Unbound: It could be a love story

This was originally posted on Vox in September 2008. I decided to delete my Vox account and move this post here.

After two hours of sex that can best be described as ridiculously fun and kind of mind-blowing, we laid naked on his bed. He was on his side, resting on his elbow, legs outstretched. I laid on my back, arms overhead, legs bent at the knee.

This was a new thing. We were friends, but not lovers. Not even flirters. We were two people with a deep mutual respect, and a shared interest in bad pop culture and high-minded analysis.

We surveyed the situation. What would our friends think? What would our acquaintances — you know, the ones who know us, but don’t know us, but who would feel entitled to be all in our business anyway — think?

We talked about possibilities. And realities. We agreed that we didn’t know what to call ‘us.’ And we agreed that was okay. We would be okay with whatever happens.

He ran his hand over my stomach. Over my breasts. He kissed my forehead. He kissed my lips.

And then we talked about books. We talked about trips we’d like to take. We talked about reality TV shows and politics. We talked about family. We talked about music.

And then he said something. I don’t remember what. I only remember that it was something I was thinking, but hadn’t said. It was something that made me move my left arm from over my head rather emphatically and yell “EXACTLY!”

But my arm stopped short. I eyed the black cuff still around my wrist.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re still tied to the bed.”