Tampa International Airport feels clean and efficient; like a pleasantly homogenized slice of Gulf Coast southern gentility with a hefty helping of mid-Western work ethic thrown in for good measure. She's flight had landed early, though I had been there for a good hour, jump beaning from my skin at the thought of seeing her again after a ten month hiatus. The main terminal hub is serviced by pairs of swift, smooth, space-agey trams that shuttle passengers on spokes of monorail track to the departure and arrival gates. The trams ran like pairs of modern metal relay racers ferrying packs of travelers to and fro.
From my watch post I could see the delivery duo for the Carribean arrivals slide in and out. I had to hop back and forth to eye each influx of deplaners. For a good half hour I eagarly jitterbuged back and forth to make sure I caught the first glimpse. And finally, there She was. She came right up, dropped both bags to the floor, gave me a huge hug, and said, "You're the only person I know who I can leave and take up with as though we've never been apart".
The next morning in the warm water of the Gulf of Mexico, She later confessed she thought she'd seen a dead body in a wet suit.
She-Who-Visits is a world class, technically trained, and vastly experienced diver. She is strong, hard bodied, and has the nutty brown tan of an island girl. She'd been twenty feet down, scouring the bottom of the sea for her treasured shells. Coming up She thought she'd seen an arm encased in the black neoprene of a wet suit floating akimbo, attached to a lifeless body. Shocked, she said she'd almost inhaled water with the sucked gasp of terror. She'd been trained to save people. She knew she had to retrieve the body and assist in the notification of the bereaved loved ones.
"There's something under us," She whispered. I felt something slick and smooth brush my leg. "I'm standing on a ledge", she said in a voice that sounded apprehensive. She later confessed to complete horror and, not wanting to panic me, she struggled for control. She was facing shore and I was facing the open ocean.
All of a sudden I saw a broad black back streaked with white break the water's surface and roll gently in a slick hump back into the warm, thankfully oil-free Gulf.
"Manatee!!", I shouted gleefully.
"What..." She asked, sounding slightly dazed.
"It's a manatee!!! No, it's two!", I cried happily.
And She-Who-Visits and I frolicked with two gentle sea cows for a few magical minutes. Underwater, one looked at me with placid dark round eyes and I reached out and petted a docile, briney, bovine, nose.
One of the things She and I have always shared is being married. But this visit, my leg of that stool was broken. I was deeply shaken, ashamed and mortified that at times I had to make an excuse to go to shore and cry, hidden alone in the trees or behind sunglasses as She dove for her beloved ocean treasure. The pain of my separation was actually invigorated by seeing my dear friend who had provided so much solace and sexual acceptance over the past four years we've known one another and I've struggled with middle-aged matrimony.
With friends I can wear my emotion like a bothersome badge. I told She about my dating, which she blessed, though I thought she was a little miffed I didn't seek approval beforehand. I told her how broken hearted I felt to not be able to share tales of marriage with her. We talked that one day we might not play, but would remain friends. She talked alot about her life with Mr. She as she always does. It was alternately comforting to hear her tales of married life and heartbreaking to see my marital leg of our stool; detached and in the deep grass of an uncertain and yet-to-be completely defined separation after twenty two years of mitered and mortised joinder.
And though She swore this would be a vanilla weekend, it was not. Seasoned diver and power shopper, She spotted a DSW as we meandered in town. I practically swerved across three lanes of on-coming traffic to satisfy her squeal of delight. Apparently, there are not many stores on her island paradise. As a gift to the domme and dear friend I love, I bought her a pair of black sling backs. Later that night, our last together, she let me tougue clean and smell them as she sat on the ottoman, tanned legs crossed, smiling wickedly down at my grovelings.
But I sensed a distance. Later, in the aftermath of play, she accused me of whining like a dramatic little girl and overplaying my role like a novice dominatrix. We've played many, many times together and she's never expressed such displeasure. I know she thinks I talk too much, a problem solved this visit with a sweaty running sock. But something in her tone belied not a problem with my sub-style, but one of a more She-centered, personal nature. I mean what self respecting, red-blooded, manly, submissive doesn't wheedle and whine and beg? No, her inflection and annoyance fortold perhaps a problem in her life or that we just weren't as connected this time around.
On the drive to Miami across Alligator Alley I told her I had always admired her for protecting her marriage, for loving Mr. She, and a for being a good wife. I told her I never wanted our deep, one-of-a-kind, lightening strike relationship to threaten any aspect of her union.
She said she thought our relationship would evolve and change over time with the twists and turns of life.
She told me that our previous goodbyes had made her want to run. My morose sadness at our parting had badly burdened her. But my life's twists and turns have changed me and changed her in our four years of friendship and play. She is no longer my only real connection to a kink life. I now live with privacy, but more openly. So this time, I could really say goodbye to her without feeling an overwhelming loss and trust that there will be a next visit, there will be more surprise phone calls, and we will be bound to one another in the unexpected and unpredicable kink kabuki of our amazing dance.
Because like my first kinky day dream of a girl on a bike tying me up and trundling me off, She takes me down to the railroad line.
