Pain Slut

by J. A. Rock

  “If I do it,” I said slowly, “it’ll be my last hurrah. My last contribution to the community.”

  Dave nodded. “Before you become a father with filthy secrets.”

  The About Me journals flashed through my mind. Gould’s neat handwriting. Kamen’s chicken scratch. Dave’s undotted i’s. And Hal’s journal, which I’d never opened.

  I could take it out. Read his darkest secret. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I liked him as a mystery.

  He and I had gotten high together one night, years ago. It was only the second time in my life I’d smoked, and rather than mellowing out, I’d mostly gotten irritable and desperate for the experience to be over. And then later I’d vomited off the front porch.

  I kept waiting to remember something from that night, from that conversation. Something profound Hal had told me. In my imagination, he took a hit from the pipe, looked up at me, and said, like, I’d rather be anything than a caged bird, man. Something neither of us realized at the time was portentous, but was now imbued with a deep meaning.

  But all I could actually remember him saying that night was: “I’m so stoned,” and “Do you think the hobbits ever had sex with each other?” I also remembered him telling me his parents had been high all the time when he was a kid. I’d said something about how that was sad, and he’d said, “No, man, it was awesome. They introduced me to my dealer.”

  He’d kept the conversation going, even as I’d gotten grouchier and sicker. I had experienced, that night, a little of what my friends seemed to love about Hal. His ability to make you feel like nothing in the world was too bad to handle. Like you were important to this moment, to his story—even if it was a superficial sort of importance.

  I’d always thought Hal was the messiest of all of us. The least anchored and the least reliable. But maybe he had always known what he wanted: an easy life, with good friends and good drugs, and every night an adventure that was, at its core, familiar.

  “Awww, the student post office.” Dave pointed. “Doesn’t this make you guys miss college?”

  “Not particularly.” I followed the others up the giant staircase in the middle of Hymland’s student center. It had been four days since my scene with Bowser and Drix, and I was still aching pretty badly. But I loved it.

  “Well, Miles, you probably didn’t do anything in college but study. Some of us had fun.”

  I gazed over the banister. Students sat in the coffee shop, or stood in line for the post office, or sprawled on the couches in the common area. Actually, college had been fun. It was just that I’d spent most of it with the sense that I was waiting for my life to begin. And now these kids all seemed so young.

  “I texted Ricky,” Gould said. “To see if he was part of this group. He hasn’t responded.”

  “Dude—” Kamen tripped on a step, then steadied himself. “Have you seen his updates on Fet? He’s getting hot and heavy with someone.”

  “Wish I knew who.” Dave reached the top of the stairs and glanced around. “Why doesn’t he tell me these things? He used to come running to me when he got a paper cut. Like I’d think that was super kinky or something.”

  Gould sighed exaggeratedly. “He’s growing up so fast.”

  I’d expected KSS to meet in a classroom, but they just congregated in the third-floor lounge, where anyone could walk by and see. I sat on a sofa next to Kamen and studied the group. Nine students: six women and three men. They all seemed comfortable with one another—they talked among themselves while Ellie greeted us.

  A few more stragglers came in. Just watching the group, it wasn’t too hard to pick out who was just here for the novelty of being in a kinky club and who was here because they had a genuine interest in kink.

  Ellie finally called the meeting to order and made introductions.

  “These guys are all part of a local group called the Subs Club,” Ellie said. She turned to us. “You guys want to tell us a little about what you do?”

  “Well,” Dave said, “mostly we sit around and talk. But we talk about stuff that I think is really important if you’re at all interested in a kinky lifestyle.”

  He went on to explain about the Subs Club providing a place for bottoms to talk openly about rape, assault, and abusive relationships. Listening to him speak, and seeing the connection he had with the students, I realized just how much he’d matured in the years since I’d first met him. He’d been sort of all over the place back then—his stories about kink had all involved strangers and glory holes, or getting drunk and belt-spanked by some random daddy in a leather bar.

