conference fling

Q: What’s more fun than Wolf Parade in Toronto?
A: Getting it on with a hot Californian.

That’s right. On the 9th of August, I will hie myself out to the Ottawa airport to pick up one CT, who, I hope, will have been napping on the plane, resting up for the ravaging he’s going to receive about 2 seconds after I push him in the front door of my house.

I’m not sure I’m very good at Conference Flings.

As you probably gathered, it was an intense experience. Conferences are a universe unto themselves. A fling becomes a tiny system whirling within that, where only the two of you, each circling the other, exist. The conference goings-on lose colour; the rest of your life seems like it happened to someone else in a different dimension, may still even be happening to some other you. Your energy is focussed on this other person, suspended in this nowhere time.

You use the leftover scraps of your brain to take very conscientious notes so you can justify the fucking.

It is entirely a drug. I felt high and bruised from the moment CT walked into my room with condoms until I landed in the Ottawa airport.

The come down was brutal. To describe it as withdrawal would not be overstating the case. My body sent whatever hormones at its disposal in scrabbling little claws through my veins. The absence of his body and his hands on my body was all I could think about. It was a physical ache spread all through me.

He emailed. I emailed. I’d open his next one and I’d feel my blood pressure lower quickly, all the blood to my cunt, my head swimmy with lust.

I emailed and said I know this is crazy, to think of stretching this on, but oh, was I having a crush, yes I was, and if he wanted to come up here for a weekend and fuck my brains out, I had two of ‘em free in August.

He chose both.

That rather floored me. I expressed some reservations about a week-long visit between two people who hardly know each other. He sent back thoughtful, articulate responses. I decided to damn the torpedoes and told him to book those tickets.

We’re taking a chance, we both know it. After a few days, he might be thoroughly tired of me putting things back in the right place or liking to be busy all the time. I might be totally sick of some habit of his that I can’t dream up right now.

Worse yet - it may be great.

We walked home quickly from the bar, from one end of the French Quarter, through the epiphytes and wrought iron, to our hotels at the other. Part way home, in front of St Louis Cathedral, CT slowed his stride and half turned. I half turned too, looked up at him, we laughed and kissed.

“Figured the church would enjoy that.”
“It’s a good place for a first kiss. Indeed.”

A month or so ago maybe, at a Venus Envy Bursary Fund meeting, we decided that kissers came in two styles: lip kissers and tongue kissers. All present were tongue kissers, and though of course we thought our way was the best way, we also agreed that the hardest thing was a lip kisser and a tongue kisser together.

So when CT let his mouth open slightly after a moment or two, when I felt his body sigh when I licked his lips, you know, we could have been anywhere and I would have thought it was a pretty good place for a first kiss.

His hotel was right around the corner from mine, and not so many blocks away from where we were. There were important things to figure out before then.

“So,” I said. “I guess this is where I say your place or mine.”

As mentioned before, I gave myself a white slip on this trip to let go a bit. That didn’t impact my decision to take CT home with me. But I think there are two things that made a key difference to how it rolled out.

First, my room was a mess. At least for me. I’d left my yoga mat out in the middle of the floor, my laundry was piled in a couple different places, papers and books and conference tchotckes were scattered about in no order at all. It may not be a radical shift in the world, but anyone who’s seen my apartment or let me organize their cupboards knows that it’s a rare occurrence for my things to be out of order, and even more rare that I let somebody see me that way.

Second, I was in no way interested in being in control of the safer sex stuff. I am most comfortable in control, which is an awkward thing for a natural bottom. Besides a little confusion, it means I’m almost always the one who provides the what-have-you that the who-have-you needs. Generally, this feels fair enough, because my policies are more defined and stricter than most people’s. Understandable. I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking and teaching about it.

But this time? Nuh-unh. When it turned out he hadn’t packed condoms* either, I gagged the little voice that started to make plans about where they could be procured. White Slip Girl said “Fucking relax. If he wants to get in there, he can find condoms.” Apparently, it’s more difficult than you might think to find rubbers in the French Quarter at 2 am. I lolled in bed while he scoured the streets. I felt calm and open.

This is the joy and the danger of the Conference Fling.

Depending on how people get together, there can be two first times. There’s the first night fumbling after the bar, your guard down, the dark smoothing out edges you’d prefer stayed unseen. Then there’s the sober next time with the lights on or the sun streaming in; and you feel exposed and new and shy in a way you hadn’t the night, the week, the month before, and this time you have to coax yourself into opening for this person you’ve already let deep in there.

The letting go.

Taking the elevator down to breakfast, I could feel the whisker burn in a bright red patch on my right cheek. I could feel how tender my entire body was. There was an ease and solidity to my physical presence I think I don’t often have. As I walked a few blocks looking for food, people stared, blinking their eyes at me, with small smiles and a bit of wonder. I must have looked like I felt: a woman well-fucked and sated.

