So much has changed with my internal landscape. When he found me last year, I was just starting out. I was learning my limits. I was expanding my horizons. I was exploring undiscovered countries in myself, boldly going with callers where no man had gone before, time and time and time again.
And now, while I don't feel jaded, with hundreds more hours of phone time under my belt, I do feel prepared, educated, and perhaps a bit better equipped to care for myself.
During the year, I had found him on FetLife, because he had given me his profile name when we talked last year. Once I joined, I read his profile, which made me miss him, and I tried not to worry about him.
A few months ago, I saw his username and call history show up again in my customer list, but I resisted contacting him for months, in case I tugged a tripwire in some unhelpful way. I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that his name reappearing meant that he had reinstated his account. More than once I kissed my fingertips and touched his name on my screen in a blessing.
(no, I don't actually touch my screen, because I am somewhat of a neurotic geek, but y'know... almost)
Then Aug 2, in a moment of weakness, I suppose, I broke down and wrote to him with a link to the heartbreak blog post. I admit, it was a selfish thing to do. I had thought about doing it dozens of times, and for some reason, that day, I didn't resist the urge.
"Please introduce yourselves," said the automated voice of NiteFlirt, in a rhythm frustratingly slower than when the voice said it eleven months ago. He said his name - just his name, not his name plus his town like he used to say - and I laughed and stammered and felt the emotions wash over me in waves: relief, concern, amusement, guilt, lust. Lots of lust.
"I guess you remember me." Typical of him: understated, wry, terse, and a tiny bit vulnerable underneath.
As it turns out, he had read the heartbreak blog post, back when I had written it, and he never thought I was genuinely mad at him. I mean, sure, I had been furious with him more than once during play times, mostly for denying me his cock when I was begging for it, but he knew I wasn't mad outside of play time. That was a huge relief.
Our unfortunate communication had coincided with his decision to quit phone sex cold turkey for a while. Maybe they were unrelated, but I prefer to think that when I couldn't keep playing that day, perhaps something in the intensity of our exchange helped tip his scales. It is more likely that he was pushing me harder than usual because he knew the scales were tipping that way anyway; it was the last drinking binge of someone about to check himself in to rehab.
He said the blog post was touching, and that he had re-read it more than once when he wanted to feel good about himself. My tears in response to that statement were not the sexy tears of desperation he had caused before, but they were heartfelt nonetheless.
We had a lovely, tender, playful, caring conversation, catching up on the events of our respective almost-year. I said something slightly smart-assed, and he took a long, deep breath, his voice changed, and he asked me, "Did you forget how to address me, bitch?" My heart got so happy it skipped a beat - we were going to play.
And play we did. It was delicious, nourishing, rough and tumble, fun, and just exactly degrading enough for my Inner Emotional Masochist to curl up into a delighted, bruised ball and sleep, satisfied to have her playmate back, even if only one more time.
(Irrelevant and distracting side note regarding the title of the blog post, I remember seeing Rowlf the Dog singing this on The Muppet Show: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltlPINPn8UU. The content of the song is utterly non-applicable here, because I am not trying to get rid of him, but the title made most of me happy, so I kept it, and Inner Editor will have to get over it.)
