Pain Slut

by J. A. Rock

  He buried his face in my shoulder, and he breathed quietly and shallowly, seeming to press himself closer with each passing second. He was either feasting on my prana or . . .

  Or we were both right where we needed to be.

  I showed up for the Subs Club meeting the next day sore but disarmingly happy. I had little bug-bite sized wounds on my thighs, dick, and belly from the stapler, and I was replaying snippets of things Drix had said to me over and over in my head.

  “What do you need?”

  “. . . dealing with liking you as a person.”

  “. . . never really gotten sadistic with someone I was attracted to.”

  Dave sat at the head of the table, his laptop open in front of him. “I have an announcement. Where’s Kamen?”

  Nobody knew. We worked our way through a bowl of cherries as we waited. I kept imagining Drix’s fingers brushing my cock. Felt his touch across my stomach, the slow bite of him pressing the staple into my skin . . .

  Kamen eventually arrived, a lollipop stick jutting from his mouth. “Hey,” he said around the sucker. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Gould motioned to the bowl. “We’ve got cherries.”

  Kamen peered into the bowl. “Oh man. Those are sugary, right? I just went to the dentist.”

  Dave waved him off. “Yeah, buddy. But, like, fruit sugar. That’s healthy.”

  Kamen sat on the side of the table opposite Gould and me. “I’m trying to be better. My mom got me a gift card to the dentist for my birthday, so I finally went.”

  That yanked me out of my Drix fantasies. “What?”

  “I couldn’t afford to go otherwise. But I went, and no cavities.” He sucked on the lollipop.

  “What are you talking about?” Dave asked. “Dentists don’t have gift cards.”

  Kamen leaned back, spreading his legs. “Mine does.”

  We all stared at him.

  I tried to choose my words carefully. “A medical care provider is not an Outback Steakhouse. If your dentist is handing out gift cards, something is wrong.”

  Kamen shrugged. “He’s great. He’s always got suckers.”

  Dave sighed. “Kamen, the suckers are a trap. He’s trying to rot your teeth so you’ll have to see him more.”

  I nodded. “Yes, how can you be worried about cherries while you indulge in your complimentary cavity generator?”

  “What dentist is this?” Gould asked.

  Kamen crunched the sucker. “Bobby’s Discount Dentist.”

  The rest of us exchanged glances. I looked back at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “It’s on 14th and Addler. Right next to the arcade.”

  No. Just . . . no. “There’s no way there’s a place called Bobby’s Discount Dentist.”

  “Yeah-huh. I’ve been going there forever. There’s that commercial that’s on all the time.” He sang: “‘Bobby’s Discount Dentiiist . . . Your teeth are safe in our hands!’”

  Dave slowly lifted a cherry to his mouth. Bit it off the stem, still staring at Kamen. “That sounds like something a serial killer would say just before he rips out your molars with rusty pliers. ‘Your teeth are safe in my hands.’ And then he, like, yanks them without anesthesia and cups them in his hands and then feeds them one by one to his imaginary rheumy-eyed rabbit friend who has ten-foot ears made of wilted lettuce leaves.”

  Kamen shook his head. “Dude, Dave. He’s a really nice, affordable dentist who just happens to have a drive-thru and Free Fluoride Fridays.”

  “A drive-thru?” Dave and I said together.

  Kamen kept a straight face, then burst out laughing. “You guys totally believed me!”

  I put a hand to my chest. “Oh, thank God.”

  “Does this place really have a drive-thru?” Gould asked quietly.

  Kamen shrugged again. “Just a small one where you can pick up floss and stuff.”

  I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath. “Bobby’s Discount Dentist doesn’t even make any sense. It sounds like Bobby owns a dentist who is available for a reduced price. When in fact, he’s offering discounted dental services.”

  “Aw, lay off Bobby.” Kamen finished the last of his sucker, then started on the cherries. “If you went to him once, you’d see how cool he is. I’m getting Mexico prices there.”