Over the next 30 hours, I came more than I slept.

Though it wasn’t all sex. We went to the conference sessions; we wandered through the Quarter trying to find El Gato Negro, where I tried to stay awake over tacos; we tried to find the Ploners for a last night drink. We talked, a lot. I told some of my secrets.

When CT walked me downstairs at 4:30 Friday morning to catch a cab to the airport, we’d had a couple hours of something that approximated sleep. I was so tired I'd kept waking up, afraid I’d slept in. Out on the street in the wee smas there not a cab to be seen.

I looked up and down the street, started getting nervous about missing the flight. My mind got pulled from the bubble we’d been floating in, needing whatever juice was left in there to manage these logistics.

I looked up at CT. His eyes were half closed, and I could see the warring factions across his face.

“You know,” I cupped his cheek, “You should go sleep. I can totally tell you want to stay and be chivalrous, but honestly, I’ll be fine. Look, there’s a cab way up there. Please, it’s good.”

He hemmed and hawed and acquiesced. We squeezed our arms under each other’s backpacks and shared a tight hug. He leaned down and kissed me. We said goodbye. He walked a few steps, turned, smiled, said “Have a great rest of your life!” I laughed.

The cab from way up there passed me by; I walked back into the hotel to call another.

*The one safer sex item you can’t do without, no matter the combination of bodies. My usual kit includes condoms, dams and lube. It used to include gloves as well, but I’ve eased up on the glove business in the past year or two. So we didn’t have lube that first night, but bought some the next day. I ended up getting, and bringing home, Wet Bare and Natural, which was nice because it’s glycerine and paraben free, but it’s thin like water, which is not my favourite lube consistency. And it smelled a bit like green apples. But close enough.

The game was 10 minutes from ending, CT’s team in the lead. I watched the last few minutes; or rather, I watched him and the one other Redwings fan at the bar watch the game. The right team won, CT bounded up for a short burst of cheers and high fives. When he came back he directed his full attention towards me. It was not inconsiderable. I pushed the St. Ambroise over, we clinked, smiled, tipped it back.

And settled into a genuine, easy, interesting conversation. I was just drunk enough that I decided to say a fuck you to his seeming reserve and pry into his personal life. I asked how long he’d been single and he answered. It stayed personal too. Though I don’t think we told any big secrets, it wasn’t small talk by a long shot.

I let my leg touch his. He didn’t move.

We stayed like that a bit, but I couldn’t stand still. I got my fidgets on, like I do when I’m around someone who’s captured my interest, whether I know it yet or not. Physically self-conscious: was I standing with my back too arched, was I turned too much towards him, had he noticed our legs were touching? I kept shifting position and jittering myself out of it and into another. I was already putting it down, I knew, knowing well enough by now how to read my own body's signals. But my brain wasn't quite yet along for the ride.

I had an internal debate. Hadn't gotten any actual rebuff, but nothing stronger than an interesting conversation and our calves against one another. There was a higher chance than I’m used to that he might say no.*

Having been drinking for about as long as I've been having sex, I knew that if I had another beer, I’d get loosened up just enough to think I didn’t care. I drained the bottle.

-Yeah, I’ll have another. You?

Eventually the Ploners at the other end of the bar, where Trish was, started fomenting plans to hit the strip clubs on Bourbon. When Trish came down and asked if we wanted to go, I thought, Yes, it will give me more time to ask, and No, I’d rather be fucking.

My regular readers will not be surprised to know that what started to worry me was logistics. I was envisioning the end of the night, the three of us, me, CT and Trish, all together, standing on a green neon street corner, a drifting quiet island in the chaos, saying the longest goodbye ever.

At that point, the fucking’d be scuppered. There’s no way I was going to make a move on someone in front of their co-worker, and I was 100% certain he wouldn’t either. I knew I needed to act, that we needed to figure out if we had the same end goal. If that were true, the details could be managed.

So I just had to say it. But how, and when, and what exactly? This is the danger and the excitement of meeting someone new. The thrill of taking a chance and playing the odds. Because it might be shitty if they say no, but it's a pure electric jolt when they smile their devilish smile.

It’s a good thing that the the Plone group was breaking up a little bit, plans being made; people were joining us and melting back into the crowd again. My tipsy brain was strategizing, and I used the Ploner interruptions to mentally review the pros and cons of various approaches. I chose what felt like the right words, rolled them around in my mouth with the last swigs of beer.

I took a few deep breaths to slow my heart. I let one opportunity get away from me. Trish came back, I asked her if plans for the strip club were being set, she wasn’t sure, and walked away to check.

Not another. I leaned over, put my mouth next to his ear, told him I was hoping the night might end with us kissing. I pulled back and looked him in the eyes, he gave me that look, said he hoped he’d been making his intentions clear, and did I really want to go to the strip club, or maybe did I want to leave right now?

