53 - Form 69: Overnight Request Approved

Were you nervous the first time you invited a new date over to your place?

Or are you one of those enviably unfazed people who scrub their windows before an overnight just to make sure their hip sway is reflected at the right angle? 

We already skipped this part, but I, for one, was nervous when I first saw Leif fully dressed, sitting across from me at a restaurant. Even though we’d been spending time together for months. Mostly in bed, on the terrace, or in the pool—so this was an entirely new experience: sitting at a table with clothes on instead of lying on the table with clothes off.

Wow.

Wild.

Definitely enough to send butterflies flapping through my stomach.

Our very first face-to-face conversation had lasted three seconds before we were tangled up in each other—and maybe five minutes more before the bedroom door clicked shut behind us. Incidentally, we were so caught up in our usual enthusiasm, after we’d spent a whole three hours behaving ourselves—more or less—that we forgot to close the door. It wasn’t until I lay there, fully satisfied and cradled in his arms, that I noticed our little love nest wasn't as soundproof as we expected. Oops. The worst part?

He had asked me, somewhere in the heat of it all, and I probably mumbled something like, “Forget the door—just bang me instead.” But I’m getting ahead of myself. Back to the table. 

So there we were—dressed and civilized—having lunch at a tiny roadside eatery in the middle of nowhere. Looking each other in the eyes. Curious. Curious about one another. Curious about what it would be like to spend the night. My first night with someone apart from the mister—in sixteen years. Thankfully, there was no debate about sides of the bed. Leif is not only polyamorous but also poly-side-of-the-bed-flexible. So even in new arms, I got to sleep on my side.

Little steps.

Next time I’m going to be even braver and try new arms and new bedside.

One thing had become clear after the first emotional turbulence: I needed more time with Leif. Everything had moved so fast—the closeness, the tenderness, the love—that we hadn’t had time to catch up to ourselves. The first emotional tailspin had made that painfully obvious. Even the mister understood this need.

What I had with Leif wasn’t supposed to be a phase to ride out—it was something that required a foundation. A foundation made of more than just used condoms and gloriously slippery orgasms.

And so, the Council of Relationship Affairs issued me a special permit: one overnight with Leif. Form 69/Overnight—signed by the mister himself. 

Leif had found the perfect lakeside tiny house—quiet, secluded, romantic.

I took care of dinner. Just to minimize the risk of us needing to get dressed again. The evening before, I stood in the kitchen making onigiri. I felt like a sushi apprentice trying to fold origami with rice and filling. Standing there, cooking something to bring joy to my daughter, my husband, and Leif, gave me a quiet sense of love and peace. The warmth and stickiness of the rice seemed to seep through my hands and into my chest. 

It was like a weird emotional foreplay for the night to come. 

And the next evening, we were sitting on the floor in our underwear, chopsticks in hand, bento boxes on the tiny table. Listening to the rain pattering down outside, the little waterfall gurgling just outside, and each other’s words in between bites. 

It was perfect.

Intimate, funny, honest, close.

And now, I can say it with a full heart—and not just wet pants:

Apparently, I love Leif fully dressed, too. 

Turns out, intimacy can whisper louder than pleasure ever moaned.