  Kamen had once gotten three cavities filled for ninety dollars when he’d stopped at a dentist’s office during a trip to Mexico. God only knew what they’d been filled with.

  “Kamen. Look at me.” I waited until he was looking at me. “You need to go to a real dentist.”

  “Whatever, you guys.” He glanced at Dave. “I got your text. What’s your announcement?”

  “Well, this is a very exciting meeting.” Dave lifted his gaze from his laptop. “I have two big pieces of news to share with you all. First—” he turned his computer around so Kamen and I could see it “—is this.”

  I squinted at the webpage. Adjusted my glasses.

  Kamen was already reading aloud: “‘50 Grades of Grey: Hymland College starts kinky club.’” He paused. “Hymen has a dungeon?”

  “No, buddy,” Dave said. “Read the article.”

  The article was about nearby Hymland College, where students with BDSM interests had formed a group to talk about kink. The article was dated a year and a half ago.

  “Right,” I said. “I knew they’d started one.”

  “Yes.” Dave was smug. “And now they want to bring in guest speakers.”

  Kamen rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Can we be the guests?”

  “That’s the plan.” Dave turned the computer back around.

  “Wait, what?” I said.

  “Seriously?” Kamen’s jaw dropped.

  Dave nodded. “I told them that my friends and I were active in the local community, and that we even had experience leading discussion groups. They’d love to host the Subs Club at the end of the semester.”

  It took me a few seconds to process this. For years, there was little I’d wanted to do more than educate people about kink. And there was still a part of me that wanted desperately to do that.

  “Yes!” Kamen punched the air. “College guys are so fuckin’ ungh.”

  Dave winced. “Okay, buddy. Let’s maybe make sure we’re doing this for the right reasons. Yeah?” He looked at the rest of us. “This is cool. Because they could probably find a billion hetero guest speakers. But we’re gonna be their first guests, and we’re super queer.”

  “I’ll tell you,” Gould said, “back in my day, we did not talk about this stuff at college.”

  “Well, that’s probably because you went to Hebrew college. And nothing dirty ever happens at Hebrew college.”

  “That’s . . .” Gould shrugged. “Kind of true.”

  Dave looked at each of us. “So we’re gonna do this, right?”

  I couldn’t do it. Not with Cheryl Callahan keeping tabs on my life. I straightened my cardigan. “I won’t be able to participate due to my pending fatherhood. But you guys will tear it up, I’m sure.”

  As long as Kamen didn’t hit on college kids and Gould didn’t stand there silently, acting like he’d rather be anywhere else than in a group of people. And as long as Dave didn’t . . . God only knew what Dave might do. I needed to be there. I was the only one in this group who could be trusted to remain professional and represent BDSM accurately. But . . .

  Dave stared at me. “Miles, come on. You want to mentor college students.”

  I shook my head. “I really can’t.”

  Dave gave me an uhhhh-huh look and glanced at Kamen and Gould. “You guys are in, right?”

  Kamen grabbed a fistful of cherries. “Hell yeah.” He started arranging the cherries neatly on his palm.

  Gould nodded. “As long as you two do most of the talking.”

  They chatted a few minutes more while I tried to think of any conceivable way to be part of this without jeopardizing my chances with the Beacon Center.

  You do
n’t need to give a talk at a college. You’re leaving the lifestyle, remember? All that’s left is the pain-slut bucket list, and then you’ll transition willingly and peacefully into Nillaland.

  Right, almost done with the lifestyle. That was why I was training Drix to staple my cock shut and punch me in the balls. Mon œil.

  Dave drummed the table. “I wonder if Ricky’s in this group. Isn’t he taking some computer class at Hymen?”

  Ricky Chuy was the Subs Club’s IT guy. Twenty-two and so sweet and earnest he made Kamen look like a jaded asshole, Ricky was still fairly new to kink and often sought our advice.

  “We haven’t seen him in forever,” I said.

  Gould took the last cherry. “I think he’s seeing someone.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Dave grinned. “He would never date someone without introducing us. We’re like his collective dad.”

