Unconventional Relationship - Olivia and Ethan - San Francisco Story # 10

Feb 1, 2012: As I'm continuing with my novel writing, I took a break and wrote something different.  In this piece, I was projecting, I imagined this world where a fragile woman who put on a strong exterior and braves the world in search for that perfect love, the perfect ending, but that ending shall not come for her, nor the love. Was having a discussion with someone. They asked why every piece seemed so sad. I suppose it was the world my characters lived in.  A trap of a sort. The sun would not shine where my characters lived. In their darkest moments, they sought refuge from each other. I would like to give them a happy ending. If real life could cooperate.


I. Sunrise

“Look, the sun is rising.” Olivia raised her arms and pointed forward while turning her head to Ethan. The beach was soft and sandy, and the bay was calm. One would never have guessed that it was January in Northern California. It was unseasonably warm for this time of the year.

Taking a short break from the jog along the beach trail, Olivia and Ethan were walking on the wet and seaweed-smelling beach, hand in hand.

The sun was rising just above the eastern island. The beach was deserted – it was just after 7 AM. Ethan was secretively enjoying this moment. He was wide-awake and feeling energized. He had never been to this side of the island. His sailboat was docked on the west end so this was a brand new experience, to see this calm beach, to be with Olivia, at last, in this town that he had frequented, because of his sailboat, and because of his prior relationship with another woman who lived here, but never with Olivia, the girl he had dated years and years ago.

Olivia smelled the mixture of sex, perfume and sweat. She was awake, sort of, or at least as awake as she could ever be at this ungodly hour. She was not a morning person, but runner’s high gave her the endorphins she needed to carry on a semi coherent conversation with Ethan. Plus, they had just had a quickie before the run, and sex, always got her into a good mood.

Her mascara was smeared all over, but she was oblivious to that. Olivia knew instinctively, regardless how their liaison might end, as in tomorrow, or down the road, or if it would not end at all, as in, their affair would last indefinitely; they’d have this sunrise to look back on. Regardless how terrible her memory had been, she would remember this.   How poetic then, to see sunrise with Ethan, when her prior liaisons and she only saw sunset.

Memories were often created in those rare, unexpected, spontaneous moments. Not something planned, or forced upon.  Memories required reflection, and Olivia reflected hard on this moment, for she knew it was one of those non-repeatable moments. Even if they saw sunrise again, it would not be the same. This was the first time. And you always remembered your first time.

She wondered if there was a deeper meaning to all of this. Sunrise was just as symbolic as sunset. One could imagine sunrise was the start of something grandeur, something hopefully, eternal, like her relationship with Ethan, whereas sunset could be interpreted as the inevitable ending of something, tragic or not. So could whatever Olivia and Ethan have, symbolized something more? Those were the private thoughts of Olivia, which she kept to herself.

II. Push and Pull

At that precise moment, Olivia instinctively wanted to hold Ethan’s hand. Olivia had always been a person who was a bit of touchy-feeling. She enjoyed intense hugs, kisses on the cheeks, the whole nine yards. She would prefer to exercise the French greeting customs but she was too shy to practice it with anyone.  She was therefore, content with holding Ethan’s hand.  Ethan was more reserved.  Raised in the Midwest by his Nordic parents, he was subdued, proper, and not that affectionate in public. Olivia fantasized about doing it in public, for instance, and as she was holding Ethan’s hand, she developed the sudden urge to guide Ethan to that cove just a few steps away, where few could spot them, there in the open, she wanted to go down on Ethan, even though they just had sex. However, she knew Ethan would not have wanted that.  So she kept this particular thought to herself also.

Ethan also fantasized about doing different things to Olivia, things that he couldn’t even put down on his emails to her. Things he would not say, but he’d just do. In most of his fantasies, he had imagined to keep Olivia, all to himself, and did whatever he wanted to do to her, whenever he wanted, but only within the confines of his bedroom.

Such was the push and pull of Olivia and Ethan’s relationship.  It showed, even in the handholding business. While Olivia wanted to continue holding Ethan’s hand, Ethan was trying to break free of the hold. He started to talk with his hands. By the virtual of gesturing, Ethan let go of the small hand that was holding his own, all the while leaving Olivia wonder if she overdid it, whatever this was: this walking-on-the-beach- while-holding hands-in-public-business.

It promised to be a warm and sunny day.

III. The Unconventional Relationship

When Olivia reluctantly agreed for Ethan to come and meet her up for a run, by the beach, on an early Sunday morning, she was not really thinking. She just wanted to see Ethan, and she loved to run. Seeing Ethan and running seemed like the perfect combination. She left out the fact that he would be coming to her house, on an early Sunday morning, where her husband Jason was away on a business trip, or the fact that it was way earlier than her normal wake up schedule. Olivia was a night owl, and Ethan was an early bird. They were polar opposite when it came to sleep schedule, but they were otherwise two peas in the same pod.

