Getting Started

I met my partner at work. Not my pastoral work. My day job. Which, in an area where most pastors are less than part-time in their churches, is a necessity.

My partner started working for the same company that I did just seven weeks before I left that job to pursue additional vocational training in a specific area of ministry. No one knew I was leaving and I did not want anyone to know. So, I went about business as usual and tried to be as welcoming and friendly as possible to the new members of our team.

Our first encounter was in the foyer, in front of the elevator bank, on the third floor of our building. Our breaks overlapped that day and we stood shoulder-to-should just watching the geese in the duck pond out back and chatting. Maybe we chatted. I don’t remember. We might have been totally silent. Actually, I think we were mostly silent. Regardless, we said nothing of significance. We just watched the geese and the ducks in the duck pond.

After about ten minutes, he turned to me and said, “Well, it’s probably time I go back in.”

“Okay,” I responded, smiling shyly at him. Immediately the timer in my pocket went off, and I said, “Oh, it looks like my time is up as well. I’ll walk with you.” So, we walked to our stations. And we began to converse by instant message.

It was never anything major or significant. Just random, friendly, “How’s your day going? What about squirrels? Hey, did you hear about the turkey?” kind of messages.

Until my last day. “What kind of music runs through your head that makes you want to tap your feet in the middle of the most boring part of your day?” I asked. Because this is the kind of question I’ll spring on anybody out of the blue. Because I wanted to shock him enough to make an impression. Because if he answered and didn’t tell me I was a lunatic for asking such an off-the-wall question, I wanted to tell him I was leaving and give him my number.

He remarked that about the only time he really has music going through his head is in the shower.

“Oh, so you’re a big fan of Bert’s ‘Rubber Ducky’ are you?” I asked.

“Man, I haven’t thought of that in years,” he replied.

“You’re welcome.”

And then, he told me he was leaving for the day and gave me his number.

*****

At the end of my shift, I got in my car and headed home. I packed my dog in her crate and tucked her in the backseat. The rest of my stuff was already loaded. Then, I picked up my travel companion for the next thirteen hours and began the long drive to my summer home.

We texted during my move. I explained that I was moving for the summer, vocational training for my life as a pastor. We discussed our notions of good and evil in brief and this opened the door for his confession: he’s into kink. I spent a good portion of the drive fantasizing about sex with him and the orgasms I had were phenomenal.

Three days later, knowing the insanity that was to be my life for the next three months, I offered him my orgasms. I gave him control of if, when, and how I would cum every time I would cum for the duration of the summer. He accepted.

So, we began a careful dance focused entirely on my pleasure.

As a goal oriented individual in all areas of life, sex and sexuality was never any different. The point of sexual encounters was to have an orgasm. Do it right, and an orgasm would never take more than three minutes. Do it really right and an orgasm can be accomplished in under ten seconds. Quick and efficient and goal accomplished sex or masturbation was my specialty.

This was not the kind of sex I was to be having with myself and with my partner via text for the remainder of the summer.

Slow the fuck down.  Pleasure for pleasure’s sake. No orgasm until I was positively begging for it. The third, fourth, fifth time he’d talked me through whatever stimulation he’d decided I needed that night to get me to the very brink before stopping all activity and requiring that I rest, relax, and enjoy the anticipation, never knowing if the next time I touched myself would be the time he would finally permit release.

Hours and hours and hours of sex play. My entire life changed.

At first it was confusing and guilt-inducing. Not the sex or the orgasms themselves. At that point I’d had enough sex to last me a lifetime (or so I’d thought) and I had orgasms all on my own as often as possible.

Rather it was that being the responsible, controlled, rigidly structured individual that I am, I had voluntarily permitted, requested even, someone else be entirely responsible for my pleasure - that it come at his word, at his command. There was peace and relaxation, joy even in not having to be responsible for some small area of life. It was lovely to know in this exchange, my pleasure was all about me. Sex with another person that was all about me. I did not have to service him. I did not have to work to please him - only pleasure myself as he permitted.

And yet, I found myself anxious that I wasn’t doing it right, that I was somehow breaking the rules of the game. That I should have an orgasm, that exquisite pleasure should be mine and mine alone…it felt selfish.

Shouldn’t this be mutually pleasurable? Isn’t it bad that it’s all about me? Or at least wrong, unfair, selfish? I didn’t do anything to earn the right to be cared for like this - my pleasure and needs being first and of greatest importance.

If I had wanted lots of orgasms that were all about me, I could certainly have achieved that all alone, without inviting him into it.