FICTION
The Virgin Drink: A Polyamorous Romance (Chapter 2)
“So, you mentioned buying me a drink. Make it a virgin.”
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I smiled, thankful that I might be ending the evening with a much better date than the Victorian novel I had just abandoned.
“What kind of virgin drink would you like?”
You tilted your head a little to the side and raised your eyebrows just slightly, looking at the ceiling in the cutest way imaginable.
“I like all kinds of virgins. You pick, but don’t disappoint me. Make it a hot virgin.”
You reminded me of some customers I used to have as a barista. I knew better than to actually surprise you. You just liked the idea of being spontaneous and open to anything. “Anything hot? How about a dirty espresso?”
You touched your fingers together lightly and pointed them at me.
“Who do you take me for? Just because I sell my body doesn’t mean I like my drinks dirty. I’m a classy enby.”
I knew you were going to be difficult. I smirked, “What do you really want? I want to please you with the best kind of hot virgin. Here’s the menu.”
You grabbed my hands and rubbed your fingernails over my palms, without looking at the menu.
“I want a dirty matcha, of course. You knew that.”
My phone vibrated against the wood, preventing me from making a joke I would probably regret.
“I have to go to the restroom, while you take care of that. I expect my drink to be ready by the time I get back,” you said.
I checked my phone, after ordering your drink. There was a message with a blushing emoji letting me know that my fiancée wouldn’t be home tonight. I texted back: “No worries. I’ve got plans to tell you about later. Love you! Have fun! ❤️”
The hours melted by as we talked about everything imaginable, except your clients. I knew enough not to ask about what you couldn’t tell me.
The server got so flustered when I took him aside, quietly correcting him for misgendering you, that he gave us both free t-shirts and plastic martini glasses to take home.
He was a brand new employee, so he treated us like tourists, apologizing over and over like the universe had just collapsed on itself and we would never be back because we surely had other places we could go.
I wasn’t about to complain. Our misgendering restitution cups and soft cotton t-shirts each reminded us to just “Shut up and have another martini!” The message was kindly received, whether intended or accidental.
After the bar closed, we walked down the street together.
The streetlights caught the Spanish moss as we walked past a famous bench that had become someone’s bed.
We talked about everything imaginable. I even talked about my childhood, which I usually never talk about. Maybe it was that I knew you could imagine me as a little boy who had all of these funny things happen to him that weren’t okay at all. I barely knew you, but I trusted you with some stories I had never felt comfortable telling my own fiancée, as much as I love her.
I told you all about her, too. In return, you told me about your collection of comets. Each one was everything to you whenever they came through town. You’d known and loved them all for years. Hearing the tender way you spoke of each of them made me want to be another light moving across your sky.
A gift of polyamory is that your potential metamours give you a very realistic picture of how you are going to be treated in a relationship.
The newest love tells you how you would experience the early days, and the oldest remaining love tells you how everything would feel as the years wore on; all of the stories of your new and old loves sounded delightful.
We told each other about our work. You told me about the initial isolation, followed by the deeper intimacy and acceptance from the new connections you made, as you opened up a little about being a scarlet collar worker. You weren’t a victim. You weren’t forced into this work. You believed in it. You chose it.
“I’m already simultaneously hypersexualized and asexualized by society as an enby. I might as well take a little control over how my sexuality is perceived. I’m a scarlet collar worker, but I’m also a one-on-one sex educator. I teach pleasure.”
Like a typical millennial, you had multiple jobs back then.
You were a part-time hospital receptionist by day and were honest with your coworkers about your evening work. They valued your experience in helping them to become “more accessible” to various populations in desperate need of support and understanding, but you admitted that it was sometimes hard to deal with the invasive questions and the need to constantly educate.
There was an assumption that revealing such an intimate secret made you an open book. I tried to reassure you, “No one is entitled to know everything about you, no matter what you’ve shared of your life, who you are, or what you do. We’re all entitled to privacy.”
It wasn’t quite sunrise yet, when we found ourselves on the dark road near my car.
When you asked to get in my car, I feigned surprise, “Why would you trust me so quickly to get in my car? You barely know me! I could be a serial killer!”
You rewarded me with that same cute, flirtatious little eyebrow lift.
“You know, I could always be a serial killer, too. Don’t I look dangerous?”
As the laughter died down, we sat in the car, just holding hands.
“Can I kiss you?” I sensed this made you nervous because of the way your hand inched away from mine without pulling away completely. Before I could tell you that I was fine with being a new friend, you opened the floodgates.
“I’m okay with kissing, but I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about where this is going. For me, you know, sex is just a job. Don’t get me wrong. I like my job. I just want something different in my life outside of work. I want romance. I want my lovers to make me feel beautiful. I want the full virgin experience that I never got because I dissociated that half of my life away. I don’t really know you yet, but if I were to know you, that’s all I’d really want from you. Not sex. Does that make any sense?
I squeezed your hand, then brought it up to my lips and kissed your fingers softly. “That makes a lot of sense. I love romance and I love making special people feel beautiful.”
We couldn’t have known that we wouldn’t get to see each other again in person for another couple of years. When I remember this moment, your presence, your touch; it all meant so much to me. I hope you know that.
I don’t ever want to forget a minute of it.
I never want to forget the way that you glowed, when you realized that I understood what you needed and could give you that. I wish we could have had more time together, especially in the early days. You went through so much alone, with only texts and phone calls for support. I’m so grateful for what we did have though.
Everything was about to change forever, again.
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