by Sasha White
I’d said those same words to her earlier so I could pound out her mouth. I loved tormenting her, but only because she loved it too.
“Come closer,” I said.
She opened her mouth and I stuck the sushi between the bars. Something like this happened in Hansel and Gretel, didn’t it?
What are you doing, Mark? This isn’t a goddamned fairy tale.
I ate a piece myself, and fed her another. I loved the way she chewed. I loved everything about her, but it was a fetish thing, no more. I tried to convince myself of that as I stared at her lips and her teeth, and her tongue as she swiped away a bit of rice. I fetishized her. I did that with a lot of things.
I got up, leaving the food out of her reach, and returned with two glasses of water. Hers had a straw.
“Thirsty?” I asked.
She drank, still managing to look sulky while she did it.
I fed her a piece of shrimp, followed by marinated cucumber. “He was an asshole,” I reminded her. “You wanted to leave him.”
“But it was for me to do. Not you.”
I ate some more while she stared at me through the bars. I teased her with a smoked salmon roll, her favorite, and then stuck it in my mouth. “Do you hate me now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to go back to Chicago?”
“Please may I have some salmon, Master?”
I melted when she used that little girl voice, the begging voice. “I don’t know if you deserve salmon.” I gave her more water, and finally, after many glares on her part, the salmon she craved. She glared at me as she chewed it.
“You don’t have a cage like this in Chicago,” I pointed out.
“I have a whole apartment. And classes in a few weeks.”
Ugh. Classes. Classes didn’t fit into our little play world. Classes were the apocalypse, and no amount of wind turbines could keep them away.
“When do you graduate?” I asked.
“Next spring.”
“What are you going to do then?”
“I don’t know. Get a job.”
Her life would go on. She’d get a degree. A job. A new Master. Maybe a husband eventually. Why did the thought of it upset me?
I waved another shrimp under her nose, plain, no sauce. She loved plain, clear things, like mathematical equations about centrifugal force.
“I’m going to Paris on Friday,” I said. “To look at a private collection. Do you want to come?”
“For how long?”
I suppressed a sigh, poking through cabbage leaves. “The answer to that has always been ‘as long as you like.’ I’ll be there about a week. You’re free to come and go as you please.”
“Then I’m not really your slave. And we’re not really scening anymore.”
“If you’re not my slave, why are you in my cage?”
I said it in a joking way, to diffuse the tension between us. I saw tears in her eyes before she turned away. “I feel safe in your cage,” she said, lying back on the pillow. “I could stay here my whole life.”
“Ah, but, you know...classes,” I reminded her gently. Everything about this conversation felt like a lie. I’d taught her that at least, to lie and protect herself. Maybe she wouldn’t let her next Master treat her like shit. “Don’t you want any more?” I asked, gesturing to the tray.
“I’m not hungry.”
I thrust the straw between the bars and she drank the rest of the water.
“Do you want to go to Paris or not?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s so far away.”
“Have you ever been there?”
She shook her head, and brushed away tears.
“You ought to come. It’s an amazing city, and it’s only a week.”
She wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Maybe it’s time for me to head back to Chicago,” she said after a moment. “I’ve been paying my bills online, but there are other things I need to take care of. I have friends there. A life. Classes to register for. I mean, this has been fun, but…” Her voice went tight and cut off.
I waited.
“I mean, Jesus,” she said, turning away from me. “I don’t even want to imagine what’s happening to the food in my fridge.”
Bettina
What I really wanted to say to him was:
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
But you scare me so bad.
But I love you. I love you.
I love you so much.
Mark
What I really wanted to say to her was:
Don’t go back to Chicago. Quit your classes and live in my cage.
I promise I’ll take care of you forever.
You’re the first work of art I’ve ever wanted to keep.
Bettina
I returned to Chicago the next day.
I didn’t have to safe word or make a fuss, or do anything dramatic. I just told him I had to go, and he agreed it was probably time. There were no final BDSM scenes, aside from a wistfully executed blowjob. After that, Mark drove me to the airport and escorted me to the plane.
“Thanks for these last few weeks,” he said, standing just inside the cabin door. He hugged me, a warm, enveloping hug. I started crying.
“It was a good experience,” I squeaked out, wiping my tears on his shirt. “I learned a lot from you.”
“I’m glad.” His voice sounded so soft and gentle, so intimate. I loved him desperately, but he wasn’t into commitment. I’d done this dance already, way too many times, and it always ended the same, with distancing and humiliation. It was better for both of us if I just left.
When I finally pulled myself together, he reached in his back pocket and produced my phone. He didn’t let go right away when I tried to take it from him.
“I blocked his number,” he said. “I can’t control what you do after you leave, but I don’t think you should unblock it. In fact, I have a task for you.”
A task.
It seemed like ages had passed since I’d walked up to Mark in the club.
“When you get back to Chicago,” he said, “I want you to throw your collar back in Bryan’s face. I want you to flaunt how beautiful and independent you are, so he sees everything he’s lost. If he tries to win you back, I want you to laugh in his face and tell him to go fuck himself. Then I want you to call me, and tell me all the details.”
