☾ What did it feel like? ☾

Two nights, One Locked Door May 02, 2025

Song Mood: "Codes and Keys" by Death Cab for Cutie

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It started with flannel and country music. A date that never happened. A woman named Kate who forgot we were meeting, who promised to try again another time. It hurt—but I kept going.

I could feel my magic becoming off-kilter. I'm so sensitive to rejection. It brings out that old voice—that fat, lonely kid who was never good enough.

I braved The Sink and the fucking country music to get myself a whiskey. A little something to make the trip worth it, and to dull the edge of what I'd call a solid C-rank heartbreak.

The next night brought Nyx. Intense. Sex-positive. Covered in kink language and big promises.

We met for coffee. We both preferred weed, but wanted to be sure the other wasn't dull before moving to a second location.

It seemed like a dream come true. Maybe my magic was already paying off. Nyx was confident, sexy, and funny. Sure, she looked different from her profile—but that's okay, right? Any lingering doubts vanished the second she said, “I really want to fuck you.”

We walked, drank coffee, and made out until closing time. “Let's go back to my place and fuck” was all I needed to hear to stay hooked.

She brought me to her “flat”—which turned out to be a full-blown sex temple, larger than my house. Swings. Cages. Chains with hooks hanging from the rafters.

I was stunned. Nyx presented it all so casually, like she was giving me a tour of a nice apartment and not the most well-stocked BDSM sanctuary I'd ever seen. We passed the Saint Andrew's Cross making eye contact over our coffees. Strolled past the fuck machine while swapping emotional trauma from our Christian upbringings.

And not one warning. Not a single “this might be strange.” Until I asked to use the bathroom.

Nyx paused. Looked flustered. “Okay, I have to tell you something,” she said, and my stomach dropped. Ice water.

“You can use it, but I have to warn you.”

The bathroom was covered in Michael Jordan memorabilia. Paintings, posters, motivational quotes. A framed Sports Illustrated cover. The King of the ‘90s Bulls, watching over your pee break like the patron saint of personal bests.

We kissed. We smoked. She told me again how horny she was. And then—out of nowhere—she told me I was moving too fast. That I might leave a mark. That she wasn't ready.

I froze. Oh MJ, help me now.

I apologized. We both dressed in silence. I was confused. I'd been with other partners recently, and no one had said anything like this. But I could tell—something was off for her. Something about me, about the moment.

We'd switched places somehow. I was standing in her church, but she was the one feeling exposed. This was not something she was used to.

We tried to salvage the vibe. Talked more. Made out again. She laughed at one of my jokes. Said we should see each other again.

And then came the knock.

A confused man pounding on the back door, unaware temple night had been canceled. It killed the vibe completely—but honestly, I was grateful. That knock saved my ass. Ended things with a soft landing instead of another spiral.

I signed an NDA. Found my shoes. Walked out.

Here's what I learned from all of it:

I'm not here to chase ambiguity. I'm not here to play roles in other people's performances.

Sex isn't play for me—not right now. It's intimacy. Connection. A way to feel seen. A way to be known.

Nyx wanted to be adored, not understood. She wanted to control, not connect. And when I brought presence instead of performance, she couldn't hold it.

I didn't lose anything. She did.

I showed up. I stayed honest. I wanted real touch, real heat, real magic. And I'm still looking.