Door: Change Driver

Door: Change Driver 

Aria Scarlette, 13 December 2020 

We started chatting in April of 2019, met very quickly, feelings articulated in June, quickly followed by the dance of withdrawal without articulation. He was the first man I met while playing without permission that truly drove change for me. I still don’t believe he was honest with himself or with me about what drove our change into feelings…or our change out of feelings. He was the driver for all of our change, and I didn’t have much say. His schedule dictated. His drive dictated. His desire dictated…and ultimately, I believe his fear dictated. I was a passenger, but I learned that I need shared partnership in being driver. 


So, you want to feel desired? 

Believe me, if I want you, you won’t be left guessing. 

Did you feel like the universe told you to pay attention to my profile? 

My directive to practice candid, radical transparency in communication was your hook. 

Did you think my hair was the source of my power? 

You bid me to stay present, my eyes through yours with you are inside me. 

Where else have I gone? 

I am certain I have only ever been with you – while with you. 

Should I have bid you to stay present? 

I waited for you to have time until I vanished out of your rear-view mirror, involuntarily. 

How did it start? 

You came to get me. 

How did it end? 

You drove away. 

I can still see you in my mind. Bright beautiful day, and the convertible top was down. You turned left with confidence after stopping at a sign that said “No Left Turns.” 


You taught me some really valuable lessons, and for that, I am grateful.  I can exchange my hurt for the value I received in our conversations. It was worth my while when the inventory is honestly taken, and the debits and credits accounted for… 

You made me confident in my gut. You told me my decisions made while sitting center saddle are spot on. Why did I need a brilliant man to tell me that in order to believe it? I did need it though, and I thank you for filling that need. 

You taught me about masks.  I don’t want the ones I have and am working to shed them because of the awareness you brought out in me. 

You are the first person to whom I admitted lies about orgasms. Now I don’t lie. I just have them or don’t as my body allows. I don’t judge it either. 

I should have fought for the connection we had earlier.  I suspected that, but I sat passive and waited for you. That learning will certainly have prepared me be more proactive in another relationship that I will save. I suppose though –back in our time, you also shared in that responsibility, and either didn’t see it or didn’t want it. 

Now I have the awareness and the voice to fight connection as I can recognize self-sabotage and retreat. 

There is so much I have to be thankful for in our learning.  I didn’t write about you because I was so angry…and hurt…and confused.  Now it is the lessons learned, written in some parable for me to reflect on… 

Doors: Card Trick

Aria Scarlette, 1 August 2020 

On our first date in a coffee shop, we chatted and he showed me card tricks.  He was funny, and it takes some bravery to try wooing a woman with slight of hand. The real trick though is that I was VERY CLEAR and VERY EXPLICIT about my desire to explore polyamory as a standard approach to non-monogamy, and despite saying he was okay with the approach, he was decidedly NOT OKAY. His slight of hand translated into lies he told himself about his own awareness. 


We met as I was also dating two men I now know as significant parts of my journey. Those men both became loves of mine.  One is still a part of my life while the other is only a significant part of my past. Competing against these two powerhouses in my life was just not a thing. Hold your own or sit the fuck down with card deck squirreled away in a pocket. One was my Legal Love, and the other is Poetry even now.

Card Trick was married, and he left his corporate gig for something less stressful. We met several times: beer sometimes at a bar or restaurant, parking lot car make-outs, car sex first, hotel once, and my home once after a nice dinner out. He didn’t mind the concept of me with others as long as he felt like he was my “favorite.” He wouldn’t ask about my others, and then he would.  I would answer exactly what was asked.

Once he asked me when I last had an orgasm.  I answered. He asked if was self induced.  I answered no. He asked who.  I told him, and just like that, the slight of hand does its magic and jealousy appears. In his case, it didn’t manifest as jealousy only, but rather raged into possessive bullshit colored by competitive instincts. 

What is it about the female orgasm that makes it about the man and his ego? My orgasm and my ability to have one is mine – NOT YOURS. Your manhood isn’t involved.  Your dick isn’t involved.  Your skills are not involved. The more you make it about you, the less I give a shit about you. 

