Mr. Unavailable #125: Dens of Sin

See Fetishists Are People, Too for the background on this one.

So, where were we… back at the den of sin, #125 had just finished showing me photos of his black leather-and-lace-bound crotch and I was trying to deactivate and disguise my instinct to flee, so I was keeping a close eye on my body language. Pre-fetish-and-swinger revelation, we were both turned toward each other, my legs were crossed toward him, his arm was resting around the back of the banquette. But there was duplicity in the air; maybe he was watching his body language, too.

“I like that you seem more curious than judgmental,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m not one to judge people….(freak).”

He told me he’d gotten into the two scenes ten years ago in Boston, but that New York City was much better for that sort of thing. New York better for non-committal fetish and multiple-partner sex than Boston? I could have told you that.

Although that wasn’t hard to believe, when someone is telling me something that really is hard to believe, I ask, “Really?” It’s a habit I’ve gotten into over the years. And because I was hearing quite a lot of unbelievable stuff, I was saying “Really?” a lot.

The third or fourth time I did it, he looked at me and said, “Yes. And you don’t need to ask again.” The way he looked at me steadily without changing his expression—no emotion, no apology—was startling.

I knew I would never marry this guy but I still wanted a peek into his proclivities, so I slid closer to him and said, “OK.” And then my red dress came to the rescue. The straps had been sliding down all night and I’d slide them back up. Down, up; down, up. And then one of them went down.

“You know, you can just leave that down. It’s very sexy. And you look great in that dress.” Then he slid the other strap off my shoulder.

Now back on friendlier ground, I went to the bathroom and texted Zoe: “He’s a swinger and fetishist! But he’s so nice.”

I came back out and said I should probably be going home—work tomorrow and all. He paid the tab and led me out in a gentlemanly way. We put our arms around each other as we walked down the street toward home—my home.

“There’s a naked painting party coming up,” he said, adding that they were held at a bar on the Lower East Side. I restrained my urge to ask, “Really?” I would have thought something like that would be held in a gritty, abandoned warehouse out in Bed-Stuy, not at a bar down the street.

“Oh, I saw photos of that on Facebook,” I said.

“I let you have access to those? That must mean I really like you,” he said, squeezing me closer. In the photos, everyone was mostly naked but covered in paint. It looked much more constructive than just sitting at a bar, clothed.

We got to my doorstep and immediately started making out.

“You’re neat,” I said.

“You’re neat, too,” he said. As we looked at each other—and I can’t think of any other way to describe it—his eyes flickered. It was kind of gay.

And then I said good-night. I know, I know, why didn’t I invite this handsome but gay-ish swinger and fetishist who clearly wanted to share his package with me up to my apartment? Well, I figured I’d draw out the excitement. I mean, even waiting one extra date makes things a little more exciting.

He texted me about 30 minutes later: “Had great fun getting to know you. ;)”

Signs of Hope: The strap episode, him walking me home, the make-out session, his post-date text

Red Flags: The mild feeling of duplicity I was getting. His odd reaction to my “Really?”ing him.

Turning Point: None. After I stifled my instinct to flee, it was full steam ahead.

Diagnosis: For him: Interested? Yes, in me and thousands of others. Available? Yes, to me and thousands of others.
For me: I’m beginning to like the idea of being introduced to his lifestyle. My 40s are right around the corner. Might as well flaunt it while I’ve got it.