for years. How? When? Could I? Am I lesser for not taking my chances in the wild? I had tried. Attempts to find what I wanted organically were fraught. I was embarrassed to find myself well into my thirties and still aching for some exploration. My Mormon upbringing did not allow for this at any age. The instruction of my youth could be summarized as follows:
Sex is the dirtiest, filthiest thing you save for the person you love most on your wedding night.
There are two kinds of people in this world—those who are straight and those who are confused.
Perhaps my overripe fascination should stay in the realm of fantasy? I didn’t want to engage with a woman only to realize my interest ended at the boundary of my imagination. I never wanted to make anyone feel like an “experiment”. An arrangement would give me clear boundaries to experiment within and hopefully get me some extra grace.
I remember savoring every line of this woman’s website, drinking in every picture, reading every line of her policies ten times over. Every rule was to be obeyed to the letter. I was scared, nervous, excited.
How would I feel the morning after? Guilty? Free? Embarrassed? Dirty in a Sunday School kind of way?
My ride dropped me off at a hotel to meet the beautiful woman for drinks & apps. If all went well, we could continue our rendezvous upstairs. This was to be real flesh and blood sapphic fornication. A ticket straight to hell. The anticipation was killing me. I’d gladly shake hands with the devil for this.
The red light of the gorgeous art deco bar set the proper mood. I nervously rattled off historical facts regarding the bar’s name and creator, and recounted an unforgettable night when American G.I.’s ripped Italian and German murals from the walls and threw them in the street.
Her dress was white linen. She loved mezcal and recounted her recent travel to New Orleans. One drink in, she asked, “What’s sex to you?” I struggled for words. No one had ever asked me that before.
“Well this is great.” I replied, gesturing to her, the cocktails, and the charcuterie. “Boobs are great too.” She laughed looking down at her large breasts. The strap of her dress gracefully slipped off her right shoulder, revealing her pearl white skin and delicate collarbone. She let it linger undone for a moment before slipping it back into place.
“I am open. Curious.” I said.
“It can be whatever it is. Snuggling, Kissing. Whatever you’d like it to be.”
“Perfect.”
“I’m enjoying our time together. Would you like to continue upstairs?” she asked.
Perhaps it was the second drink, but I had never felt so sure I wanted to make a fantasy real.
“Absolutely.”
The next morning, I lay in bed smiling up at the ceiling. Sunlight poked through the damask curtains. I fondly replayed events from the previous evening.
Guiltless. Shameless. Relief I had finally made real something I’d only fantasized about for far too long. Out of the shadows and into real flesh and blood—I felt ecstatic. Grateful to the beautiful woman who had given me grace and freedom to try.
“Please be patient with me. I’m a bit nervous.”
“You’re perfectly fine. I get it. I really do.”