Control Issues

Jake went out a few weeks ago with Formika and made out with a bunch of her porn star buddies. He chose to tell me this, casually, as if it was a minor detail he'd left out of a story he'd told me days ago, over ice cream on St. Mark's.

"You made out with porn stars?" I was more jealous than upset.

"You said it was ok!"

This was only half true. I'd told Jake it was ok for him to flirt and make out with other guys on one other occasion. We were going out to Opaline together, and rather than spend the night feeling awkward about being at a club with boyfriend in tow and secretly wanting to act like our slutty single selves, I told him all bets were off. We were going home together, but it was ok to make out with other guys until then.

"That was only for that particular night," I said. "I didn't mean in general."

Actually, I didn't have a problem with Jake making out with other guys so much as the fact that he just assumed he was allowed to. He didn't bother to ok it with me beforehand.

"Ok then," I said, "Let's make some rules."

I told Jake that from now on it was ok for him to make out with other guys, but on one condition: he had to ask my permission first, in each particular instance.

"I like the idea of you calling me up from the bathroom of some bar and describing the guy you want to hook up with, and exactly what you want to do with him," I said, feeling a little flushed and giggly. "I get to decide if he's worthy and if you deserve to get what you want. That way I'm still included. It's not like you're doing things completely independent of me."

I was getting kind of giddy thinking about it. It was a warm spring night in the East Village, I was having the best banana ice cream of my life, and I felt closer to Jake than I ever had before. I wanted to press his head to my chest and hold him and protect him forever. I don't remember if there were twinkle lights in the trees on St. Marks that night, but there should have been.

"Control issues," Jake grumbled.