On Monday night (May 31), Mischief returned from San Francisco and had dinner with the Once and Future King. The purpose of dinner was negotiating the terms of the marriage. In my mind’s eye, I like to picture it as 17th century Burghers negotiating a nuptial contract.

“Yes, zee bride vill perform oral sex upon rekvest. Her dowry, howefer, vill haf to be kompensated zignificantly!”

Allison would get marriage, but agreed to sacrifice the Mischiefettes. Metaphorically speaking, you understand. Unless you’re Abraham, there’s little point in having them just to sacrifice them. In exchange for little Zamboni and Peripatetica remaining theoretical ovum, Gríos would support Mischief (apparently, he has money… not, y’know, Money, but more than, say, any of us reading this) in a fairly lush style, send her back to school full-time to finish her Masters, and let her work on her book.

Gríos would agree to compromise on monogamy, working out a sort-of closed swinging contract that he and Mischief would only fool around together, and with both having veto authority over potential partners.

The first red flag went up for me when I learned that Gríos thought it would be a “great” idea for Mischief to keep me in her life, and even for us to continue exploring a D/s relationship (minus actual sex). I’ve encountered this kind of thing before, and it amounts to a man who isn’t interested in the work and effort needed to properly foster a BDSM dynamic farming it out to someone else. Like kinky globalization.

It’s one thing if you’re discussing a couple who’ve been together for ten years, and the wife just wants to eat at a fancy restaurant once in a while rather than cook at home. But making this play when you haven’t even, oh, say, figured out your vows? That’s pure disinterest.

Trying to convince herself that everything was working, Allison took Gríos to meet her parents, which threatened to be awkward since he was three when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, and she was three when the Challenger exploded.

Everything went smoothly, and the first weekend (Mischief works a normal schedule, so weekends actually matter) as reunited soonlyweds loomed. Their first real time alone in months.

To mark the occasion, Gríos took her to a nice dinner, after which they spent the evening alone at home, getting reacquainted BDSM play party at a house in Hollywood. A really shitty party attended by drunken, unconcerned doms taking things too far with submissives too heavily altered or emotionally damaged to say “Red.” I’ve been to parties like this, and it’s bad juju. You feel like you need a shower afterwards.

Mischief started texting me, playfully at first, and then more distressed as the anxiety built. Finally she called, needing an ear to absorb her discomfort and growing frustration as she perceived that Gríos was testing her. Auditioning her to see how she would handle his fantasy world of the swing club he owns and the constant sport-fucking. Even if that were acceptable behavior, once you’ve signed the contract, you’ve agreed to the sale. What’s left to test?

They left the party, stopped at Mel’s Diner for food, and when dinner was over, so was the engagement. Mischief had once again stood her ground, which is how she ended up here. We stayed up into the wee small hours, just her, me and the left half of my face, and I did my best to give genuine, thoughtful responses rather than simple platitudes.

Mostly, I think she just needed someone to be a sounding board while she worked it out. And it was convenient to have a man who valued her and found her attractive doing it, even if that man was Quasimodo. It was still good for her ego.

Since then, she’s slept here every night except Tuesday. I think, in a way, the loft has come to represent a place of safety and security for her as it used to for me. A funhouse-mirror version of the life she’s walked away from, complete with the distorted reflection of a man.

Also, she’s poking and testing to see if it’s only her trust in Gríos that’s been shattered, or if it’s trust in general.  I have a slew of my own opinions about Gríos’ underlying motivations, but I wasn’t there and I don’t know the man, so I’ll leave my conjecture unspoken.

As for what we’re doing, we don’t know, and right now isn’t the time to try and work it out. She primarily needs someone to be constant, honest and capable of displaying affection. Whatever this is, though, it’s easy. Effortless, like we’ve known each other for years. If I were prone to rebounding, I’d think I were, but it isn’t that. I’ve already turned down advances from other girls I would have jumped at on the rebound.

It’s just… a really good synergy. Even with the offspring question kind of tabled, we’ve still got bridges to cross. And we will. But right now, we’re just kinda happy running around on this side of the river.

P.S. The face is now fine.

Saturday night. Technically Sunday morning. Mischief arrives around 1 a.m.

I know, you’re confused. Last week, my writers were a little vague with her backstory when it looked like she was being written out of the series. However, she just renegotiated her option, and it looks like she’s gotten bumped from “recurring” to “series regular,” so we’ve put together a special teaser prologue for this episode to bring everyone up to speed.