It was an unusual week. Olivia had wanted to spend an evening with Ethan, that did not happen because Ethan had his son that week, and when he was on child duty, he stayed at his son’s place, aka, not his own place. Olivia never really questioned the arrangement, whether Ethan slept in the same bed as the child’s mother, or what type of relationship Ethan had with the child’s mother. This was San Francisco, co-parenting was a popular method to raise children for those women over forty and “single”. She knew that Ethan was a father, he fathered a child with a woman whom he dated, but he was not intending to marry her, or anyone for that matter. Ethan would never get married, or thought that he’d be a father. So when the woman was pregnant, they reached an agreement of a sort where he would be present in the child’s life as the child’s father. And Ethan had become a good father.  He spent nights at the child’s house, and he supported the child financially, it was as if he went through a divorce with the child’s mother, yet, strangely enough, better than the outcome of most divorces, he and the child’s mother could live under the same roof, in a civil manner, and he could take care of the child, form a relationship with the mother, and still date others. Others, at the moment, as it turned out, was Olivia, a married woman with children of her own.

Such was the unconventional relationship Olivia and Ethan formed. A story that, under normal circumstance, would have been an outlier, would lead to terrible ending that hurt everyone involved.

But in this case, both Olivia and Ethan reached the same conclusion or illusion, depending on how you would look at it, that their relationship could possibly last, even grow over time, and that they would be happy, living in this customized life tailored for just the two of them.

IV. Ethan and Olivia

When she first extended her hand to Ethan, he said, “Wow, your hands are still cold. We have been running. You are still cold.”

“No, I actually feel alright, but my hands are often cold.” Olivia explained, while enjoying a moment where her hand was being held by Ethan, being warmed up as they spoke.

Minute before, they had been jogging on the paved beach trail.  Ethan wore a black fleece running shirt and jogger’s pants, also black, and suitably, he donned a black hat. He looked quite severe. Olivia thought to herself.  She secretively wished that he wore brighter colors more often, it would have been more festive, more European, and it would compliment his light but turning gray hair and his green eyes better than black, the non reflective non color.  

Ethan used to have blond hair, now in his mid 40s, his hair had become darker and was turning gray. He was about 5’10”, good looking and in shape. He could pass for being in his late 30s. Olivia thought to herself. He just needed to get his hair highlighted and keep his face clean shaven, maybe a bit more rigorous beauty routine that involved a periodic injection of Botox to get rid of his wrinkles around his eyes. He was otherwise the definition of a “pretty boy”. Olivia enjoyed his physique, and how well he looked.

Ironically, Olivia wore black also, but she was convinced she pulled off black better than Ethan did.  She’s 5’2”, petite, with medium length dark brown hair with golden highlights. Her jet black hair days were long over ever since she discovered a few gray and stray hair in the mirror.  She saw her hairdresser and demanded that she was to be made over. “No more grays please”. She pleaded. They turned her into an edgy looking Asian woman. Some friends and colleagues thought that she ought to work in downtown New York, edgy and pretty, where all edgy and pretty women belonged.

She was never edgy, but she considered herself pretty once. Her lighter hair with golden highlights suited her pale skin better, as it turned out. She looked softer, and more approachable. In fact, the reaction was immediate. People would approach her even if they didn’t know her. They seemed to want to talk to her and they smiled at her often. She realized for the first time, how you looked changed people’s perception, and therefore your self-image, in this case, the self-image was improved.

Olivia had large almond shaped brown eyes, arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a curvy body. Born to a northern Chinese father and a southern Chinese mother, her facial structure was distinctively northern and her body type was southern. In her native country of China, where she grew up, she was always considered pretty, but not because of her facial structure, but because of her pale, whiter than white skin tone. She had very light complexion and that was enough for her to be the subject of envy. But in United States, Olivia did not feel the same advantage. She was pale just like the rest of the white Americans. She wanted to be tanned, have olive skin like her daughter did, but she was not successful. She got sun burned. So in her late 30s, she learned to always put sunscreen on and wear hats when she’s outside. A mother of two, some of her friends felt that she behaved still like a girl, an unmarried girl who bore no children. She looked like a girl without children, or married, she laughed out loud, got excited over teen books, and she was always so animated. She took a great deal of pride in her exercise routine. She worked out daily. She hired a personal trainer; a young 24-year-old lesbian who flirted with her regularly while kicked her ass in sessions.

She had what many would say a perfect life  – a great job, an equally accomplished husband with Ivy league pedigree and a very Anglo-Saxon last name, two children, one boy and one girl, both were at self-sufficient ages, bicultural and bilingual. They owned homes in other countries. They were among top 1% household, though they did not live an extravagant lifestyle, they were well positioned to retire to a warm climate place with arts and theatre. Their children went to private schools. They had planned for them to attend east coast prep schools when they were older, as in Andover/Exeter.  They lived in a large Victorian house on this island, 20 minutes away from San Francisco.

But Olivia wanted more. She fantasized about a fabulous sex life that involved kinks. When Olivia met up with Ethan, she thought Ethan was the male version of herself. He was in tune with his feelings, but distant at the same time. He analyzed situations, and discussed sex in a clinical way that Olivia found refreshing. And underneath it all, he was wild and fantastic in bed, and he was into the same kind of kinks.

For her run with Ethan, Olivia picked out her outfit the night before. It was a black Tee from Africa and Lululemon jogging pants. She also dunned a Black cap from a store in UK. Underneath her unique T-shirt was the $100 sports bra she bought not long ago. She did not wear cheap clothing or accessories when it came to exercise. As Ethan told her once, certain things that you use often, like eyeglasses or briefcase, you should calculate the cost based on a per-wear bases, it’s worth investing in those things that you used often. Ethan had worn nice eyeglasses and he had a new hand made briefcase.