  And now here he was, talking to college kids about RACK.

  All in all, the meeting went well. The students were attentive and receptive and had lots of questions. By the end, I’d shed my nerves completely. I barely noticed the other students who walked past the lounge, and I felt glad, so fucking glad, that I’d agreed to do this. These students were my heroes. They were me six years ago. And while maybe I’d grown jaded since then, Drix was bringing me back to a place where this was all new.

  When the meeting was over and we were packing up, one of the women came over and introduced herself to me. “I’m Maya. I’m a freshman.”

  Maya had a thick cloud of black hair and high, arched brows, and she carried a kraken messenger bag.

  I smiled. “Hi, Maya.”

  “I have a question.”

  “Okay.”

  “Um, so when they started this group, there were some people in the area protesting it. And, like, not even because it was a kinky group. I think because, like, people think we’re kids. And that we shouldn’t know about this stuff yet, or there’s no way we can do it safely because we’re too young.”

  “Do you feel too young?” I asked her.

  “No,” she said sharply, her dark eyes darting. “But I guess I don’t know much of anything. Like, how do I find a partner who wants to do these things with me? I have to be twenty-one to go to dungeons. And I hate Fetmatch. It’s so creepy. And then . . . how do I know if the fantasies I’m having are regular kinky fantasies, or if I’m f—messed up?”

  “There are no wrong fantasies. As long as you act them out consensually and sa—”

  “Yeah, I can read all that on the internet. What I want to know is what to do if I’m hard-core and I can’t find anyone to be hard-core with me?”

  She gazed at me almost defiantly.

  “Give it some time,” I told her. “I knew I was kinky when I was six. But it was sixteen more years until I could find anyone to play with.”

  She sighed. “I hate waiting.”

  “I know.” I glanced at the door, where Gould, Dave, and Kamen were talking to Ellie. When I turned back, Maya was still staring at me. I recognized that expression: young Dave. Coming up to me at the munch, complaining that there was no one there he wanted to play with. Bragging that he’d already been fucked by most of the regulars at the leather bar. Looking at me like he was daring me to challenge him but, at the same time, like he wanted to beg me to help him. Guide him through this terrifying world of bruised and pierced people who whipped one another and pissed on one another and dressed in pigtails and diapers . . .

  “Can I join your club?” Maya asked quietly.

  “Uh . . .” She was eighteen.

  I dug out a pen.

  “I’ll give you the website. And you can fill out an application.” I wrote down the site for her on the back of a receipt. “Just answer the application questions as honestly as possible. We like having new people join.”

  She took it. “Thanks, Miles.”

  “You’re welcome. And good luck finding what you’re looking for.”

  She gave me a strangely intimate look. “It’s funny that the four of you are guys. Because women get assaulted and abused the most. So maybe you need a female perspective at your meetings.”

  I was too surprised for a few seconds to answer. “That’s . . . a fair point,” I said finally.

  “I’d like to get invol
ved. I’m not going to be your token girl, though. Just so you know. I don’t ever want to be a token girl.”

  She turned and walked away.

  “I have an announcement,” Dave said a few days later.

  The rest of us looked up from the pile of Pixy Stix sugar on the table we were taking turns sucking up through the straw.

  “What?” I asked.

  Dave passed the straw to Kamen. “I’m giving up my membership to Riddle.”

  We stared at him.

  “Don’t all faint on me at once,” he said.

  “Why?” Kamen asked.

  “I just don’t agree with how they’re doing things.” He glanced at Gould. “And I don’t mean anything against GK and Kel. We just don’t see eye to eye.”

  “It’s fine.” Gould sounded like he meant it.

