When You Give A Bi A Butt Plug

A Love Letter To My Wife

This is Sitting Queerly, a newsletter focused on the late blooming queer experience, the lofty goal of opening up conversations and celebrating those who embrace their full selves.

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Hi honey.

You know, the oldest told me on the drive to school the other day that you had really wanted me to mop the kitchen floor. That was why you were saying for days that it was disgusting. I did hear you and told our kid so.

“Then why didn’t you?” the oldest asked.

“Because Mama knows that I’m terrible at picking up hints.”

(I promise, this really is a love letter.)

This is something both of us have been working on. No more hints, no more keeping things to ourselves. Just communication. Transparency. Vulnerability.

Not that we haven’t ever communicated or been transparent or vulnerable. I actually think we do better than a lot of couples when it comes to being up front about our differences of opinions and frustrations. The fact that we worked in newsrooms together and subsequently developed violent allergic reactions to bullshit probably contributed to that.

But it’s easy to call someone on things you knew about from the beginning. The calculus changes when suddenly your partner—the person you slept next to for more than a decade, raised two children with, bought houses, moved across states—is suddenly not who you always knew him as.

The past year and nine months haven’t always been easy. We’ve both shed tears. We’ve both gone to bed disappointed or sad or unfulfilled at times. We’ve both woken up tired and cranky and not just from the fact that are backs aren’t getting any younger and our children aren’t getting any quieter.

But through those moments, I knew you were with me. I knew you loved me.

I knew when I told you I was queer and you thanked me for letting you in and we immediately started quipping about each other in that irreverent sarcasm that has always been part of our relationship. 

I knew when I told you that I needed to explore my queerness physically with other men and you were just relieved I didn’t want to have a threesome.

I knew when you didn’t bat an eye whenever I said I was planning to spend a weekend with Harry and you said you and the girls would have a lazy weekend with movies and junk food. 

I knew when you got excited after I suggested going to San Francisco Pride this past summer as an opportunity for us to get away and get some time together. 

I knew when you were just happy I offered to take the oldest to her theater rehearsal on my way to meeting up with a guy for a romp so you could watch the presidential debate uninterrupted.

And I’ve known with each little gift you’ve given me affirming who I am. The bi and queer-themed t-shirts. The little “biceratops” pin that is now permanently affixed to my baseball cap. And, of course, my first butt plug.

Remember when you gave it to me? It was about a week after I came out to you, as we were going to bed and you told me you had something for me. Then you handed me a slim little butt plug and two bottles of water-based lube (one regular, one desensitizing). You told me how you’d gone to the local sex shop and asked for help on what to get and that the salesperson suggested this as an easy entry (ha!) into anal play.

You laughed when I said it vaguely resembled a billiards dart because of its shape and color scheme.

And this, this moment, stands out the most to me. When I came out to you, I said pegging/bottoming was something I was curious about, though I had absolutely no experience or knowledge of how to go about it. I could tell you were apprehensive, which didn’t surprise me, and I made a mental note of maybe not pushing my need for that experience so much.

Yet, just days later, here you were, showing you heard me. Showing you were all in (again, ha!). Showing you loved me despite the fact I had never fully been “me” with you before.

I think you know how much I love you. That I was telling the truth when I said you are the only woman I fantasize about, who I want to touch, who I want to embrace and taste and smell. You are the only woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, and not just as parents of our children. I want to wake up with you, I want to come home to you, I want to laugh with you, I want to comfort you.

I still need to do better. I can always do better. I do know the kitchen floor is one of the things that tends to gnaw at you. At this point in our relationship, I should be able to get some of the hints. 

But hey, would it kill ya to put stuff back in the fridge after you’re done in there?

I love you.