Such were the conversations being held between Olivia and Ethan. Mundane and trivial, but those were the conversations.  As lovers, you didn’t have to deal with the immediate realities.

Realities were for the rest of the world they lived in. With your family, your spouse, your children and your friends, you discussed about money, economic conditions, politics, utility bills, illness, weird growth under your arm, and the latest issues in your children’ development.

But as lovers, Olivia and Ethan’s interactions were often limited.

V. The Game of Words

“You are very pretty.” Olivia told Ethan as they were walking on the beach. 

“Are you sure that you are not gay?” She asked Ethan, this was their ongoing dialogue.

Ethan found her repetitive and borderline tiring.  She questioned his sexual preference every time they met. It was as if it was a game, or she had forgotten the last conversation.

“No, I’m pretty sure of it. And, YOU know it!” Ethan would gave her the same answer, as he always did.

It WAS a game of a sort for Olivia. Ethan denied being gay, and Olivia asked him anyway each time they met.

“I’ve got you figured out.” Ethan would tease Olivia. “I think you go around and tell everyone that I’m gay.”

“No, I do not.” Olivia would deny.

“Well, maybe once upon a time. But not now.” Olivia would then change her answer.

She was pleased somehow that Ethan continued to play this silly game with her. It was juvenile, yet she had no interest in stopping this game. It was how they interacted. They teased, they made out like two teenagers. They were in their own ways, reliving their youth, but this time the stake was much higher, there were more to lose, but they did not care.

VI. Over the Years

Ethan had fine and eclectic taste. Olivia always liked him because of it. He seemed almost feminine in some ways, in a way that other women might find curious, because he lived in San Francisco. He’s always been a bit too pretty, Olivia thought, and Olivia’s mom used to tell her that she should never go out with someone who’s prettier than her. But Olivia liked that about Ethan. She was always attracted to pretty men, though she always seemed to end up with men who were more masculine, significantly taller and less neat.

Olivia contemplated of contacting Ethan for a good three months before making that move. They were once upon a time, lovers. But that status quickly faded, and they became amiable but distant friends. Ethan dated a lot of women, Olivia dated a lot of men, neither one of them seemed cared about each others’ dating status, sometimes when relationship ends, it did not have to be all dramatic. It was a peaceful transformation between Olivia and Ethan. They took strides in moving on with their lives. They stayed in contact, loosely, mostly through emails, and when Facebook became the default communication venue, they found each other and became Facebook friends.

Over the years, they exchanged nonchalant emails. They kept each other posted of their mutual friends. They had been curious of each other’s lives in a way that most people who dated but stayed friends would. They did not dwell on the past; they focused on the present and future. But somehow, Olivia felt that the sexual energy never went away with Ethan. He never got enough of her when she called it quits, the last time. Olivia had gotten married, had children. Her physique changed, her mentality changed, and her life changed. For a while, she swore off relationship, friendship, in particular with men. That “while”, lasted ten good years.

VII. Memories, Recalled

Years and years ago, Olivia had just gotten married. She met a charismatic man at a party. He was interesting, educated, intelligent and highly successful. Olivia was drawn to him, and it would appear he her. They exchanged lengthy emails over the period of two weeks, and he shared his entire life with her. For a short, almost brief moment, Olivia thought that she had lost her head, and fallen in love with this man. He was approaching their developing friendship casually, but there was that chemistry, the elusive chemistry that overturned anything else logical or rational. They went out for dinner. At a date restaurant. It was the only time during those years Olivia felt that she was cheating. She did not tell her husband about this dinner, even though they never actually touched or kissed.

The meeting was proven to be a test to her own faith in marriage, and she couldn’t go there, wherever there was. This man apparently felt the same way. They did not advance. In the middle of the dinner, Olivia looked out of the window, and there was Ethan, walking with a guy, passing by the window, the window where Olivia was facing, oblivious of Olivia, sitting there with a man who was not her husband.

That was the last known memory of Ethan for Olivia. Though Ethan would recount their last encounter much differently.

“I came to your house for a party.” Ethan recalled when the last time they had dinner with his son.

“I don’t remember that.”  Olivia denied it vehemently.

“Do you usually have some sort of Christmas party?” Ethan was being patient. He found that to deal with Olivia, one must be patient. She was excitable, and she could be very stubborn.

“Yes I did.” Olivia admitted it.

“Well, I was there, for about an hour and half. I met your friends. But I didn’t stay long.”

“I met your husband, your children, both of them.”

“Were you by yourself then?” Olivia was getting interested.

“Yes. I didn’t know anyone who was there, and I didn’t stay long. It would have been weird. To be hanging out with the girlfriend from a decade ago and her family for too long.” Ethan explained, softly, as he always did.

Olivia wrinkled her nose. She tried not to frown, it would make her developing wrinkles quicker and she’d have to get on with her Botox appointment more often.  She was vain, like Ethan, that way.

She was a little taken aback by Ethan’s description of her, “a girlfriend”. She didn’t think of Ethan as her boyfriend then. She never did. He was a boy, a friend, but not a boyfriend.

