Monday, June 30, 2008

Knocking on the door of the mole hole

I am a worry wort. Which of course is not a very useful thing to be.

I look ahead too much. I conjure up things that could go wrong. It’s the downside of the same overactive imagination that makes me such a very satisfying submissive to own.

I had hoped to see my master this weekend. (See what a submissive mood I’m in? Normally I would have used “the philosopher” to refer to the man who delights and torments me.)

Note that I said I had “hoped” to see him. I didn’t expect to see him. I have a 3-day weekend ahead (4th of July for you readers not anchored to the United States in one way or another), and don’t have another one till Labor Day (beginning of September). I’m pretty new at my job, and what with vacation days taken now and then to facilitate trips to my aged parents and a week off in August for a music and dance camp, I don’t have any extra days coming in a while.

Not that a visit has to be confined to a 3-day weekend… but it would be nice. Especially since it means a guarantee of having the dungeon to ourselves when my housemate is at work. And part of me is decidedly relieved that neither of us have to face holiday weekend traffic. But still… I had hopes.

There was a 4-month separation over the winter and spring, due to academic and psychological pressures. I had hopes (that word again…) that perhaps the summer would be a little easier. There is still the pressure of the dissertation, but no teaching to gobble up time and attention.

The Fourth was thrown onto the table. No promises, no pushing, it was just there. Then a family party popped up. I knew that would take precedence; it sounded as if there might be some sort of happy announcement, and he has already missed family gatherings due to visits out of town to his mysterious woman friend in DC. I made a completely ironic comment that of course I could drive up and come with to the party – and was quite taken aback when he said “may-be” in a very funny inflection going first down and then up. Now although I’m dying to meet his family (they fascinate me!), I fully understand his discomfort with the idea – because I sure as hell am not rushing to take him to visit my family, despite their professed eagerness to meet him. (They know he makes me happy, and somehow, finally, that seems to be enough for them.) So I never really expected to go, and never really expected him to give up going.

But, trying to be a very well-behaved and submissive slave, I did manage to hold off nagging for a straight answer, and after a couple of very polite and well-spaced requests for knowledge, the verdict I knew all along was coming finally came last night – accompanied by no clues as to when a visit might indeed occur. Which left me feeling like a demanding nag, something I definitely don’t want to be.

And it left me feeling uneasy. Because I’m just not sure why he holds back so much about visiting. And has from the start.

I do know some of the reasons. He has doled out some of the reasons reluctantly. They always feel like gifts, little chocolate truffles with a sweet and sour center – sweet from the trust that it took to share his weaknesses, and sour because of the problems that crowd the room and the bed.

It was last night that he finally admitted that we wouldn’t see each other this weekend. I was supportive, not surprised, understanding, cautiously proposing other schedules – and all the while hoping I wasn’t being too pushy. All the while hoping that there wouldn’t be another 3-4 month separation.

I was so good as we talked before bedtime. And then overnight, the sour parts churned and I awoke feeling queasy.

I worry. I fret. I speculate.

He has described himself as risk averse – and although we can say he has lost his right to that title, it’s not really true. He has said he’s a control freak – and I think that, too, applies even outside the dungeon, as I think he likes to have control of his surroundings. I think it goes with being a homebody – a term that is also his. He curls up in his nest, his sorties outside limited in frequency and destination. He guards his privacy jealously, in sometimes curious ways. I have his parents’ address but not his own. (And no, you silly suspicious people, there is no way he is married.)

He is happy when he is here. The traveling is no longer a source of stress. He sleeps well here and is relaxed and seems to feel at home. He has met my friends, at his own request. His toothbrush faces mine and he has a drawer devoted to his underwear (along with my pretty white half-apron that I wear when serving him tea).

He used to fret a lot about the problems of a long-distance relationship, making me think he would have liked someone nearby with whom he could easily share meals and movies and sex and friendship. But maybe in some way this suits him. It is easier to control the disruptions of his mole-hole life. Not that I was planning on renting a U-Haul as soon as he finally landed his degree. I’ve done enough chasing of academicians around the country and around the world. I’m not eager to upend my own life. I like my little house and the 2 cats and my friends nearby. But there’s a hole that none of them can fill – and none of my toys can fill it either. It’s the hole that is filled when we are curled up together, when I feel his warmth next to mine, when the conversation about film and theology and politics and porn is not filtered through Verizon’s technology. I feel complete when he is here. I don’t feel lonely when he is here. I feel safe when he is here. And I worry that there’s some reason why he can’t handle being here more often than every few months.

So am I creating things to worry about? Maybe… there’s no denying that I’m a certified nut-job. And I’m pretty sure that, like me (we ARE too damn much alike), he has summer SAD, which like the winter version makes me want to curl up in my own mole-hole until the weather cools. But maybe he’s just one of those confirmed bachelors, like Henry Higgins, though perhaps not quite that extreme. He’s willing to let a woman in his life, but only on a very limited schedule.

I don’t think it’s because of me…

I hope it’s not because of me…

And I hope it’s safe to say these things without his crawling deep into the mole-hole and shutting the door after posting a big sign that reads:

”I Don’t Know What to Say, Kitten.”

- - - - - - -


we talked.
for a long time.
there are problems.
my mood swings.
we both have moods...
at least he's talking.
but he doesn't want the distraction.
he doesn't need the distraction.
he can't afford distraction.

we're so good when we're together... does this really mean we can't have a long-distance relationship because we can't be apart?

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