We repeated this shitty trick several times before calling it quits. He could see other women, and he did.  He was also married, and sexually active with his wife.  He prided himself in being able to please her, which seemed nice. You should want to please your partners, but your masculine value isn’t wrapped up in her squirting. 

Card tricks are for people who want to be fooled and who seek the illusion. I like playful fun, but I do not want to be part of the lies you tell to yourself. Furthermore, I shout FUCKNOOOOOOOO to anyone who thinks that my pleasure is some sort of badge to be worn as accomplishment. Learn me and set me on fire FOR ME, and let me do the same FOR YOU. 

He didn’t know himself or he never would have spent an ounce of energy on a woman seeking to experiment with partners and build loving relationships with more than one person. Frankly, anyone inherently competitive and jealous cannot see monogamy within an extramarital affair. I should have seen it instantly, and it would have been best had I thrown his entire deck of cards to the wind and disappeared in the time he spent picking up his thoughts. 


Even though I could have completely skipped Card Trick as a partner, I needed to learn that people are not honest with themselves. Since him, I try to look beyond what people say now into what the wish they could say. I now have partners for whom polyamory is not their default setting.  They do indeed explore it as openly as they are able, and I appreciate them for their willingness to learn for me and with me. 

I do know the secret though. They aren’t built for it. They accept me for who I am, and they fight the cultural influences that would otherwise compete with my goal to learn if I am truly polyamorous. I also believe them truly that they support me knowing while actually HEARING what I say. In exchange for this unconditional acceptance, I love them in my own way. I will care for their needs and desires with as much energy as I have. 

When energy runs low…I worry. Am I also practicing some form of slight of hand? Am I also practicing a level of self dishonestly? Am I really able to be this person? Am I enough for them? 

There it is.  Am I enough? Time to gather my own scattered thoughts via 52 card pick up. 

Doors: Sexy Mother Fucker

Aria Scarlette, 17 Sept 2019 

I live in the land of Prince, and this connection was my first outside of my marriage ever. We met once in an airport, we met once at a brewery, we met once at a hotel, and we met once months later in a park. He went from “Sexy Mother Fucker” to nothing, and I know exactly how it happened. 


Sexy Mother Fucker – Prince 

Verse 2 

We need to talk about things, tell me what cha do 

Tell me whatcha eat, I might cook for you 

See it really don’t matter ’cause it’s all about me and you 

Ain’t no one else around 

I’m even with the blindfold, gagged and bound 

I don’t mind, see this ain’t about sex 

It’s all about love being in charge of this life and the next 

Why all the cosmic talk? 

I just want you smarter than I’ll ever be 

When we take that walk 


You seem perplexed I haven’t taken you yet 

Can’t you see I’m harder than a man can get 

I got wet dreams comin’ out of my ears 

I get hard if the wind blows your cologne near me 

But I can take it, ’cause I want the whole nine 

This ain’t about the body, it’s about the mind 


“What do you seek?” I ask. 

“Friend, confidante, uninhibited lover,” he answers. 

Feverish chat, filled with loads of intimate questions, and my goodness, so many pictures. I joked that I let my camera crew go for the night, so he should please excuse the awkward nature of photographing my own ass. All joking aside, I marveled at both the photos and the oddness of sending them to a person I hadn’t yet met. 

This man embodied a list of firsts for me: the first man to whom I sent an illicit pic, the first man to whom I gifted a pair of panties soiled in my own wetness, and the first man outside of my marriage with whom I had sex.  I didn’t adore him in the slightest, but I allowed him to set me on fire physically. I was testing a theory: Can I just have sex with someone? The conclusion: No, I need to feel ongoing connection.  When the communication shuts off, so does the pussy faucet. 

He was beautiful but very quiet. The few words he used were so very effective. He made me feel beautiful, sexy, smart, and like the very thought of me made him hard. While he said he wanted a friend, a confidante, and an uninhibited lover, he didn’t know how to share of himself in a way that worked for me. He would answer any question I asked, but I had to ask. The extraction of information made me feel needy rather than the recipient of a gift. When he was busy, he was a ghost.  When he was horny, “Hey, sexy.  WYD?” There is nothing on this planet that makes me feel trashier than a man’s singular desire for what I can do for him. He didn’t like condoms. I gave zero fux about that.  In this arena, you wrap that shit up.  I won’t be made to feel guilty about wanting to keep myself healthy over another person’s desire for bareback action. MAYBE after time and trust, we discuss something different. MAYBE or MAYBE NOT. 