But she didn’t correct Ethan. She had solidified her status, this time, as his girlfriend. She liked that status; it felt surprisingly natural, despite her marital status.

So it must have been when Ethan saw her last. A couple of years ago.

He further validated his statement that morning.

Olivia got a text from Ethan at 6 AM that morning. “I’m taking off now.” He said. She was surprised by how early it was, but strangely she was awake. She couldn’t sleep when she knew that she’d see Ethan soon. She wanted to be with him.

Ethan had arrived just after 6:30. The porch light was still on, because it was still dark outside, and he knew exactly where she lived. Even though technically it was the first known memory to Olivia that he’s been to this house. He gave her a small kiss. All smiles.

“Good morning sleepy head.” He greeted her politely.

“Come on in.” He stepped into this house, and took off his shoes. Somehow he knew that was her house rule. She wondered if this was how he came by the last time when they had a party, he coming in, taking off his shoes, wandering about in his old girlfriend’s house.

“Yes, I had definitely been in this house before.” Ethan said, as if it was more to himself than for Olivia to hear.

“Have you seen the remodeled master bathroom?” Olivia asked.

“No, I don’t think so.  It wasn’t done then.” Ethan answered. He was waiting.

“Come, let me show you.” Ethan did not have to wait long for the invitation.

“I’ve seen the upstairs, you know. The last time I was here.” Ethan told her.

Olivia looked back and gave Ethan a peculiar look, as she climbed the narrow but steep stairs first. She was again surprised by her lack of memory.

Ethan followed her to her bedroom. She showed him the marble tiled bathroom and he said, “That was nice.”

There he pinned her against the wall. She found her kissing him back, as if she knew this was going to happen, even though she never thought the feasibility of it. He was growing hard. She felt him.

“Just a quickie?” Ethan asked.

Olivia found herself leading Ethan to her bed. Ethan was then on top of her, clothes were off and they were intertwined. It felt natural. Having Ethan inside of her, it was what was needed, for both of them. Life was complete with each other. She needed Ethan like flower needing the sun. She needed his presence in her life, to feel alive, and more surprising than anything else, she needed Ethan to feel the calmness. He was her very own brand of Zoloft and Lamictal, which she had been prescribed to by her shrink. With Ethan’s presence, she felt loved, loving and collected. Those early days of anxiety, caused by her lack of knowledge of whether he would become a constant force or not, gone.

She knew he needed her just as much as she needed him. They were each other’s oxygen.

VIII. First Contact

Olivia remembered how she made that decision to reach out to Ethan. She was reaching back out to many people whom she had become distant with over the years. Ethan was the last on her list, for exactly what reason that it took that long for her to communicate to him, she couldn’t tell. But she knew that he was the least likely candidate to be reacquainted with.

Then one day she saw Ethan posted something on Facebook, it would appear that he was going to a place near where she was. In a moment of non-thinking, Olivia responded by saying that she was nearby. Ethan corrected her politely and let she and everyone who were his “friends” know that he was not where she thought he was. He was in fact far away from it. He explained to his other “friends”, that Olivia was in a different place. As Olivia had little interaction with Ethan over the years, she was surprised that he called her name out in his reply note. It stirred up something. It felt intimate. Few of her friends would call her by her full name. They would always call her Oli. But Ethan always called her Olivia, if he did not call her Baby, or Sweetie.

It was strange to hear from Ethan to call her by her full name. Beneath the politeness, there was that implied intimacy, and sexual undercurrent. Olivia thought that she was making all of this up in her head. But she took notes. She took a mental note to get back to Ethan one of those days, via private messaging on Facebook.

She did just that. A few weeks later. He replied immediately. The dance of emailing went back and forth for a while, until Olivia persistence paid off.

The rest, as they would say, was history.

Olivia never thought that far ahead, but four months later; she’s definitively in a relationship with Ethan, one that she had not thought through on how to move forward with. Whatever it was, she and Ethan both knew that they wanted to continue.  It would be inconceivable to find someone who was into the same kind of kinks, shared that much in common and demanded that little of each other.

IX. Unconventional Relationship, Defined

For Ethan, Olivia was the perfect woman. She was low maintenance. She wrote to him consistently, she shared her thoughts with him. She wanted him. She accommodated him. She never threw a tantrum; she very rarely got upset with him, and if she did, she did not let Ethan know. She was always, patiently waiting for him to return to her. She would not demand a marriage, which Ethan would never be able to provide; she would not even demand a traditional relationship, which Ethan could not afford. 

For Olivia, Ethan augmented her life as well. She had finally the sexual freedom that she was looking for throughout her life.  She felt cared for again.

They had toyed around a proper terminology to define themselves. A couple of weeks ago, while in bed, she asked him, "What are you to me?" He said, "I am your boyfriend." "I shall be your girlfriend then". Olivia answered back. So it was settled.  She knew that she was as close as a girlfriend would ever be to Ethan. And that was enough.

They saw each other every few weeks. He had a life outside of hers. She his.

It would be a story with no ending. Though each of them secretively wished that they would see each other more, they knew that whatever this was, it would take time to develop. They were OK with that ambiguity.