I didn’t know if that would really happen, but it made a nice picture. I smiled even though I felt like crying again.
“I’ll do that,” I said.
He thrust the phone into my hand. It was fully charged. “No more acrylic sweaters, Bettina. I mean it.”
“No, Master. No more.”
The Master slipped out. It was an awful, awful moment. Go to Paris, said my heart. You’ll only get hurt again, said my head.
Mark smiled crookedly and kissed me, and then he was gone. The doors were closed and locked, and the airplane taxied down the runway. Of course it had to end this way. I had classes, and rotting food to throw away back in Chicago. Mark’s life and work was centered in New York. It had to be this way.
A few hours later I was standing in my apartment. Nothing had changed here. The refrigerator was horrid, but not unbearable. Moldy cheese, frothing salsa. I never had a lot of food in my refrigerator, just like I didn’t have much of anything in my life. I had my old collar, which Mark had thrown onto the bed before we left. I picked it up, smelled the leather. Instead of remembering Bryan, instead of feeling sorry for that whole mess, I thought to myself, Mark was the last person to touch this.
And Mark had given me a task.
I went to Bryan’s place before I lost my nerve. His roommate answered the door. Garrett was one of the men I’d been loaned to in the beginning. I shuddered inwardly as he leered at my breasts.
“Bryan,” he yelled. “Bettina’s here.” He tilted his head at me. “Come in.”
I turned as Bryan’s bedroom door opened. There wa
s a girl in there. Well, I knew there’d be a girl. I wondered if she was a loaner too, or someone Bryan planned to keep. I realized I didn’t care.
“Hey,” he said, shutting the door behind him. He, too, leered at my breasts, in that way of men who objectified women. And not in a fun, kinky way. “What are you doing here? The other guy got tired of you?”
He’d ignored my absence, shacked up with some other chick, and still had the nerve to insult me. Flaunt how beautiful and independent you are...
“I left him,” I said. “He was heading to Paris, and I’ve got stuff to do here.”
Bryan’s eyebrows shot up. “Not with me. I’m seeing someone else now. I mean, you never came back.”
“You never told me to. I didn’t think you cared.”
We stood there awkwardly staring at each other in his living room. Garrett sat on the couch, playing his shooter game and drinking beer. I rubbed my forehead and thought, I’ve made so many mistakes. What’s wrong with me?
I didn’t think I’d be invited to sit down and hash through our broken relationship. I didn’t think I’d be able to laugh at Bryan and curse him out either, except in an existential sense.
At least I realized now how stupid I’d been.
“I’m sure you’re busy,” I said, glancing toward his bedroom. “I just wanted to bring this back to you.” I pulled the collar out of my purse. “I obviously don’t need it anymore.”
“I don’t want it,” he said, backing away like I was holding out a viper, or a cup of poison. “I don’t give a shit about that collar, just like I never gave a shit about you.”
The old me would have been hurt by those words, and taken them as truth. The new, wiser me realized he was lying because he felt angry and defensive.
Tell me a lie.
Convince me, damn you.
“Well, I don’t want it,” I said, holding it out again.
Bryan held up his hands. “Then throw it away. I don’t want it back.”
I used to find him incredibly sexy and handsome. I could hardly believe it now. He used to caress me with those hands, and I let him. He used to loan me out with those hands. I let him do that too, for all the wrong reasons. His piercings looked stupid. How had I never noticed before?
“Okay,” I said, sticking the collar back in my purse. I didn’t say anything else, just headed for the door. Garrett called out “later” from the couch. Later? No, it was too late for later.
Instead of getting in my car, I walked around the student ghetto. I was looking for a place to ditch the collar, yes, but I also needed to process some things. What would I say to Mark? Had I fulfilled the task’s requirements? Had I acted beautiful and independent? Did it matter?
I didn’t owe Bryan anything, and I didn’t owe Mark anything either. That was what “independent” meant. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t independent. I’d be in New York, in Mark’s cage, watching him pack our bags for Paris.
Ugh. What was I going to do with the collar? I wanted it to die in a fire, or take a trip through a wood chipper. I should have forced it on Bryan, since he was the one who’d ruined everything about it. But maybe I was part of the problem too.
I’d walked all the way down South Ellis Avenue, onto campus. There was a hot dog stand set up across from the Smart Museum of Art. That was really the name of the museum. Maybe I would do better visiting the Stupid Museum of Art.
I bought a hot dog and sat on a bench, and ate a few bites. It was disgusting. I slid the collar out of my purse and threw it away with all the other half-eaten hot dogs in the trash can.
Then I went into the Smart Museum of Art, to look for dripping blue lines that ruined symmetry, and other beautiful mistakes.
Mark
I arrived home from work a little before six. My place felt too empty. My cage was empty. My heart floundered, caught in some loop of reason and regret. I lay on the couch and closed my eyes, remembering the scent of her. When you borrowed things, you had to return them. That was the rule.
