57 – The Unicorn in the Sandstorm

What do you usually do on a Saturday afternoon? 

Drive the kids to sports, sort glass recycling, try not to lose the will to live at the grocery store?

Yeah, same. I have those Saturdays, too. But this one was different.

The mister was off at a choir boot camp—singing with the hammock-tantra instructor, no less. It was like musical therapy for emotional waste separation. 

Leif was celebrating the birthday of one of his partners’ fathers.  

Which, of course, immediately raises the question: What do you even call that man? Not father-in-law-to-be—more like father-in-latex-to-be?

Because of the condom, obviously. Not because he wears latex every Saturday. Though who knows—maybe that’s his weekend ritual. 

Who am I to judge? 

Anyway, I had actually reserved the afternoon for you—for writing, thinking, reflecting. But sometimes, it’s like running into a unicorn. No, not the kind of guy in the park who flashes you to show his horn, but the scheduling fairy kind—the rare, almost mythical creature who descends from the Calendar Olympus and whispers, “I’ve cleared a slot for you.” And suddenly, a magical time window opens—so two people can enjoy a ride on his horn. Never mind that I’d already exhausted myself that morning in the marital bed, practicing bedroom ballet with the husband. When time-window magic calls, it’s not about your energy level—it’s about seizing the opportunity. Chloé would’ve been proud of me.

The only obstacle stood about five foot four—and came in a pair. Our daughter was home with a friend. So I shooed them out of the house with a cheerful: “As the old Christmas song says: so much secrecy in the season!” I’ll skip the part where it was early November. But I figure anyone tending to other men’s nuts—because nuts belong to Christmas just like presents—earns the right to glow early. You know I hate lying to our kid, so as always, there was a tiny seed of truth in what I said. The girls looked confused but accepted it and toddled off to the friend’s house.

And then it was there: A two-hour window, freshly made sheets, and Amar—arriving not on a white horse but in a white car. It had been months since we’d seen each other. I’d missed him. And I had the feeling he’d been keeping his distance deliberately—ever since he reappeared in September. Which I could understand. I’m not really what he’s looking for. For him, I’m the exotic unicorn—but he’s looking for something more… domesticated. Something like a cute little bunny. When he got out of the car, his whole face lit up with a smile not even Disney could’ve drawn better. He hugged and kissed me like a man who’d wandered two years through the desert. Maybe that’s the modern single life: seeing one mirage after another—and dying of thirst between them.

I was completely overwhelmed by his emotions, which swept over me like a sandstorm—no warning, no weather app, no protective goggles. Even after all the distance he’d kept, his hands, his lips, his eyes, his entire body were suddenly saying something else. And I believed him. I closed my eyes, turned off my mind—thinking could wait until later—and let myself get carried away by his thirst for tenderness.

Perhaps poly is also that: opening the door to the sandstorm and offering someone shelter and love when they need it most.

No judgment.

No questions.

No need to understand everything.

Maybe the scheduling fairy kissed me that day—so I could kiss Amar before he completely dried up.