X. The Waiting Game

On the way back from the run, they lingered over a real estate office, where a number of houses were listed. Ethan told Olivia that this town reminded him of his home in the Midwest. This island was known as Iowa on the Bay. It was filled with Victorian houses and a restored art deco theatre. Ethan stopped at the real estate office's window, looking in. There was a small craftsman house. The advertisement of the house just said “Cute”. Ethan read it out loud. “Cute.” He wondered, for that split second, what it would be like to live in that house, with Olivia, till the end of the day.

Then, he tucked the thought away. He had to get back to the city to watch his son.

Olivia thought of the same thing, she thought how it would have been to live with the man she was so madly in lust with. She might be in love with.

She imagined how it would be like to wake him up with her mouth. She loved having him in her mouth. It was never the same with anyone else. She had never wanted another the same way she did with Ethan. She felt a magnetic pull, a primal force when she was with Ethan, the body ached for what the body ached. She had a vision of her being tied, bond to the bedpost, she was being ravaged, as Ethan forcefully entered her while he covered her mouth as she was about to scream for the pain that she could no longer endure. Then her vision changed, she had the other vision of Ethan caressing her, tenderly rocking her back and forth, while she sat on him, with her lips pressed hard on his, her soft hair draping over his face, and he dreamingly called her “Oh Sweetie”. Those were contrasting images of their sexual dynamics. Both had happened before, and likely to occur again.  Both were normal for them, and both were invigoratingly natural. These memories were toxic and completely addictive.

Ethan put his lips on her, kissing her gently and briefly. It was time to say good-bye.

“When can I see you again?” Olivia asked.

“As soon as I’m back.” Ethan answered in earnest.

“Will you write to me when you are on the road?” Olivia asked again.

“Of course I would.” Ethan replied.

"There is my car." Ethan walked towards it. Olivia stayed behind, she looked on, as he smiled, this time, a bit forced. She knew his mind was already onto another thing, another item on his busy Sunday agenda, one which did not include her.

"I have to go." Ethan said. Goodbyes were always like that. Olivia felt a tuck, a rush of acute physical pain, like part of her was ripped open, the part that pumped oxygen in and out, her heart. She felt physically ill. She needed to lie down all of sudden.

"Have a good day." Olivia smiled back. That was always the default answer for Olivia. She would never reveal her true self. The stake was too high, and that was really not the point. Ethan wanted to see that happy Olivia, the one who joked, laughed and was always lighthearted. Not this emotional being, who got hurt just as easily as the next woman. Olivia vowed never to be that woman, the weaker sex, the one who demanded men's attention and affection.

Olivia also knew better. Ethan would not write when he's on the road, or call. It would probably be another two weeks before Ethan resurfaced again. He had a company to run, child to care for, and trips to make.  He took break from Olivia and disappeared into thin air, as if he never existed. Such was their other dynamics.  One that involved non-communication.

It would not be the first nor the last time she’d not hear from him in between. She told herself that she was OK with it. This trip would not be an exception.

She would wait, patiently, for that next run, for that next memory to be created.

She would wait, for they had nothing, but time.

6:30 to 8:00 - Sex is in Session

He said, “You smell good.”

I was, at that point, completely naked, in his bed. Hair a bird nest.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“It’s 7:20.” He got out of the bed, stark naked, he was looking for his phone or watch, I couldn’t tell, but he found what he was looking for.

“Good, we have a few minutes.” I said. I spread in his white down comforter, still feeling the heart beating in a speed that I was not used to. My personal trainer called my activities with B cardio.

“Have you had any cardio lately?” She’d ask. She’s a young lesbian woman in her mid 20s. She does lots of cardio with lots of different women. She’s beautiful, dark hair, big brown eyes, lean body, about 5’6”. No body fat whatsoever. I would totally be in love with her, easily, if I was single. But I had not been single in a long time.

B hopped back into bed, he would always say, “Come here”, when he drew me closer. So he said, “Come here”, and I was all of sudden in his arms. Completely relaxed and smelled like him. Sex, mixed with Coco Chanel. His favorite perfume (on me), apparently. But that evening, there were others bottley fluid. Just slightly more, variety was always the key in our relationship.

“Why?” I knew the answer but I asked anyway.

“Because you smell like me and your perfume mixed with sex.” What he meant – was the little extra recreational sport that involved other bottley fluid. The non-garden variety kind which I had expressed an interest in exploring further and he satisfied me. I was therefore, very hot, very wet and very aroused. I always wondered about that - whether I’d be interested in such things. He took the lead and there I was, wondering no more.

“I thought it was closer to 8.” I was implying that we’d had a much longer sex session than what the clock showed.

That evening, I arrived at around 6:40 PM, at his apartment in North Beach. My cab had picked up someone else from my building, it was the Mac convention and there were shortages of cabs. I waited for another good twenty-minutes before another cab showed up. I was therefore, a few minutes late. I got a text from him as my cab driver worked his magic in a rather congested street.

“Where are you?” 

By then I was only a couple blocks away so I told him just that. He sent back a smiley face.

