Lately I’ve been having dreams about ex boyfriends and other awkward relationship situations. This morning I dreamt I had two lovers and had to choose one, but didn’t want to, so kept both. One was injured and had to go to the emergency room, and the other took him, leaving me alone to panic because I didn’t have a cell phone number for either one, and no way to contact them. I woke feeling awful, and found it difficult to look New Guy in the eye when he rolled towards me in the pre-dawn dark and blinked at me sleepily.

We were both raised Catholic, and although I’ve long since left the church, he teases me that something of the faith still remains in my system. It’s true, despite shifting all that guilt in therapy, I still feel as though I’ve been cheating on my lover when I dream of someone else.

I had the pleasure of welcoming in the First of May with him early after midnight, and felt the pangs of loss as he drove away this morning to help his mother for the next few days. Thinking of May Day and of Beltane, I was glad that we had at least a little time together before he went away, especially after not being together much over the past week. This page caught my eye this morning:

Beltane is the Sex Sabbat just as Samhain, held six months hence, is the Death Sabbat. All other Beltane (also called May Eve or Walpurgis Night) customs are minor compared with those that explicitly celebrate human sex and fertility. Up to the Protestant Reformation in the 16th Century, marriage vows were conveniently forgotten at Beltane in many rural European villages. Newly formed ‘couples’ went into the plowed fields at night to lie down together and copulate in order to ensure the fertility of the coming year’s crops. The Catholic Church could not stamp out this ancient pagan tradition. It took the dour Protestants who suppressed May Eve celebrations in England by passing and enforcing laws against public gatherings around Maypoles with their accompanying dances and fertility rites.

Kinda looks like the Catholic church missed out on the two of us, too. We’d spent much of the previous day weeding his garden and looking for new plants, so that counts as plowing the fields, as far as I’m concerned. In fact, shortly after I’d arrived yesterday to help with the weeding, he lured me into the house and upstairs… then brought out the handcuffs. Hinged ones, not the type with a chain between the bracelets.

Once the cuffs were on, I found myself quite compliant, really wanting him to dominate. He is a self-described dork (which I find very appealing) who has a lot of respect for women, so he doesn’t come across as the sort of man who gets off by humiliating anyone. In fact, it’s a fuzzy line for both of us, and we’re still figuring out where the borders actually are. Instead of humiliation, he seems to be drawn more to control, whereas I seem to like pain. He pointed this out as I lay on my back, still cuffed, by suggesting we try some nipple clamps. “Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “What makes you think I’d like that?” I asked, actually wondering if they might be too painful for me. “Well,” he said, lying on his side, head propped up on one hand while with his other hand took one of my nipples and stretched it out, “you seem to like this quite a lot.” I sighed contentedly. “Oh yeah, that’s right, I do.”

After a few seconds of hard twisting and tweaking, he rolled onto his back and pulled me up to straddle him. Even when I’m on top, he’s still in control. His hands guide my rhythm and pull me close or push me away. Close in, his mouth on mine, we breathe into each other. I can scream or whisper then, and he drinks it all in. Pushed away, he looks into my eyes and we share that dazed, orgasmic look that lovers have when all the gears are meshing in the right ways. We have so much eye contact during sex that there are times when when simply sitting across a table from each other, a gaze can bring back a hint of that intimacy in an unguarded moment.

I’ll miss him while he’s away. There are physical pangs we both feel at the same time when we can’t spend time together, a yearning to indulge in sensory connection. When we’re together, we’re most often within reach of each other, if not actually touching. Right now, all I can do is write about it. He did tell me to, after all. “Now you can tell your readers we used the handcuffs,” he chuckled as he put them away yesterday. “You can ask for them anytime,” he said as he hung them on a hook in his closet, “but I won’t always say ‘yes’.”

Oh, go on and tease me, why don’t you. I can take it.