I've always been vaguely interested in S&M. It involves men and nudity, so that shouldn't be a huge surprise. It's not the pain or humiliation that attracts me, but the commitment. The drive. The idea that there's going to be a responsible guy in charge, and all I have to do is lay there and tell him when to stop.
See, people assume a ridiculously tall guy is going to be forceful in bed. Maybe it's true with some of us, but it's certainly not true with me. I expend so much energy just moving my overstretched limbs that by the time I get horizontal I just want the swelling to go down. I cluelessly pick up a butch-looking dude, only to spend the rest of the evening laying around and repeating, "I don't know, what do you want to do?" until David Letterman comes on.
I'm tired of everybody being on their best behavior because they're afraid of me. Yeah, like I'm going to hurt them. The only thing I break are ceiling fans.
So, I go to a couple S&M-themed parties, just to get an idea of what's in store. I learn how to wrap a man in cling film. I see a dude crucified in the parking lot of a bar. Neither get me the slightest bit aroused, although the former makes me popular at picnics. Still, I resolve that if somebody suggests it, I'll jump. I mean, it's always seemed inevitable. My personality is basically begging to be smacked.
When I spot Carl at a party I think, "That's kind of a hot man." This is actually the optimal situation for finding a potential boyfriend, because without the "kind of" clause I assume I haven't got a chance. He's handsome, but he's at least 40 and he clearly hasn't exercised for at least 35 of those years.
I sidle over to him next to the blintz bar. (Apparently S&M fans are also kinky with food.) He doesn't have problems with drive or ambition, that's for sure. He teaches medieval literature at a top New York university, he has a vacation home in Montauk, and he's the vice president of an S&M club, which means we have absolutely zero to talk about. We run out of words, and I make awkward excuses to get away.
Which explains my surprise the second time I run into him. Just out of the blue he says, "So, when are we having our session?"
I'm mystified. Can he also be a psychiatrist? I wonder. If he is, he's barking up the wrong tree. I'm the picture of mental health, except for that weird habit where I have to smell all the stuff I find on the bottom of my shoes. Or could he be talking about sex? I flash back on the priest who, just out of the blue, gave me his phone number at Food Emporium. It was ridiculously irresponsible, because ordinarily I can distinguish between the folks who want me to find Jesus and the ones who want a blowjob.
No, I decide "session" must be S&M-speak. I kind of like that. I'm not a romantic: I prefer it when sex looks more like a wrestling match than something out of
Ghost. I think for a minute, trying not to picture his pale white chest in a leather vest. I say, "Any time."
We exchange email addresses, and the weeks go by with no email. I think about writing him, but he's the butch one in this relationship, right? I can't bring myself to type, "Hi, my name's Roman. Has it slipped your mind that you were going to hit me?"
Finally Facebook comes to the rescue. For years it's been nagging me to be more social. "Can we PLEASE look for your friends?" it pleads every time I log in. "C'mon! I'm sure we can find SOMEBODY! Can we look in your address book? In your email? How about messaging random people? C'mon, Roman -- surely SOMEBODY wants to get in touch with you!"
It's so unattractive, so whiny. I'm embarrassed for Facebook, and I'm clearly not going to let a website force me to be friendly when eight ex-boyfriends can't. But then one day it's obvious Facebook did some kind of intrusive privacy thing because the message turns into something like, "Hey, you know this dude, right? He's DYING to get in touch with you!" and next to it is a photo of Carl.
I do it. As fast as my finger can move. I click the button to send a friend request.
And instantly a patronizing little pop-up box appears with an about-face. "Now, Roman," it reads, "if you don't know Carl, don't bother him. He's an important guy. You can't just send everybody friend requests, you know. We realize you're desperate: you have just four contacts, and three of them are cats. This is like stalking, though, and you'll just humiliate yourself if you beg strangers to like you."
I'm embarrassed. I'm ashamed.
I don't know how this relationship is going to end, but I sure like the way it starts.
This will be the first in an occasional feature where we'll discuss books written by local musicians.
Toronto singer/songwriter Emma-Lee has spiced up her latest CD, Backseat Heroine (from eOne Entertainment), with the inclusion of two local musicians. 
