"Ah! The happy couple; the talk of the town!" Michael greeted us as we walked down the stairs into the lobby. "Tell me, what grand plans do you have today?" he asked as we approached, an anticipatory smile on his face.
Before I could even open my mouth, Katherine responded, "Just two lovers taking a break for some breakfast, I'm afraid, Michael."
Michael smiled broadly and blushed openly. "Naturally," he said, ushering us toward the dining hall, "please do let me know if I can be of assistance."
A group of loud Australian men could be heard even before we entered the room. They fell to a hush almost immediately as we entered, the lot of them gawking openly at Katherine--Amy, I had to remember to use that name in public. We took a seat along the opposite wall as casually as we could.
"I'm curious," I started, drawing her attention across the table to me, "do you think your exhibitionism started because you're... you?" I slid my eyes across her body to make my point, "or was that just a happy accident?"
Ralph came and took our breakfast order in his polite, unassuming way, and scurried off to the kitchen.
"I don't think there's a way to know that, but the way I see it, most people are going to objectify me," she looked at me seriously, "and I can either get bitter about that or enjoy it for what it is."
"What is it?" I asked, curiosity crooking an eyebrow up toward my forehead.
She shrugged, looking down at the table. "Affirmation that I'm hot. A bottomless pool of casual sexual partners, if I want them," she signed deeply, shooting a glance up at me and then resting her eyes back on the table, now with a distinct tinge of melancholy, "and a reminder that I'll probably always feel as lonely as I..." she looked into my eyes with a complex web of emotion, "...have in the past."
I opened my mouth to respond, but realized I didn't have much beyond platitudes to offer, so I closed it again and nodded for her to go on.
"In all likelihood, none of the guys over there give a shit about who I am or how I feel," she nodded toward the Australians on the far side of the room, "I'm just a girl with a pretty face, great tits and a nice ass who they want to fuck. And, you know, sex is fun, it feels good, I'm a fan, but it's always missing something if the only thing you have together is physical attraction. And, again, that's okay sometimes too. But years of that, and only that, leaves you pretty lonely."
As she was finishing, Ralph appeared again with our breakfast. Eggs, toast, and sausage for me. A spinach and fetta omelet for her. And a cappuccino, of course.
We began to eat immediately, the quiet punctuated only by the sound of silverware on plates for the space of a few minutes as I thought about what she said. A line of questions began to come into focus. Maybe not questions. More like puzzle pieces fitting together, with the question being which way they fit.
"So..." I began, putting down my fork and looking up at her, "Your work is stigmatized, and I'm sure makes your romantic life even more complicated than the already fucked up dating scene these days."
She nodded, a little confused.
"And you're bi? Sexual?" I said in the intonation of a question, struggling to remember if she had actually used a label for her sexuality.
She gave a shrug-nod that said, 'close enough, unless you want a 5-minute diatribe into LGBT theory.'
"Which is stigmatized even more than being gay." I finished my thought. She nodded sadly.
"And you have no desire to settle down into a monogamous relationship, and in fact it seems like you immediately push away anyone who seems to want monogamy from you."
"Don't forget my body count is astronomical." she added, a shade of anger in her voice, her eyes begging me to get to the point, the pain behind the anger already answering the unasked question.
I considered my next words for what felt like a long time, the potent mix of vulnerability, pain and anger in her eyes warning me to tread lightly.
"I'm sorry, I didn't intend to hurt you. I think I'm just realizing how strong you really are, and what an impossible situation the world has put you in. I wish--"
"Don't." she said, warningly, cutting me off. "Don't wish you were like me. My father abandoned me, my mother treated me like an object, the world will spit on me every time I show a sliver of who I really am, and my unwillingness to compromise with who I am dooms me to being perpetually alone and despised by all the people who look at me and just want to fuck me and throw me away. Like my father did. Like my mother did. Like everyone who has ever pretended to be interested in me as a human being has done. Nobody wants to be like me, I promise. I don't even want to be like me. I just..." she looked at me with soul-deep sorrow, "can't be anyone else."
I could see she was fighting back tears.
"I was going to say, I wish I could take away some of that pain. Some of that loneliness. Because I see all that, all of you, and it makes me love you, to admire you, to learn from your strength and hold you while you cry."
She was crying silently, hiding behind her hair, tears dripping down onto the tablecloth. I wanted to stand up and hug her but thought that would probably draw a lot of unwanted attention to us.