  Gould made a face. “That’s not weird or anything. But no, his Fetmatch profile says he’s in a relationship.”

  “Whoa. I’ve gotta do some digging, then.”

  Kamen spit out a cherry pit. “Hey, what’s the second news?”

  Dave clapped his hands, then typed on the laptop for a moment. “I don’t know if any of you have been on our website today.” He tapped the mouse hard, then leaned back. “But Fucktopus has returned.”

  Kamen gasped. “Fucktopus lives! I thought some old seaman had killed him.” He proceeded to laugh at the word “seaman.”

  “Ohhh, Fucktopus.” Gould nodded amiably.

  I was drawing a blank. Then I remembered: When we’d first started the Subs Club, we’d had a one-time commenter on the blog called Fucktopus, who had posted a personal ad stating he was a tentacle furry, that he’d built eight robotic arms for use in scenes, and that he longed to do a role-play that involved someone hunting him in the water. Dave, who had an irrational terror of furries, had found the concept of Fucktopus particularly nightmarish.

  Dave went on, “He posted this gem in the comments section of our article ‘How to Navigate Multiple-Partner Scenes’: ‘Hi. I am a creature of the deep still looking for my ideal hunter. Am eager to be your Moby Dick. Chase me through the bleak deep waters and when you catch me have no mercy for I will show you none. Chain me up and use me to your pleasure and specifications. Impale yourselfs on my eight homemade tentacles or pull me from my watery debt so I cannot breathe. I have recently billed a harpoon gun for our scene as well as a room that stimulates water. Message me if you are interested in capturing a lonely and sexually skilled sea monster.’”

  Gould had gone around the table to read over Dave’s shoulder. “‘Stimulates water?’ I’m hoping he means ‘simulates.’”

  Dave nodded. “I’m guessing he also meant ‘watery depth.’ Though ‘debt’ does have a certain poetry to it. And ‘billed’ a harpoon gun? Billed it for what? Overhead?”

  Gould tilted his head thoughtfully at the screen. “Do you think ‘yourselfs’ is a misspelling of ‘yourself’ or of ‘yourselves’? Like, does he want eight partners—one for each tentacle?”

  Dave blew out a breath. “These are the questions that will plague my dreams.”

  Kamen raised his eyebrows at me. “Miles? You gonna go for it this time?”

  I had made the mistake years ago of telling them that I’d been aroused by a work of tentacle-themed erotica I’d read online. The last time Fucktopus had posted on our site, my friends seemed to think I ought to seize the opportunity. “If he didn’t sound batshit crazy, I’d think about it,” I admitted.

  Dave was looking at me all too knowingly. “But maybe you don’t need Fucktopus? Maybe you’ve kissed and made up with the man you were incredibly rude to?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Cue the “oh snaps.” It was as if these boys had never left high school.

  “Hey, listen.” I was desperate to change the subject. “Did you guys see the message we got from someone named Ryan?” They shook their heads. “I just approved his membership. Big fan of our site, and wants to know if we can meet for drinks sometime.” I didn’t feel any pressing need to meet Ryan, but I figured the others would be glad to know we had a fan.

  “Sweet.” Dave got back on the laptop. “Oh, yeah, I totally missed this message. I’ll write him back and tell him we’re in.”

  While Dave was messaging Ryan, I got a text from Drix.

  Thinking about you. And staples.

  Immediately my heart started pounding. I pictured the quiet awe on his face yesterday. His earnest desire to learn. Those moments he’d grown confident enough to try something without Bowser’s or my guidance. I could think of a thousand things I wanted to do with Drix. I responded with a request that he accompany me to Riddle on Friday.

  A moment later, he sent the picture of me as a sunflower.

  I sent back a smiling alien emoji, which wasn’t dignified, but I wasn’t sure what to say.

  Shit, I had it bad.

  What if, when the time came, I couldn’t give up kink?

  More specifically, what if I couldn’t give up Drix?

  That night, I scrutinized thumbnail photos of two cribs. They were almost identical. But one was convertible—it could transform into a toddler bed.

