I’m going to Robbie’s for Valentine’s Day weekend, which he has been planning with care.  We’ve had lots of good talks lately, including ones about what to do together to make our time special and fun.  (We have both officially agreed that debating the ins and outs of our relationship is not fun.)

We talked about going out for dinner, which we almost never do unless we are with friends, family, or fellow perverts.  (And since most of our friends are fellow perverts . . . )  I suppose I should have lept at the chance to have some romantic quality time with my man, out and about on Valentine’s Day.  But Robbie has high standards for food–he prefers fine dining, and prefers it to be almost-free–and so it can be a challenge to find a place with ambience and value.  While I was waiting for him to finish sussing out the local options, it occurred to me that I really don’t like fine dining.  That is, I adore good food and I like being waited on.  But really, when I go out, I mostly want the chance to see and be seen, to feel like I’m sensing the pulse of a city, drawing near to the sexuality and daring that surge up in groups of people and flow through busy evenings.

I want to be out on the town.  I want to be my exhibitionist self and I want to flaunt what we have.

And since, after all, we can do that at a bar just as well as a restaurant, and since we are quite, quite poor, and saving our money in the ever-more-realistic hope that someday not that far away we will be together, we are going to a pub for Valentine’s Day.

Robbie said he very much thinks I need to get out in public, and I agree.


From Darker Sights and Sounds.