I leaned in closer and lowered my voice, "Even fuck you while you sob, if that's what you want."
That shocked her out of her tears with a laugh, and she looked up at me through her hair, blinking rapidly and picking up her napkin to dry her tears. She collected herself and took a deep breath, a question forming on her face.
"Does this mean you've decided you want to throw your life away so you can be a non-exclusive partner with a polyamorous, bisexual whore?" she tried to make it sound like a joke, but didn't do a very good job of concealing the weight of those words.
"I'll have you know that polyamorous bisexual whores are some of my most favorite people." I shot back at her, smiling and hoping to make her smile as well.
"Yeah? How many of those do you know?" she asked, playing along.
"Just the one. But she's made quite an impression on me." I said, offering her my hand across the table to hold.
She looked at me for a few seconds, taking my hand, seemingly against her will. The storm of her pain was not ready to pass with a joke, but she did long for a comforting touch.
"I'm serious, Greg. You do know it's not socially acceptable to be with me, right? I know I'm a good fuck, but I'm fucking radioactive as a romantic partner."
"Yes, I know, Katherine. I just don't give a shit. Where has social acceptance gotten me anyway? I'd rather be with you."
"Probably a lot more than you're thinking of right now, love. It's hard to see all the downsides with you're on the other side of privilege," she wasn't angry now, only a little sad, "but I can see that you're serious. But I'm also not sure you're thinking this through right now. There's more to being a partner than overcoming the social stigma of being with them. That's just the price of entry. We have to like... you know... want some of the same things in life. And we haven't really even talked about any of that."
"So let's talk about it." I said simply, unperturbed.
"Okay, yes, we should," she was getting flustered, "but we're not going to tackle that at breakfast. My point is, you're falling in love, you feel a lot of things. Frankly, I'm in a similar boat. We have some serious new relationship energy going on here, and that's a beautiful thing, but let's keep the cart firmly behind the horse. I'm open to something more with you, Greg, if that's what you're asking. I think there's a lot of insecurity there for you that I think you should unpack sooner rather than later. But lasting love and partnership doesn't come from poetic words at the breakfast table or even from amazing, intimate sex. If it did, I would be drowning in lasting love. But it comes from a lot of uncomfortable conversations like this, some luck, and all the other stuff too. So, let's take this one step at a time and try and enjoy what we already have as much as possible in the meantime."
I looked at her, clenching my jaw to make sure it stayed shut until I successfully suppressed the urge to get defensive. Was she right? Was I being insecure?
Of course she was right, and she had called me out in something like the kindest way I could imagine.
"Okay. I'm sorry," I picked up my fork and began to finish the rest of my breakfast, "give me a minute, please."
She nodded, picked up her coffee, and began to slowly sip it. We ate and drank in silence for a few minutes while I thought about what she said, and about this nagging anxiety I had been feeling for days. I remembered the dream I had the night before we got on the plane. Yeah, maybe it was just a dream, but it was when I internalized her distance from me that she fell away. Why was I so afraid of that distance?
"You remember that dream I had the night before we left?" I asked.
"Not so much the details, just how upset you were," she said, taking a big sip of her coffee and setting the empty mug down on the table.
"Well, I think it was a sort of manifestation of my anxiety and insecurity about you. And what that is likely to do to our relationship. I'm afraid when it seems like there's distance between us, and I think that fear extends into when I see our relationship not conforming to norms I've been taught to expect. And I know that's going to drive you away, if I don't deal with it."
"That makes sense," she said, her face impassive, "what are you going to do about it?"
"Well, I figured that telling you would be a good first step. It would probably also help if I knew more about non-monogamy. I've been conditioned to think any kind of non-monogamy is something to be afraid of and hurt by, and rationally I don't think that's true, but subconsciously I think I'm still there. It would help to better understand an alternative, I think."
She looked at me pensively for a moment and then said, "Why don't we go to a bookstore this morning. I'll help you find some stuff to read that might help."
"That sounds awesome," I smiled at her gratefully.
She gave me a weak smile and her eyes fell back onto the table in a bit of a thousand-yard stare.
"What's wrong?" I asked, suddenly concerned.
"Well," she started, inhaling deeply, an edge of anger creeping into her voice and onto her face, "I don't think you intended to do this, but what you just did to me was pretty fucked up."