When we first met, it was with the clear and expressed understanding that we were just marking time.

  • Allison – Mischief – has a biological imperative and wants spawn; I think kids are a virus you have to buy shoes for and have a 15-year-old vasectomy.
  • She wants the ceremony; I think marriage is for suckers.
  • She’s 26; I’m… old…
  • She’s a serial monogamist; I’m a serial…

Um, let’s not put that in writing, shall we?

Serious dating was off the table as a complete non-starter. But we encountered a problem: we hit it off. We really get along, and very quickly, we found ourselves carefully talking around the obvious, significant connection we both felt. Because we can’t date. We’re both rational people, and I’m even a rational adult.

And yet. I mean, this is a girl who, when we were discussing sex, said to me “Basically, anything that might happen during your average violent rape is good.” Be still my beating heart.

Things like that are why I named her Mischief. Being a blogger and child of the internet, she has more pseudonyms than rednecks have teeth, but I needed an appellation of my own, and I realized that this smart, snarky, dirty 26-year-old was trouble. Would BE trouble.

Then we reached the end of the first act, where all of our conflict occurs.

Mischief writes an anonymous blog. I found it right after our first date (after 27 tedious seconds of searching), but I don’t read it out of respect. I’m chewing through the archives from before we met, but I don’t read the current posts so she can write with impunity. Which must be nice.

And the blog isn’t so don’t bother. I digress.

A large part of her blog is devoted to her on-again, off-again relationship with (we’ll call him) Gríos, a balding, dominant douchebag man in his 40s with a shady past who has business in aspects of the sex industry.

Stop it. It’s not that funny.

All seriousness aside, the similarities between Gríos & I are purely superficial. The more I find out about him, the more certain I become that we are not of a kind. While we seem to know many of the same people (and, in fact, I’m sure looking at his photo that I know Gríos from somewhere, but cannot conjure it) he is not of my tribe.

For the better part of a year, through three break-ups, Allison was crazy about the guy. Obsessed. From early days, she was convinced that he was The One, her Personal Jesus. Except. Gríos has a vasectomy, refuses to get married, and won’t conscion monogamy.

No, really, knock it off. We don’t even look alike. You’re just embarrassing yourself, now.

Those sticking points turned into the eventual wedge that drove Mischief to break it off once and for all. If the relationship wasn’t going anywhere, she needed to move on.

That was a couple months ago. Since then she’s had virtually no contact with Gríos. Until the last week of May when he surfaced. Proposing marriage. In the comments section of her blog.

Let’s break this down. For a year, a man my age dicks around with a girl in her 20s who’s got scars all over her heart like seeds on a strawberry, in what sounds to me like a vastly one-sided relationship. When she gets fed up with the imbalance, he breaks it off, knowing she’ll come back, anxious to take whatever emotional table-scraps he’s willing to give.

A year later, she’s grown stronger. She’s had it, and she walks away. Instead of letting go, he tracks down her blog, and when it looks like she might be getting over it and moving on, he returns from the dead! Deus ex fucking machina! Behold! My name is Legion, look upon me and despair!

Okay, melodramatic, but Jesus. I spoke to Mischief a few times over that weekend as she was away in San Francisco. Gríos was pushing her hard. “Let’s do it right now. Meet me in Vegas tomorrow morning.” Left-field as it all was, part of me knew she was going to go for it.

I did my due diligence. Told her I thought it was nuts, and why. Why the rush? What’s changed? Why now? I told her there was no way a man Gríos’ age didn’t understand the emotional turmoil he was putting her through. I didn’t understand why a lover would do that.

I figured, assuming Gríos didn’t just discover something terminal, he was acting as a classic sociopath, making a movie in his head of how it “should be.” I told Allison I didn’t believe he saw her as a real person, just an abstract notion, an idealized “thing” to own, an objet d’vivre.

I recognize the sociopath in Gríos because I have a lot of sociopathic tendencies myself, and in most cases, it takes one to know one.

Okay, I’m really not going to tell you again. The smirk is unbecoming. Chill.

Naturally, Allison defended him. I didn’t understand his thinking, and it’s possible that I didn’t. But I’ve learned something in life: If you have a significant other you constantly have to defend to others using the “s/he’s not really like that” defense, guess what? The one who’s mistaken is almost always you.

The engagement lasted a week.

…to be continued

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