Before I dish, make sure you see the post about the Dupont House Tour if you are interested.
Well, it was a weekend of drunken and sexual debauchery. And frankly, I would like to order another. Monday shouldn’t be here. It should be Friday. Because, if it was Friday again, the following would happen all over again.
Friday night. In anticipation of the weekend, I wanted to get my run out of the way. I hit the gym and did some treadmill mileage. Then I went home and rehydrated myself with a few gins while I dressed for the City Sparkle / Virgile Kent birthday event. We went to…well, I don’t even know…a bunch of those fancy clubs on 18th Street with no visible signs out front telling you what they are. You can read the goods on their blogs. Yes, my dress was obscene. Look, I don’t get out to clubs a lot okay? I rarely go anywhere that jeans are not acceptable attire. So there.
Anyway, the man I’ve been calling “new guy” came to pick me up from the club. I convinced him to come inside because some of the partying kiddies wanted to meet him. I did the introductions, then we made our way to the bar and away from the crowd so I could shove my hand in his pants and he could do the same to me. Except I wasn’t wearing pants. Just a tiny string was connecting the front to the back. Well. Not for long.
We left and went back to my place, with full intentions of getting dogs, a rubber band for my hair (I’m obsessive about tying my mop up when I go to sleep) and going to his place. We didn’t make it. Something they call cunnilingus occurred in my building’s elevator. The Board President would be shock…oh, wait. That’s me. Lucky we haven’t installed that camera yet. But next week? No oral sex in the elevator as the camera will be fully operational.
So we got inside my place and he got inside my place and we didn’t leave for a long time. I think we I woke the neighbors. Saturday we woke up, parted ways to do the morning shower routines at our own houses, then reconnected an hour later to spend the day together. And the night. And the next day. And the next night.
There’s really no reason to keep this charade up. When I speak of “new guy,” you all know I’m speaking of Sherlock, right? He’s never gone away. We’ve had a few downs to go with our many many ups, but he’s here and despite the wishes and intentions of some miserable people in this saga, he’s not going anywhere. I’m going to protect this relationship fiercely. It doesn’t mean I won’t write about it, and it doesn’t mean you all can’t comment on it, of course you can. But if anyone physically or otherwise tries to get in the way again, be prepared for what will happen. Is that a threat? Yes. Consider it a direct threat. Stay out of our lives, and I’ll refrain from making yours a living fucking hell.
The name “Sherlock” connotes to me a time and place of this relationship that no longer exists. The name reminds me of a rough start, some inconsistent stories (that occurred while we were not together) and some generally crappy times. The name “new guy” really just covers a man I’ve had incredible sex with in some very public locations. I really need a name that works for the long term. Upstairs Neighbor, who has a knack for coming up with some hilarious names, suggested Mr.PantsOnFire, and has taken to calling him that in our email exchanges. I think that’s the name. It works in a double entendre kind of way, and it helps trim down the many many names I’ve been using for the same man.
Finally, the truth. Damn it feels good. I hated lying to you kids, but I had to protect my relationship.