I arrived just ten minutes after our scheduled meet time of 6:30.  He came down to open the door. I had not seen him for two weeks. It had been a weird two-weeks where he had seemingly gone cold via emails, he was less flirtatious but more serious about things; he was questioning about what my implied message was when I sent him an New York Times article about some woman who got abandoned by her lover, twice, the second time, he just left her, without a reason, without any warning. He commented on it, and said that it did not apply to our relationship. I would have used “situation” to describe our relationship, but he referred to it as if we were in a relationship. I had not quite gotten used to the concept of the “relationship”. B wrote that he had not asked any details of my marriage, and that obviously he was unmarried but had his own responsibilities with his work and son, etc. I wondered what that “etc.” entailed, but I didn’t ask.

He wrote briskly, and he asked me what I thought of it. I replied, a day later, and declared that I missed him. B did not write back.

Days passed by. Nothing. No communiqué. Our relationship had always been like this. He wrote passionately one day, and he disappeared another.  I wondered if he had relationships across the country, as he traveled to different places. But I didn’t ask. I didn’t want him to know that I cared. I was not sure if I did care or not. I wanted honesty more than other things. But I didn’t feel that I needed to know every detail of his life to adore him.

When he came out to greet me, I had half expected that we’d go out for dinner. He had told me that we had an hour and half, and we ought to go and grab dinner.

I then realized that dinner plan was just a front. There was no way he could have lasted another day without me. I knew that because the second I stepped into his living room, we locked lips. He was eager to remove my dress, all the while complimenting me in this dress. It was as if he was waiting for me, and had missed me. I missed him but it was not that obviously he did, he never wrote since he wondered what I thought vie se vie the article.

We spent the rest of the hour devouring each other. Smelling like sex after, To be more exact, I smelled like him. I was his, completely and utterly, his.  

“You are a perfect girl”. B told me while he fucked me like he had not fucked in a while. He didn’t seem like a guy who would go around the country and have sex with other women. I could be wrong but that was the vision I wanted to maintain. It was cleaner, simpler and less risky.

He asked me to do something for him. I did. It felt like a bit of a game. He wanted certain kinks. I followed his lead. I was rather aroused, again. I liked variety.

“Should we shower?” I asked afterwards.

“Yes”.  So there I was, in the shower, for the first time, with a man. Strangely enough, I had never taken a shower with anyone. It would appear strange to ask him given that we just had sex, but I wanted to be fucked in the shower. So I kept the thoughts to myself.

He then got dressed, my hair was wet and I clipped them together.

“Take me to the gym, will you?” I had planned to go and work out after.

I put back on my dress, and found myself sitting on his lap, at the edge of his bed.

“Next time, I want to sit on you and fuck you.” I always wanted to be sitting on him, sitting with my boobs exposed, he sucking on them, while I'd ride on his cock. I think I'd like that.

“OK, Baby!” 

He was that way, always trying to anticipate for the next time and agreeable when it comes to my suggestions of sex. 

“I love fucking you.” B said it again. He did it out of compliment. Fucking is a great word. It implies that sex in the roughest sense. I would rather be fucking than making love. The word fuck is largely underutilized because it implies that man is not being gentle. It implies roughness. It was a wrong word to use among feminist.  Women wanted to be made love of. Women wanted romance. I, wanted to be fucked. The way I always liked. The way I want to be done.

“See you Wednesday”. I said to him casually, almost wanted to end the sentence on a question mark.

Wednesday I would be meeting him and his son for the very first time. Four months of dating, rather, fucking, he now would like for me to meet his son.

He dropped me off across the street. He kissed me on my lips, he called – “Bye baby.”

I kissed him back. There had been this invisible string, he was pulling me closer, into his inner circle. He was pulling me in slowly so that I could feel his heat, this gradual, but developing heat that intensified what we had. 

I realized how much I had enjoyed sex with him. He casually mentioned to me that I could have dinner with his son and him. So I went along with it. I went from not seeing him for two weeks at a time to seeing him twice in a week.

Relationships do evolve over time.  My shrink told me that it would get intense over time. 

For instance, things get defined. First, the "I love you" murmured out of his lips, which I disgarded.

Then he referred what we had as a "relationship".

I had asked him, earlier that night, after sex, "What are you to me?" 

He replied, "I'm your boyfriend."


"Alright, I shall be your girlfriend then." I said.


That was a defining moment, perhaps. I was not used to definitions. I liked the gray areas. In fact, I had always been in the gray area. I had no guilt, no remorse, no expectations, and as a result, I had no wishful thinking, or hope. I lived in the moment, I liked B. I might grow to love B. I would continue to love my family, but they were different types of love. If anyone would understand it, it would be B. I suspect he had a similar situation going on. Definition or not. 

I suppose that nothing would be stand-still forever. Not even B and I.  


And I wonder where the story goes from here.

Cassandra and Will (Exploring BDSM) – San Francisco Story # 9

Having been doing online research for BDSM for my upcoming novel and was inspired by some of the themes. Also envisioned what if my character dies, what happened then? Can a couple develop a love relationship if they are really into BDSM? According to research it does not happen often...What does death do it all?

I. Fucking vs. Making Love

Will touched Cassandra’s back, gently, as if he was giving her a back massage. He spooned her, and he said in a dreamy voice, as if it was more for his own benefit, than for hers:

“It was that river boat, or rafting trip when I first met you. That same Sunday afternoon, we went to see a movie. You wore a white dress, and you told me that you had not worn any underwear. I couldn’t concentrate; consequently I couldn’t remember anything about that movie. We then went to your place, you played a transvestite porn movie, which was in your VCR, in VHS format, and then you stripped to nothingness, and told me that you were going to sleep. And we agreed that I could stay. But you’d go to sleep. You lay in your bed, and said that you only slept naked. You went to sleep, or it seemed. It was quiet, you may be still awake, I couldn’t tell.”

