It’s easy to find Mr Right on Fetlife

It’s easy to find Mr Right on Fetlife. No, really. Just hear me out. There are galeventy million people here. Eleventy-twelve thousand of them are interested in BDSM, and 10% of that demographic is sweet enough to buy you flowers and everything. There are tons and tons of ethical, wonderful men on Fetlife. This is a statistical fact that I completely made up.

There is a problem, though. Most of them live in Antarctica… Or Cakestown, Ireland if they’re good people. My first kink mentor found true love in Australia. He lived in the United States, so they met in Europe, sealed the deal, and then set up a new home together in her country.

Not all of us have the luxury to relocate, though, so there are galeventy million Mr Rights on Fetlife, and most of them will never evolve beyond long-distance relationships.

I met a beautiful man 10 years ago. He was smart, lovely, kinky, and kind. He also lived in Ottawa. Our relationship was more intense than anything I’ve experienced before or since. The trouble with LDRs is that your sexual energy has nowhere to go, so it builds and builds into a whole pile of “Oh my gods”.

It’s horrible.

Just horrible.

I swore never to do it again. This wasn’t easy. I’ve met a hundred Mr Rights on Fetlife, after all. The second I realised they were potential relationships, I created as much distance as humanly possible. I won’t even take on a play partner who spends most of his life on foreign soil. If I can’t be with you, I won’t flirt with you. It’s that simple.

Fetlife could solve this problem by buying a Startrek Transporter, but has it done that? Noooo. No, it has not, so we’re stuck.

Sarah Kay wrote: “You can only fit so many words in a postcard […] before you forget that words are sometimes used for something other than filling emptiness.”

Long distance relationships feel like filling emptiness, so I don’t send postcards anymore. Are you Capetonian? No? Then this will never work out.

Sarah Kay also wrote, “I send letters into space hoping that some mailman somewhere will track you down and recognise you from the description in my poems; that he will place a stack of them in your hands and tell you, “There’s a girl who still writes you. She doesn’t know how not to.”

I don’t fall in love with men I cannot touch because I still write unsent love letters to a beautiful man in Ottawa. I don’t know how not to.