“Cinderella” was my lover. I called her that because I felt like I had found the one. She wore minus 10 lenses, and because of corneal scarring could not be fully corrected. BCVA, my guess, 20/40, but she had trouble at all distances–even close up–because of the corneal abrasions. She was a beautiful, built, sweet and shy blonde. Natural blonde. (I checked.) Here’s our story:
Trust Fall
It’s something I’ve always wanted to do: take my lover out, blindfolded. But I know I can’t. Oh, I could probably get away with it. Who would even have the nerve to approach someone these days, let alone say, Hey, what’s with the blindfold? But it’s something I personally couldn’t do… to the public? Old people? Somebody. Everybody.
Ah, but you, my Cinderella, hold the key. Listen to what I want you to do. Go out with me with no contacts, no glasses. I will plan it out carefully. We’ll have your glasses if something happens where you need them or if you want to stop the scene at any time. That’ll be your call–play ends immediately, no pressure from me. Other than that, you will be dependent on me for the length of the scene. Will you do this for me?
You get yourself in the car easily enough–it’s not like you can’t see anything–but I can tell you’re not comfortable. Your moves are tentative. I’m going to stay close by you–within reach. I can’t let you feel like I’m not there. I want your trust, not your fear.
I glance over at you while I’m driving. I point out that you’ve been blindfolded before. This should be easier because you can use the vision you have.
“Sure, I’ve been blindfolded in bed, in a bath, not out here practically having to feel my way around. It’s different other ways, too. The blindfold is play; this, for me, is real. Something I’d dread, and avoid.”
I think, Why am I asking you to do this for me? It is a lot to ask. I guess it’s that… I like the very real need you’ll have to rely on me. You’re right–it’s not staged; it’s real. And I get a rush out of the heightened connection between us. I love when you show me trust, and I know that I am asking for quite a show of it this time. Ask me for anything you need today, for my help, and I will be there.
You laugh a little, “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be asking for help.”
I park the car. When you get out you stay standing by the door, waiting for me. I look to see if you’re on the curb or off it. Off. I take you across the road with your hand on my arm. I tell you when the opposite curb comes up. You let me know that there’s no way you would have seen it. Thank you, I understand more about taking care of you today. You keep hold of my arm.
Then we’re on the grassy path that leads to the grotto. I haven’t told you about the grotto. I’m the only one who calls it that, but it’s the perfect name for it. It’s a half-field long, beautifully designed wading pool. It’s made to look and feel completely natural, nestled down in a hollow in the park that escapes notice until you’re upon it. Tall trees surround it; sunlight and shade flash across its wide surface. See, like a grotto. It’s fed by fresh water, streaming out through huge rocks that lead up the hill. Children, families, dogs play in it. Hidden water jets spray up and then stop again. Children run to step on them when the water is spouting. I describe all this to you as we walk there.
We come to the ridge above the grotto. I look things over, describe briefly what I see. Down the stairs or try the path? Hmm, definitely not the path. I could see you sliding and tumbling down, effectively blind.
“Can you see the stairs well enough to go down them?”
“ See them? No. But I can go down them.” Mm-hmm, I think. I lead you over to them and put your hand on the railing.
You stay at the top and lean over to peer at what you’ll have to navigate. You make a sound… of exasperation? futility? I don’t think you can see well enough to do this. I say, “The steps are uneven so go down them with me. Put your hand on the rail and the other on my shoulder. I’ll go first and you go with me from there.” We go down all the steps that way, slowly but smoothly.
I’m quick to let you know what that did for me–that you relied on me and trusted me. I tell you I appreciate your fulfilling this fantasy for me. I know it isn’t easy or fun for you. Surprisingly, you tell me it has some appeal. You like letting me lead you. Oh, baby. (Cinderella!)
But you ask, “Was anyone looking?” I don’t lie to you. People noticed what we were doing but no one seemed to think anything of it. They just glanced away. “That part I don’t like,” you say. I know well what you mean. And I won’t let it be humiliating, anything you do for me. I tell you, “If something gets awkward, I’ll get us out of it and we’ll end right away. I’ll look out for you.”
We sit in the shade. You hear the water and the kids, but I know you can’t see anything at this distance. I pull you back into my arms so that you’re sitting in front of me, facing the pool, and I wrap my arms around you from behind. I start telling you what we’d do here.
I tell you how I would lead you to the pool. Help you down from the edge. We’d wade in, and lie down together, slide our bodies along each other’s, and kiss and kiss and kiss in the cool, shallow water running over us. You don’t need to see for that. We would have that connection. If only the outside could be ours….
You relax against me and close your eyes. But then you sit up again and look around. Unsuccessfully. You’re self-conscious. I know what you’re feeling. There could be other people around and you can’t see past us. Can’t see past us. Let me savor that metaphor.
“Is anyone around us?” you whisper. “I just need to know. It makes me feel embarrassed to think other people know I can’t see them. Are there any children up here?” You are sounding increasingly anxious.
“No, baby, trust me,” I say back, not whispering. “There really is no one around us.”
You lie back against me for a while, this time keeping your eyes open, staring emptily toward the water. I kiss your temple and tell you how beautiful you are.
When a small family starts coming near, I let you know immediately. You can hear them and you turn your head in that direction. I see you squinting, helplessly. I know that with your vision it doesn’t help.
“I can’t see them! I feel panicky. I need to stop. It’s not that I don’t trust you–”
“I know, baby, that’s okay. You’ve shown me your trust and done more than I dreamed. Wear your glasses now, we’ll go home, and I’ll make you so very glad you did this.”
~jengaio