Will paused, to see if Cassandra was still listening. She was indeed, she could hear her heart beating. Will recounted this same story, of how they first met, Cassandra  still liked to hear it even though she’d heard it many times, every time a little more details were added. She was alert and awake, enjoying that moment of reminiscing.

“You were quiet, I couldn’t tell if you were asleep. But who in the right mind could just go to sleep laying next to you, the naked you. What were you thinking? I went down on you, and tasted you, and woke you up. You had shaved your pussy, you crazy girl. You were bare. Nothing down there, just smooth pussy. I woke you up and then we fucked.”

Will completed telling this story, more accurately, retelling this story. He ran his hand up and down Cassandra’s back, while spooning her. His penis pressing against her buttock, and they fit like a glove.

“I love fucking your pussy. I love the naked you. I love how you shave your pussy for me.” Will continued.

The room’s lights were dimmed. It was a relatively early evening, to Cassandra’s standard. She rarely went to bed before 2 AM. It was about 10 PM at the time.  She was lying in Will’s bed. The bed she occasionally shared with Will, the bedroom, the apartment, which allegedly had been there all along, yet it took her fourteen years to see it for the first time.

The dimmer was turned low but the room was still relatively lit, Cassandra could see Will’s face, his facial frame anyway, His prominent nose, his thin lips and his eyelashes. His eyes were now shut, he was leisurely curving up next to her, his body wrapped in hers, he was so rested around her, he was falling asleep, she was alert, feeling incredibly sexy, sensual and satisfied, as any freshly fucked woman would feel.  

She ran her hand through his blond curls. It felt soft, and airy, like her heart, content, beating at a speed as if she just inhaled ecstasy, euphoric, as if she could fly. She loved fucking Will.  She loved the feeling after being fucked by Will.

“Do you mean now, or before?” Cassandra asked for clarification from Will. She was naked, wrapped around by his arms, just like she was fourteen years ago, and she had shaven her pussy, like she did fourteen years ago.

“I loved fucking you then, I love fucking you now. I love how your pussy feels to me. I love your pussy.” Will declared.

Cassandra felt satisfied with his answer. She let out a moan, like a cat, she moaned like she was that wild cat wandering on the roof top in late evenings, desperately in heat, even though Will had just thoroughly satisfied her. She wanted more. She always wanted more from Will.

They kissed, they couldn’t kiss enough so they kissed whenever they could. She wrapped her arms around Will, as he was back on top of her, his penis was hard again, he was pushing himself into her, while she was lying naked, without any thread of clothing. They were just playing this time, but it felt good to have Will’s hard penis inside of her again as he gently glided in and out of her warm puddle.

She asked that question that made her ache each time she asked of herself, in her head, to her self, but this time, out loud, to Will. “How come we did not end up together?”

“Who says we are not together?”

Will meant what he said. But he also knew what Cassandra meant. She was a married woman, with her husband of twelve years, they had a child, a little girl named Emily, now ten.  Yet, on this Wednesday evening, lying in Will’s bed, was not a married woman in heart, but a woman who had finally reunited with her lover. She was with Will, one of her past lovers, someone who she had known before the existence of her husband, before many of her ex boyfriends came and went, before she knew what love was.  Will, her very first guy who went to a particular school for graduate studies in Boston, which caused a domino effect later on as she dated several in a row after Will from the same school, half by coincidence, half by conscious choice, she was in demand, and there were a lot of those people around San Francisco back in the 90s.

Will was her very first guy who she felt that physical pull, greater than emotional connection, greater than anything she had felt in a while, just that pure physical connection.

She never got to know him at a deep level. She never tried. She had no time to get to know him. When Cassandra was near Will, all she ever wanted to do, was to fuck, to use Will’s word.

II. The Illicit Affair

When Will first met up with her several months ago, when it was just the turn of the fall, when this illicit affair just started, she would wince whenever he used the word “fuck”, or “pussy”, it was vulgar, coming from Will, a scholar, a professor from that renowned university just down the Peninsula, it felt peculiar, but Will chose words carefully, she later learned.  He did not waste any words, he meant what he said, he fucked her because that was all that was. She had innocently asked him once, “What was the difference between fucking and making love?”

Will answered by saying “They were the same to me.”

Cassandra realized later on, to Will, they WERE the same. Fucking equated Making Love. He couldn’t love the way ordinary people loved. She felt the way he loved her, was through fucking.

She was, and is his fantasy girl, his sexual slave, his BDSM partner. The level of intimacy had grown over the past few months. She felt that he was opening up to her. Well, as much as he could, for someone who was so private and emotionally distant.

She sometimes felt that ache when he dropped off the face of earth, her earth anyway, when she wanted to hear from him, she wanted to feel him and see more of him. So she withdrew also, by going into that world of writing, or to mind her family life.

Cassandra believed Will came into her life for a reason. Perhaps Will came back into her life to remind her what a great, vibrant, intelligent, fun and attractive woman she had grown into.  And he reawakened the writer in her.