I had always hated following rules.
My phone rang, jarring me from my torpor. Bettina’s name displayed on the screen. My fingers fumbled with the device so I almost hung up on her.
“Hello?” I said when my shit was under control.
“Mark?”
“Yes, it’s me. How are you? Did you arrive home okay?”
“Yes, and I already did my task. I have some details for you.”
I sat up on the couch. “Good details? Did you have fun?”
“I don’t know.”
Her voice trembled, or maybe it was just my phone. I rubbed the back of my neck. “Tell me what happened.”
“Well, I went to give my collar back to Bryan. I felt like I needed to do it right away.”
“Good.”
“But he didn’t want it.” She was silent a moment. “There was a girl at his place. I didn’t care.”
“Really? Or are you just saying that?”
“No, I really didn’t care. I didn’t like seeing him.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Nothing.” There was an echo through the phone, like she was talking to me from a box. “There was really nothing to say, for either of us.”
I waited, biting a nail.
“I know these are boring details,” she said, “but I wanted to call and tell you...”
“Tell me what?” I prompted when the phone went silent. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here. I’m in a museum. Guess what it’s called? The Smart Art Museum.”
I smiled because I could hear the smile in her voice. “I know the Smart Art Museum,” I said. “I’ve been there many times.”
“I ate a hot dog outside. I threw away the collar with the hot dog, which was pretty greasy and disgusting. The hot dog, I mean, not the collar. And that’s probably the most interesting detail of the day.”
Her voice was a lie. She was trying to sound happy, but she was sad. I wished I could reach through the phone and stroke her cheek.
“Bettina, are you all right?”
I shouldn’t have given her any tasks. I shouldn’t have asked her to face Bryan in any shape or form. Sometimes it was just okay to move on.
“It’s okay to move on,” I blurted out. “It’s okay to say fuck it and throw away a collar. It’s even okay to eat hot dogs every once in a while.”
“Acrylic sweaters?” she asked.
“No.”
She went silent again.
“Tell me what you see,” I said. “What do you see at the Smart? Anything good?”
“I’m so fucked up.” She was definitely crying, all alone in an echoing art museum.
“Please, baby. Don’t cry.”
“You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand? Explain it to me. What happened today? What did Bryan say to you?”
“It’s not him. It’s me. I’ve made so many mistakes in my relationships. So many.” She sniffled and blew her nose. “They haunt me. I feel like I can’t do anything right.”
“Everybody makes mistakes,” I said, trying to soothe her. “Everybody. I make mistakes. The President of the United States makes mistakes. Teachers, pilots, even mechanical engineers. Bryan makes mistakes. I never would have met you if he didn’t.”
“You know what I learned today?” she said. “I deserve everything that’s happened to me.”
“Listen to me.” I was using my Master voice now, pacing back and forth across my too-empty living room. “You need to be nice to yourself, Bettina. You need to love yourself. So you fucked up a few times. That means you’re human. Not a worthless slave.” I leaned against the window, staring out at the city. “You’re not worthless to me. You never were.”
“I came to this museum to find mistakes.” She’d gone from crying to belligerence. “I wanted to call and tell you that I’ve changed. That I’m better and smarter and more independent, but I don’t know. I still feel so much...regret.”
; I knew regret. I was choking on it.
“Little slave girl,” I said. “I wish you were here. I’d tie you up until you felt better. I’d put you in my cage.” I heaved a sigh. “But you don’t need me. You’re okay. You’re perfect. You’re wonderful just as you are. Not worthless. Don’t ever let anyone call you that again.”
“I’m stupid. Deeply flawed.”
“Can I tell you a story?”
“What kind of story?”
“A fucking story from my life, Bettina. Listen. I had a stuffed animal when I was a child, a little fuzzy bear. I took it everywhere, played with it, slept with it. I loved that thing until the seams started ripping and the nose unraveled. At some point my dog chewed off the eyes. It was a scary, blighted mess, and one day while I was at school my mom replaced it with a new one.”
“Oh, that was nice of her.”
“No, it was horrible, because I loved that fucked up bear. We’d been through a lot together and it was mine, flaws and all. Imperfections make things beautiful. They make things deeper and more meaningful. Like that Louis painting. You remember?”
“Yes.” She was silent a moment. “Did you get your bear back? The one you loved?”
My throat went tight. The things she said to me sometimes. “No, I didn’t get it back. Beary had gone out with the trash.”
“That’s sad. I’m sorry.”
That damned bear. It bothered me for years, thinking of it sitting in the landfill when I had loved it. When I missed it and wanted it so much.
“Bettina, I...” I miss you. I want you back. “I love you.” The words were out before I could stifle them. Oh well. They weren’t a lie. “I love you very much, no matter how many mistakes you’ve made. Are you still there?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded muffled, like she was speaking through her fingers. “I think maybe I made a mistake when I left you.”
“I think maybe I made a mistake when I let you leave.”