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Conversations like that one in the car drew me to him like a charged magnet, as did hisemotional openness, his fondness for communication, and his public displays of affection for close male friends. I’d been craving this vulnerability and openness from the men I dated. When I started hanging out with Ian and he immediately wanted to talk about feelings, it was a gulp of ice-cold lemonade on a 98-degree day. My ex-boyfriend had the emotional depth of a paper airplane and couldn’t engage with the deep pain I was enduring – or any other emotion, period.
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My last relationship had crumbled after my mom’s diagnosis. He pressed his fingers deeper into my fleece jacket. I can’t imagine how hard that must be,” Ian’s voice softened and dropped to a compassionate whisper. “I’m missing so much time with my family and it’s so hard to be caring and helpful from so far away.”
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“I – I don’t know how to be wholeheartedly supportive from across the country,” I stammered. When he asked me how it was to live 3,000 miles away from my family in Vermont, I choked up and revealed how challenging it’d been in the wake of multiple cancer diagnoses that had slammed my immediate family in recent months. He told me about the companionship he sought through dating, the Tinder dates he endured in hope of finding meaningful connection, and the struggle of forging deep friendships such a great distance away from his family on the east coast. The 75-minute drive to its base was filled with surprisingly open dialogue about relationships, values and family matters. One of our first dates was skiing on that same mountain. He peeled back his Gore-Tex glove to plug my number into his phone, where it still lives under the contact “Emily Let’s Ski!” I t was skiing that introduced us – we met on the snow-smothered summit of a mountain. When we left the store that day, Ian had a big bundle of wedding dress and I had some big questions to consider. I realized I wanted less dress and more flannel shirts, trucker hats and sandstone Carhartts. Those feelings illuminated some unanticipated boundaries of where I define attractiveness in men and when I still crave traditional masculinity. Intellectually, I enjoyed that Ian was rejecting gender norms and expectations. “Oh girl, what an exciting milestone! Congratulations!” hollered Eli, an effervescent gay man who dons many dresses himself and is supportive of any man excited to do the same. My palms slapped the concrete countertop as I regaled my housemate Eli with stories from the night before. “That was the first time I’ve undressed a man – from a dress!” I shrieked the next morning. Foreplay involved palming his glittery glutes while dancing to Kesha’s Woman and caressing his furry thigh along a hemline so tight you could almost see the outlines of each and every hair follicle beneath it. On the first weekend we hooked up, I had to yank a green sparkly dress over his head to unclothe him. I imagined him skiing down Mount St Helens in it, the lengthy rag concealing his chiseled calves and hardened quadriceps, and strained to find it an appealing vision. The skirt fanned out as wide as a beach umbrella – a garment fit for a Vegas chapel. “Isn’t it beautiful?” His chest hair battled the sheer neckline. I’d long thought I was contributing to a progressive shift in how we define masculinity, finally allowing men to be emotional and vulnerable, or to ask for help, or to hug their male friends … or to wear dresses. My boyfriend is aggressively fun and a flair fanatic, which I find wildly attractive on most occasions – like when he’s scaling technical slopes in jorts and a cat shirt or skiing the steepest lines in the Pacific north-west in space tights.īut I found myself unexpectedly uneasy with his new fondness for feminine frocks – a reaction that challenged the progressive ideals I’d prided myself on for decades. I knew Ian would be among the most outrageous on the mountain. We were at Goodwill searching for dresses to wear during the annual Mother’s Day Climb up Mount St Helens, a decades-long tradition in which everyone scaling the volcano that day sports flowing garments in honor of female mountaineers and mothers everywhere.
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A smile stretched across Ian’s scruffy face and his blue eyes danced with the giddy excitement of a bride saying, “I do!”
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Its lace sleeves sashayed from the tapered bodice and fluffy tulle grazed the dirty tiles of the thrift store floor. Ian thrust the white garment into the air like a Nascar trophy.