Deep End(7)

“Luk wants to be in charge. Is that what you want, too, or . . . ?”

I shake my head. “The opposite, actually.”

“Ah.” She curls a finger in an auburn strand of hair. Pen’s coloring was the first thing I noticed about her, back in the varsity circuit. How strikingly beautiful she was—generous, too. In competition, between dives, athletes usually avoid looking at each other. Not Pen, though. Always a kind smile. Never arrogant, even though she was always ahead in our age group, by leaps and bounds. The flag bearer at the Junior Olympics. She’d dive with pink, then blue hair. Friendship bracelets made by her fans. Nail art. I found her impossibly cool. I’ll never not be intimidated by her, at least a little bit.

“How did you discover it?”

“How did I discover . . . ?”

“That you were into it.”

A guy who looks remarkably like Dr. Rodriguez’s fascist TA, the one who docked one point off my orgo final for writing the wrong date, walks by. Bet he’d love an earful. “I always knew, to some degree. I mean, I wasn’t browsing eBay for deals on PVC masks in middle school, but once I became, um, aware of and interested in sex, I always had . . . fantasies. Ideas.” I shrug, and don’t add, It felt right. It feels right.

“I see.” Pen nods, thoughtful. “And how did you end up actually, you know, doing it?”

“My high school boyfriend and I dated for about three years.” I skip the part where we were neighbors, then seventh-grade best friends, then fell in love. I trusted him, and it was an easy conversation, as easy as everything else with Josh. Everything except for that phone call during freshman year. His subdued tone as he explained, It’s not just because of her . . . honestly, the distance is a lot. And maybe our personalities are too different for this to last? That one, it had been difficult. “I told him what I was interested in.”

“And he . . . was he interested, too?”

I workshop the perfect phrasing. “Not in the same things. That’s why I thought my experience might be relevant to you and Lukas.” Because Lukas Blomqvist is kinky. Lukas “Olympic gold medalist, swim-world darling, record-holding Scandinavian treasure” Blomqvist. What is life?

“And how did you approach the situation?”

“I told him what I thought might be hot. Josh did the same. We cross-referenced.” The resulting Venn diagram didn’t include much, but still.

“This is so Fifty Shades, Vandy.”

“Right?” Our eyes meet, and we share a smile at the improbability of all of this. But she seems much more at ease.

“Would you be able to explain what you like about letting someone else take charge?”

Would I? “It’s lots of things garbled together.” The ease of prenegotiating a social interaction. Having, for once, specific instructions. The stable quiet in the never-ending chaos of my brain. The satisfaction of doing something right, of being told as much. Disconnecting from the rest of the world and going with the flow. And yeah: I’m not sure why I’m wired like that, but pain and pleasure have always mixed up in my head, and it feels good when someone I trust pinches my nipples. It’s that simple, sometimes. “To me, it’s about freedom.”

She snorts. “The freedom of . . . having someone telling you what to do?”

“I know it sounds counterintuitive, but I’m usually overthinking something. Desperately trying to avoid screwing up and working myself up to a panic.” Am I taking up too much space? Boring you? Disappointing you? Would you rather be somewhere else, with someone else? “Overwhelmed by the burden of wondering whether I’m doing it right.”

“Doing what right?”

I laugh. “I’m not even sure. Sex, but also, more in general, being a human?” I shrug, because that’s the problem, isn’t it? There is no right or wrong way to exist. Real life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. Fortunately, sex can. My kind of sex. “If someone I feel safe with is directing me . . .”

“You like the structure.”

“That’s a good way of putting it.” I smile. “I can’t speak for Lukas, or people on the more . . . dominant end of it.” The word oscillates bizarrely between us. Truth is, I don’t feel totally comfortable doling out BDSM terms, either. Like any other community, I cradle an assortment of doubts on whether I have what it takes to truly belong. Labels have to be earned, and my pockets always seem too empty to pay up. “But clearly they get something out of it.”

“Clearly. Are you and your boyfriend still together?” Her gaze sharpens. “I feel like I know so little about you.”

What a coincidence. I, too, know very little about me. “We broke up.”

“And the guy you’re seeing now . . . ?”

“I’m not. Seeing anyone, that is.”

“But that’s not because of what you’re into?”

“Not really.” At least, not entirely. What I like to tell myself and whoever asks—Barb, mostly—is that I’m too busy and career driven to date. But my celibate phase has been going on so long, I’m not sure it’s voluntary anymore, and I’d rather not mention that after what happened with my dad, men can be unsettling to be around.

“I suspect I shouldn’t ask it like this, but I truly have no clue how to phrase it, so I’ll just . . . Did your ex hurt you? During sex, I mean.”