Diary of a Darklady: Darklady’s Moving Experience

Diary of a Darklady
Darklady’s Moving Experience

I hugged a box of memories against my hip as I locked the door to my apartment a final time and walked away from two years of my life. As I sat in my car later and prepared to drive to my new home I realized, not for the first time, that I hate moving.

As I left, I’d made my last goodbyes to each room in turn. The guestroom, where my out-of-town sex writer friends had slept. The half bathroom with the tub and shower, where I’d sobbed my eyes raw after Furious Bee had dumped me in spite of two years of assurances that everything was fine and our love was strong. The other half bathroom with the toilet, where The Conflicted One had led me in restraints and then ecstatically rubbed my urine over his naked body. The bedroom-turned-office, where I’d watched so much porn and written so many words. The balcony, where I’d stood and watched the leaves and rain when my spirit needed perspective. The kitchen, where my unexpectedly reunited Long Lost High School Sweetheart had prepared so many meals. And the living-room-turned bedroom, where so much love and body fluid had been shared in front of the blazing fireplace.

I hadn’t wanted to move into the apartment. I’m not an apartment dwelling kinda gal. It had seemed personality-free, full of 90-degree angles and cheap construction. I’d wanted to live with the Bee, to share a house and a life. As the move from the Craftsman Bungalow that I’d lived in for nine years had progressed, I’d had my first faint signs that things were not as they seemed, that my move from house to apartment had triggered issues in my lover that he didn’t want to acknowledge. In time, an opportunity had presented itself so that he could gracelessly exit the relationship, avoiding but not postponing self-knowledge on his part, aggressively hastening it on mine.

Then had begun the self-inventory that comes with re-entering the world of dating. And trust me when I say that re-entering the world of dating as a professional sex writer isn’t nearly as easy or as fun as it may sound. Plenty of people are enticed by what they imagine it might be like to be involved with a sex writer – but few are ready or willing to deal with the reality. After all, they have jobs and reputations to think about, white picket fences to plan for, fragile egos to protect. A fling is one thing, a relationship quite another – unless I agree to change my ways, become less public, more discreet, work fewer hours, associate with fewer odd people, blend in with the upholstery better.

Naturally, none of that happened. Instead, a miracle happened. While browsing classmates.com online, I had found the man who had been the boy that I had harbored a secret crush on during our one year in high school together. I dropped him an email and discovered that he had harbored a secret crush on me, too. After countless hours of late night, long distance telephone calls and thousands of miles worth of frequent flier points — generously donated by an ex-lover who prophesied that my heart would once again be broken – we were reunited. We spent nearly a year together in that apartment, sometimes awkwardly and sometimes effortlessly catching up on how one another had changed over the years and figuring out how to fit those changes into our newfound lives together.

And now those lives have moved into a new structure, a new residence, a new sanctuary, a house. Now we have room to move, room to breathe, room to think, room to be apart while being together, and room to be together while being apart.


It wasn’t a smooth relocation, however. While it was going on I hosted a large sex party, ran for public office, attended various alternative lifestyle related board meetings, watched and reviewed porn, wrote columns, had my first mammogram, conducted a live chat for SoloNation.com, discovered that the Bee thought dating again might have been nice had he not been moving to another state, bickered and smooched with my Sweetheart, saw both of our cars break down and need expensive repairs, schmoozed with politicians while punch drunk from exhaustion during a pro gay marriage group’s (
http://www.noon36.com) awards banquet — and discovered that although packing Sweet ‘n Low with condoms saves space, it makes unpacking very confusing.

The packing and storage needs of a sex writer can be a little different from those of an average person. Once I’d moved into the apartment, I started regularly renting third party venues and hosting those aforementioned large sex parties, which means that I’ve accumulated a lot of extra stuff that’s specifically reserved for my guests: condoms, lube, instructions on how to properly use condoms and lube, giveaway sex toys, paper plates, paper and plastic cups, plastic dining utensils, napkins, sugar packets, coffee stirrers, JT Stockroom (http://www.stockroom.com) catalogues, safer sex and STD brochures, and a wide assortment of decorations. Add that to a huge library of books on sexual and non-sexual topics, an assortment of leather and vinyl fetish garments, my private stock of kinky and sexy toys and tools, plenty of mainstream writing and business related binders, and the usual as well as unusual vanilla household items – and you’ve got quite a collection of stuff to fit into boxes and then transport.

My Sweetheart and I, along with a roommate, now have three stories to fill up with material possessions and memories. My bedroom is in the living room again. And once more, my office is in a bedroom. Our largely “normal” IT-gamer geek roommate will occupy the upstairs, while the basement will play host to my monthly polyamory discussion group. Since it contains a wet bar, the basement will probably also be the location of any number of sexual and non-sexual social events. I expect that once we get unpacked it will be a wonderful and memorable to live. But for now I’m still remembering how much I hate moving – and I’m wondering where the hell I packed my hairbrush. No, not the one I use to spank people with, the one I use to brush my hair.

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