  Dave nodded. “I really want to do this kink community-outreach thing. I loved what we did at Hymen. And I want to think about what Ryan said too. About maybe not limiting the Subs Club to submissives and bottoms. So I’ve been talking with Finger Bang, that women’s group uptown. And we’re gonna outreach.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  Dave gave me a tentative smile. “And we’ll approach kink mainly from a queer perspective too. So we help get rid of this idea that BDSM is all straight man doms and lady subs. Because, like, what’s the problem when you go to a dungeon? It’s mostly straight people. So we’ll host our own play parties for queers. And we’ll do workshops focusing on lesbian kink, trans kink . . . kink-for-gay-men-who-are-not-leather-daddies.”

  “Will there still be some leather daddies?” Gould asked.

  “Oh yeah. Leather daddies will be welcome. But we’ll also discuss nondaddy options for gay men.”

  “Sweet,” Gould said. “Leather daddies are important.”

  “So.” Dave raised his arms. “I am ready to claim my destiny. To be a leader for the nonstraight kinky masses.”

  “All hail gay kinky Jesus!” Kamen yelled.

  We all chanted for gay kinky Jesus.

  Dave raised his arms higher. “I shall lead my people into the light. And then I shall be martyred on the St. Andrew’s cross.”

  Gould and I groaned. Dave looked at us. “Too soon?”

  Gould shrugged. “Well, no. It’s been like two thousand years.”

  I nodded. “True.”

  “So I’m good?” Dave asked, his arms still out.

  “You’re good,” I said.

  “It’s just kind of tasteless,” Gould added.

  Dave shrugged. “Well, it’s Jesus. He’ll probably forgive me.”

  “Quit while you’re ahead,” Gould suggested.

  Dave dropped his arms. “Okay. Anyway, I just wanted you all to know this is my plan. And if you want to help take the Subs Club on the road, I would welcome it.”

  “I’m in,” Kamen said.

  Gould nodded. “Me too.”

  Dave looked at me. “Miles? You’re done with all things public?”

  I smiled and nodded. “Yes. Unfortunately. But I wish you luck.”

  Kamen sucked up the last of the powder, then blew the straw at me. “I don’t know if you’re allowed to have sandwiches anymore at our meetings.”

  I made a sad face. “Please?”

  He studied me. “Aw, okay. I can’t stay mad at you.”

  My phone buzzed. I was still laughing as I took it out.

  Cheryl was calling.

  I brought the phone into the living room and answered cheerfully. “Hey, Cheryl.”

  “Hi, Miles.”

  Something about her voice made my stomach drop.

  “Is everything okay?”

  She was silent for several long seconds. “I have some bad news.”

  I sat on the couch and gripped the phone as Cheryl explained the situation.

  Apparently Britney’s best friend went to Hymland. This friend had been Britney’s confidante when Britney had been looking for adoptive parents for James, so she had seen photos of me. And she’d recognized me as she’d walked past the lounge during the KSS meeting the other day. Had heard a little of what I was saying to the group.

  “I’m afraid Britney no longer feels comfortable allowing you to adopt James,” Cheryl said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  There were a million things I wanted to say. I’d start with, My private life is private. Move on to, There are laws against discrimination. But instead I voiced my greatest fear: “Does the Beacon Center think I’m no longer a viable candidate to adopt?”

  “No,” Cheryl assured me. “We respect what you do in your private time. But this is Britney’s choice. If she feels uncomfortable, there’s not much we can do.”

  “Can I talk to her? Try to . . . explain?”

  Explain what? That last week you let two men beat you until you bled? That you’ve tried to quit the lifestyle, but you’re addicted to being hurt?

  “I’m sorry, Miles. I know this is a blow for you. I can send you other profiles of children who might be a good match.” She paused. “I also wondered if you still have any interest in meeting Zac?”

  Zac. With his sweet smile and his love for Le Petit Prince. But I had two cribs in my nursery and a space mobile. Most of the parenting books I’d read were about raising an infant.

  “I am,” I said finally, trying not to let my voice shake. “I just . . . I’m not sure if I’d be the right father for him.”

  “What about a meeting with him to see how you two get along?”