I did.

*Which is not to be conceited, only to say that I am conservative in my asking.

It was entirely unexpected.

For instance, just a couple weeks ago, I informed one smokin hot woman that I was feeling the need to cool things down in my life, dating/sex-wise. For instance, right around the same time, I was writing to Shelley and mentioned that these days I'm not particularly interested in, how you say, putting the meat on my grill. For instance, I thought about packing safer sex stuff and then thought 1) it never happens, even when I want it to and 2) I don't want it to.

Not that that stopped me at all from doing the Cute Survey as soon as I waked into Bootcamp. There weren't many people there, and it wasn't systematic. Just automatic. I noticed a nice looking beaky-nosed dark-haired boy who was pinging my gaydar. I noticed a cute dark-haired potential dyke, and a cute sandy-haired boy sitting beside her.

I sat down by myself, and talked, but only briefly, to the beaky-nosed boy after I thought he might be a librarian. He wasn't. I ate by myself, I walked around by myself. I was perfectly happy. But by Tuesday, I’d been alone in a strange city for two days, and thought I wouldn't mind a little company. Enter the Tegan & Sara hoodie.

Even after we all started hanging out, pants removal wasn't particularly on my mind.

The first couple conversations I had with them didn't go all that well. Waiting in line for lunch, they asked me what I'd done the night before, and I said something about hating Bourbon Street and the dumb looking grenade drinks. I asked them what they did and they had toured Bourbon Street drinking Hand Grenades. When I said where I was from, CT asked me if I liked hockey. At first I thought it was one of those random Canadian questions: “Do you like maple syrup?” “Do you all live in igloos?” I believed I squinched up my face, pursed and pouted my lips, and said "Nooooooo." But then, oh, oops, did he? Yes, very much. Plays three times a week. In California.

With moves like that, the miracle is not that I got laid in New Orleans; it's that I have any friends at all.

Interesting how that happens, eh? That click. Because 4 of us went out for that lunch, but the other guy didn't last. He was totally dead weight. Maybe I got in by comparison? Maybe it was my skills with shucking crawfish. Shared humour? All around the same age?

I'm not sure, because most people at the Bootcamp were under 35, I'd wager, and I heard lots of people laughing. We didn't really hang out with any of the rest of them, not really.

But we did. Click. The three of us. And like I said, for the next 30 or so hours we moved as a unit, going for naps (to our separate rooms) at the same time, planning dinners, and wandering together.

I can't say, though, that I felt a particular click with CT right away. Thought he was cute, for sure - 6'4", thin, square shouldered, strawberry blond hair, light eyes, nice smile. You've just described my last two boyfriends, so yeah, I was certainly not blind to the fact that he fit a form I am generally warm for. But also, over dinner and sight-seeing and conference sessions the next day, I realized, noticing his hands, the way he moved, his particular instance of it.

Still, I wasn't convinced that the Conference Fling was something I wanted to explore. Fucking someone just so I could say I’ve had a conference fling is not my style. And I've had enough sex that I don’t need to have it just because a cute boy might be available.

With emphasis on might be. There were a few clues, for sure. He mentioned that his most recent girlfriend was an ex-girlfriend. We sought out and maintained eye contact a little more often and longer than was maybe necessary. The look on his face in the beignets photo. He was making jokes that were maybe trying to impress me. And that was it.

Now, when it comes to picking up, I'm not an idiot. I'm not willing to bang my head against the wall. If I'm going to be putting it down, I need to be close to 100% certain it's going to be picked up. If I'm going to enter into the game, I generally need a hell of a lot more to go on than relationship status and a few shared looks.

Like beer.

Not that we hadn't been out drinking together. We had, on Tuesday night, at many fine establishments, not to mention the middle of the street. That was the three of us though, which unsurprisingly was a very different vibe altogether.

Over the first day and some, in the few stretches that CT and I spent alone, we were a little uneasy, at a bit of a loss as to what to say. But that often happens with introverts, and especially introverts who are spending 80% of their waking hours together after having just met in a pretty random fashion. So I didn't take that one way or the other, but it certainly didn't make me think that he wanted me to be putting anything down.

But Wednesday night, we went drinking again, this time with the rest of the Plone crowd. CT was at one end of the bar, watching the hockey game. The rest of us Ploners were at the other, drinking and chatting. I had really interesting and super-nerdy conversations with some of the other delegates. I got shocked by the fact that the people who work on our website all thought I was in my 50s. That's what good grammar gets you.

I finished my beer. Wove through the getting weavy crowd, stood beside CT and ordered another, asked how the game was going. I had dressed for the occasion, tight shirt and short skirt, a little self-conscious that this was already an invitation that might be declined.