We started out heavy, interested, in balance and busy threw me down the list of things to do in a day. He moved. His job made him travel. His interest in me likely faded though he never said so. After our last meeting, I thought that we might meet more frequently as it seemed circumstances had changed. Move was complete, work was breathing, and it seemed we could have fun together, but the communication didn’t change. 

One day after several weeks of no words, he summoned with the familiar, “Hey, sexy.  WYD.” And I responded with what was in my heart. I am not booty call. I signed up for friend, confidante, and uninhibited lover. I am not the affair you are seeking.  Peace on your journey. 

And I shut the door. I shut the door on funny car dance videos to “Sexy Mother Fucker”, future grabby under the table brewery visits, smooth slightly southern accent, beautiful lips and clear open smile, totally mischievous eyes, and truly unsatisfying communication. He taught me that people don’t know what they want – or feel like they shouldn’t want what they want so they lie to themselves and others. He would have paired well with many by saying that he wants an occasional encounter of very physical intensity. He treated me well, and he was a skilled sex partner. He kept drama out of it, and was fun to hang around. I would sit at a brewery with him any day of the week even still. 

He was shy, and I didn’t want to do more work. I needed to be gifted his intimacy, and he preferred to remain inside himself where he was safe. From him, I learned to stop asking so many questions, and follow the partners who wanted me to know them deeply.

Doors: Kintsugi

Aria Scarlette, 25 Sept 2019 

Kintsugi = “Golden Joinery” 

It is the Japanese artistic practice of repairing broken pottery with lacquer that is then coated in precious metal. The scars from being broken are then part of the history, and the piece is more beautiful from having endured. 


Today, I watched as a man’s last evidence disappeared from a chat feed, minute by minute. It was the record of a dark day filled with loss, desperation, and deep pain. That day was terrible, and reliving it in a fashion today was rawness renewed. 


Months back, I sent a message in response to a profile I saw. As a general rule, I never message men with no optional narrative information, but I sent him a message. He listed himself as bilingual, so maybe I thought he has learned and seen things. His listed height was tall, but I don’t care about that. In his photo, he was bearded, outside, and he wore sunglasses and a hat. He looked like the vast majority of men on the platform for discreet dating opportunities. He was nothing extraordinary, but I sent him a message, and he sent one back. 

We chatted about life goals, appreciation for jaded humor, and the desire to fuck standard filters that keep people from saying what is at the heart and soul of communication. He expressed dominant sexual preference, and I wanted him to show me everything he had. 

The first time we met, he wore a suit. I smelled him when he hugged me upon approaching the booth near the back of the diner. I watched the mischief in his eyes as he told stories. I saw the way he held his coffee cup with both hands like it would escape accidentally. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but I knew I would ask later about that observed detail. We parted, and out in front of the diner in public sunshine, he kissed me. For all of the chat about dominance, force, demanding, and taking…the kiss was kind, gentle, quiet, shy, and gorgeous. He barely touched me, and I was hooked. He went one way, I went the other, and we both looked back to catch one more photo frame to remember. 

Then began the slow, alluring dance to find time and to align schedules. We met another few times in public, we met once in private, and then a few more times in public. We filled weeks with chat in between meetings. I will likely detail those meetings at some point, but they seem irrelevant now. Our shared connection and our sex were both crucial learning opportunities for me, but the enduring lesson came from actually breaking, gathering fragments, and carrying sharpness around in my bloody hands.  

There was the day that didn’t go as planned. He messaged from the darkness. I heard his pain the second it hit my phone. He felt lost, outside, and alone. He muttered suicide sounds, and I freaked. I fought in order to reach him, to hold him in the ways I could, to let him know he was important, and to remind him of perspective. I don’t know if I mattered, but he survived. He made choices that weren’t permanent in reaction to temporary situation. He survived, but I do not feel we survived. I rinsed bloody pieces in salty, endless tears, and I carry every part around, still, hoping that the history of us will be beauty again after the repair.