sweetiebird: I’ve never played, period. This feels like going to the Galápagos for your junior year abroad when you’ve never even been out of the country.
Mr. Good Time: I bet. Why don’t we start with the boundaries list, then confirm meeting up from there. Keep in mind, nothing’s set in stone. You can add or detract whenever you want, even after we meet.
sweetiebird: Good idea. But I’m experiencing a freeze response about where to start with the list.
Mr. Good Time: If you want, I can walk you through it.
sweetiebird: Yes, I think I’d find that helpful.
Mr. Good Time: Start with the three things that come to mind first. Don’t overthink—just write and press send.
sweetiebird: Okay…
1. no hurting me in ways that leave scars
2. no calling me a bitch or a slur or anything like that
3. NO ADDITIONAL PLAY PARTNERS. (No judgment if that’s somebody’s yum. Polyamory just gives me the ick.)
You were right, btw. Coming up with the start of a boundaries list did make me feel better.
July 21, 5:34 p.m.
sweetiebird: Mr. Good Time?
July 21, 6:34 p.m.
sweetiebird: Was there something wrong with my list? Do you not want to meet up tomorrow? I would really appreciate a reply—I value clear communication, even if it’s negative.
July 21, 9:09 p.m.
Mr. Good Time: Sorry, I got busy at work. Yes, I’d still like to meet in person. Is 8 p.m. okay?
The last message was a lie.
I’d been intrigued by the prospective sub I’d been texting with for weeks. I’d never done scenes with an American before, and the ten-part questionnaire—complete with fifteen sub-questions—she’d sent in response to my profile had caught my attention.
Despite the blackout on identifying information, we’d discovered we had a lot in common: same party affiliation, same views on Indigenous rights, same preference for BBC shows over Canadian and American ones. We even shared the same hot take that the NetflixAnne of Green Gablesadaptation was thebest version yet—and that we’d both been gutted when it was canceled too early.
And perhaps, most importantly, we both like dark romance novels and preferred to keep our sex lives strictly separate from our work and personal lives.
But the no-additional-partners boundary had thrown me for a loop. Of course, I wasn’t looking for anything long-term with someone I met on Fetder—especially considering I had a maul to take into consideration now.
Still, to a full Ayaska, saying polyamory gave you the ick was like telling a Buddhist monk who’d invited you to dinner, “Sorry, Siddhartha gives me the ick.”
Technically, your views didn’t change what he planned to serve. But it might give him pause about whether he’d enjoy your company.
But in the end, I decided it didn’t matter. This first meeting was meant to be informational—just a vibe check to see if a second encounter was even worth discussing.
And honestly, odds of my bear tolerating her scent past a one-night scene were slim. I didn’t care, as long as the woman was into my dynamic.
But my bear could be picky.
In the private elevator of the Tourmaline penthouse suite I liked to use for scenes, I pulled on my red-skeleton ski mask with more curiosity about the one-of-a-kind prospect that had swiped right on me than anticipation.
Prudes could make decent scene partners, but sometimes it wasn’t worth the effort to train them. I wasn’t expecting much when the elevator dinged on the top floor.
Then the doors opened.