  I clicked on the picture of the convertible one. Then X-ed out so I could study the other.

  The convertible would be a better investment. But it has scrollwork. What if the baby’s clothes get caught in it?

  I stared at the photo. That was very unlikely. The scrollwork was minimal, and was at the very top, out of the baby’s reach. The crib met the JPMA Certified Safety Rating, so one could assume it had not been responsible for any deaths thus far.

  But the nonconvertible, in addition to being free of potentially fatal scrollwork, was cheaper. Which was good for my budget, but made me uncomfortable. If I wasn’t willing to give my child the best, then what business did I have being a father?

  I glanced at the clock: 3:01 a.m.

  It doesn’t matter, Miles.

  It doesn’t matter which crib, because they’re both good cribs. The baby isn’t going to care about the crib. The baby won’t even remember the crib.

  But if I got the wrong crib, what if something happened to the baby? Not even because the crib was somehow inadequate or dangerous, but just . . . because I’d made the wrong choice. Because the universe was watching me and judging me and planning horrible consequences if I screwed up.

  “Life doesn’t work that way, Miles,” Mom had always told me when I’d come to her with similar worries.

  “If I do my book report on The Giver instead of Where the Red Fern Grows, will I get a bad grade?”

  “Only if you do bad work.”

  “If I pick the wrong college, what if I can’t find a job?”

  “You’ll be able to get a job no matter where you go. Stop being ridiculous.”

  I refocused on the cribs. How can I choose a crib when I don’t know what color the nursery will be?

  I’d looked at a hundred nursery ideas—in catalogues, on Pinterest, in a book called Nursery Doctor! Everything was too cliché, or too colorful, or too muted, or not adequately gender neutral. It had gotten to the point where just the thought of working on the nursery paralyzed me.

  Which I hated, because people who were paralyzed by their own fears were useless. There was an easy way past being afraid, and it was to face your fears head-on, and then bowl right over them. That was how I’d started a business. How I’d gotten back into BDSM after Hal’s death. After the knife guy.

  I called Kamen, of all people. The least likely to judge, or to care about being awoken at 3 a.m.

  “What’s up, dude?” He sounded groggy, but not pissed.

  “I can’t stop thinking about the crib.”

  “What?”

  I rested my forehead in my hand. “Don’t tell anyone. I’m— I’ll be fine tomorrow morning. Just, tonight I can’t stop— I’m trying to pick out a crib, and these two cribs are very similar
, but . . .”

  I stopped. Silence on the other end. What had I been thinking? No way would Kamen understand.

  I plunged on. “And I can’t decide which one. Because I’m . . . an absolute idiot.”

  “Dude.” I heard him yawn. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.”

  “I’m not going to do that. Everyone knows that if you eeny, meeny, miny, moe with only two items or people, you will land on the first thing you eenied.”

  “Okay.” Kamen sounded more awake now. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Put pictures of the cribs side by side on your computer. On the count of three, you’re gonna close your eyes and put your finger somewhere on the screen. Whatever crib you land on, that’s the one you get.”

  “I can’t make a huge life decision that way.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  I stared at the pictures of the crib. “I . . .”

  “Do you have the pictures up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Close your eyes, Miles.”

  The screen seemed to blur as I gazed at it. With a slight sigh, I closed my eyes.

  “Ready?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Now point to your screen.”

  I did. I purposely aimed for the side of the screen with the more expensive crib.

  “Did you pick one?” Kamen asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Bam. Miles just made a life decision.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured. But I was already on a different website, looking at other cribs. I didn’t want the convertible one with scrollwork. And I didn’t want the less expensive one. There had to be something perfect out there, and I would find it.

  I hung up with Kamen and got back to work.

  Friday night I picked Drix up to go to Riddle. He was wearing his black coat and boots. His long, gold ponytail shone under the porch lights, and on an impulse I reached up and gathered it in my hand, letting the silky strands fall through my fingers. Then I leaned forward and kissed him.