  “Can I get back to you on that?” My throat was dry, and I was worried I’d lose it if I stayed on the phone with her. “I’m interested. I just need a little time.”

  “I understand.” She apologized again and said she hoped to hear from me soon.

  When I hung up with her, I called Drix. He was at work and didn’t answer. So I texted him. Set the phone down. I could hear the others talking loudly in the kitchen, laughing about something.

  I debated slipping out the door and going home.

  But then I made myself stand and go back to the kitchen to talk to them.

  Against my better judgment, I went to my mother’s two days later. I found her sitting at the kitchen table with a copy of The Celestine Prophecy. My jaw hurt from the tension I’d been carrying since Cheryl’s call, and my head was starting to ache.

  “You don’t look so good, kid,” she said.

  I didn’t speak for a moment. “I got some bad news.”

  She closed her book. “What is it?”

  “I, um . . . I can’t adopt James.” I barely kept my voice from breaking.

  She stood slowly, her hips swaying as she walked over to me, imaginary drink in hand. “Oh, Miles. Ohhhh, Miles. What happened?”

  “I don’t—” I couldn’t figure out what to say.

  She guided me into the living room, and we sat on the couch. I took several deep breaths. “I want to tell you something about me. And I understand if you’re surprised or you have questions. But you’re my mother, and I’d really like to be honest with you.”

  She clapped a hand down on mine. “Who’d you kill?”

  I stared at her hand on top of mine. These moments when she seemed like my best friend were sometimes harder to handle than her moments of cruelty.

  I tried to smile. “No one. Do you know about BDSM? Like . . .” What I was about to say made me die a little inside, but I wasn’t sure what other reference she’d get. “Like Fifty Shades of Grey?”

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I have a working knowledge, yes.” She dabbed her forehead with her handkerchief. “You telling me you’re an eccentric billionaire with girls tied up in your red room of whatever-the-hell?”

  “I’m more like the girl who gets tied up.”

  She nodded. Put the handkerchief down. “You better grow out of it before your kid comes along.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wrap it up. Get your kicks. Then cut it out. And don’t come telling your poor mother the details. That
’s private.”

  “Mom. I’m . . . not going to grow out of it.” I didn’t tell her how much I’d been hoping I would. “I’m telling you because I want you to understand me, and I want you to understand what happened. I helped with a discussion at Hymland College. With their kink group. James’s birth mom . . . her friend saw me there and told her. And now she doesn’t trust me with—with James.”

  I could only imagine what Britney thought. Pervert. Psycho.

  Mom stared at me. “So you explain to them you’re stopping. You tell them it’s not what they think.”

  “But I’m not stopping.”

  “Kid, wake up.” Her voice was sharp. “You’re telling me you’d give up the baby before the handcuffs?”

  “No, Mom. You’re not listening. One person wasn’t okay with it. Beacon Center doesn’t mind. I might be able to adopt this other boy, Zac, and—”

  “Your baby,” Mom repeated, her voice soft. “My little grandbaby boy.”

  This was going far worse than I’d anticipated. “You’ll still have a grandchild. I’ll still have a son. I could really use your support here.”

  She slammed her hand on the couch. “Of all the stupid things you’ve done, Miles.”

  I couldn’t breathe. I heard a door open upstairs. Latin music blared.

  Malina pounded down the steps and strode into the living room.

  She had long, leopard-print fake nails and a yellow crop top.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  But Mom didn’t look away from me. “To. The. Manor. Born.” She put a space between each word. “You think you can go through life doing anything you please without consequences.”

  “That’s not what I think.”

  “Mama, shut up.” Malina sat on the arm of the chair across from us. “Whatever Miles did, it’s not worse than shit I’ve done. So shut up.”

  Mom didn’t speak to either of us. Finally she said, “My auditor’s coming. I have to get ready.” She got up slowly.

  My anger gathered and then boiled over. “You think my heart’s not fucking broken? You think I’m not devastated?”