But she didn’t think that was enough. She wanted a deeper purpose. Like perhaps he saved her from her miserable life, but she didn’t have a miserable life to speak of. She was content, satisfied, and even happy with her career, her friends, her family, and her situation. All but one situation. She was fresh off an affair, a man who also went to the same graduate school back east, who was the same age as Will, who was independently wealthy, and who was curiously obsessed with her. She was creeped out by it.  She wanted out, she got out. Will came to her because of it. That was what fate brought her, Will, the handsome man whom she would always fall for, the man who she knew so little about, yet kept in touch with for these many years, because deep down, she knew, perhaps, one day, Will would be able to give her what she wanted.  Sex, sexual freedom, sexual exploration beyond her wildest dreams, the BDSM stuff.

They met up at a restaurant, near the university, where Will taught computer science, in the upper peninsula, it was a funky restaurant with a young college crowd. Cassandra was not nearly as comfortable as she should, it was really out of her element. One, it was not one of those fancy restaurants in the city, where she worked; two, she was in a restaurant full of twenty year old students.

They caught up on their respective lives. She learned that he had also become a father, and divorced. He had married a woman whom fathered his child, they fought constantly, she was domineering, and had strong opinions and lived a carefree life. He wanted out before she wanted out, but it was mutual in the end. She was quite successful in her line of work, she sold software for a large conglomerate firm, and she was happy on her own, without him. They divorced and shared child custody. He stayed at their house in Palo Alto, now only under her name, on some evenings when she was traveling, and on other evenings, he returned to his apartment that he always, somehow, kept, in the city. 

Cassandra came to see him on those rare nights, where Will had let her in now freely, whereas fourteen years ago, she never knew where he lived. She was never invited to his place back then. She knew nothing about the child Will fathered, or the child’s mother, she never asked, nor would it mattered. What mattered to her was Will. She felt that for the first time, for the second time actually, there could be a chance of getting to know Will.

III The adventure of BDSM and other kinky sex

“Will Mendelson, I know nothing about you.” Cassandra announced it to him the other night, while he was drifting to sleep, after he had thoroughly devoured her, tied her up, chained her up, spanked her silly, and fucked her in the ass, her second time, the first time was just a couple of weeks ago. He stuffed his cock in her mouth so that she could suck on it until he was good and ready, and then he jammed his cock in her pussy while she was tied down, her butt cheeks exposed, tight. After a while, he took his cock out and forced himself into her ass while she screamed. The pain, was excruciating.

She had never had anal sex before Will, and she liked the pain despite of it, she wanted more of it.  She realized that she had never been good at mundane sex, she wanted bondage, S&M stuff that hurt her, and she wanted kinky stuff. She wanted him to pee on her, that visual was first introduced to her via one of Henry Miller’s books, formally banned in the U.S. She read in the book about a young girl, only 16 of age, tied down by her mother, while men fucked her and her mother looked on. She read about men peed on women while they fucked, and had those women drink their pee in those books. She read about women getting fucked in their asses.  She was only twenty when she stumbled onto Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin’s work.  She was aroused.

Until then, and even afterwards, she always thought it was because she was a sick person, she thought she was fucked up in the head.  But then she realized that she was just wired differently. As she had gotten older, she realized what she wanted, was not just any man peeing on her, she wanted that particular brand of men, those who were otherwise tidy, anal retentive, fashionable, metrosexual, clean and lovely men to get dirty on her. She wanted Will Mendelson.  The clean shaven, blue eyes, blonde curly hair, trimmed glasses, white teeth, boyish smile, slim, fit, fashionable William Mendelson.

That was the kind of sex she wanted, sex with the full extent of erotica, sex without the feeling of constraint and boundaries. She trusted Will, she wanted to please Will, in a full extended version of slave and master version, she was the submissive one, the one who would become Will’s sex slave, have him do to her as he pleased. She wanted that relationship to grow, to flourish into something only described in Henry Miller’s books.

But often times, they were caught up with realities. Reality was, Will had a tenure track to pursue, lectures to give across the country, research to do, and a little child to raise.

Cassandra had a busy career herself. She worked at a consulting firm specialized in energy trading. On a bad year, her bonus was more than most people made in a year in salary.  Money was never the issue.  But when money was not the issue, people tend to seek others things to fret about. For Cassandra, it was the lackluster of her marriage. Cassandra wanted a full on BDSM relationship, which was not something that her husband would want to venture into, or talk about. She stumbled onto it with Will.

They lay awake for a few nights a months, no more than two by the last count of it, they fuck with abandon, during those rare moments, Cassandra felt loved, even belonged. Then they both leave for work for the next day, and they won’t talk, email for days, she had no idea what Will’s daily life was like, she had somewhat an idea as to what her boundary was. She suspected that Will would not be happy if she called him, she was not allowed to go and visit him in his office. She did not know whether Will had a girlfriend, another lover like her, a student he fancied when she was not with him, or for that matter, Will’s relationship with his ex wife.

She suspected all of the above were happening behind her back. Yet, strangely when they were together, Will made her feel like she was the only person who mattered. There was a certain amount of trust, trust that was implicit, when one entered into a BDSM relationship.

She had been reading up on literature and psychology behind a BDSM relationship. It was a quite complex situation; it required trust, a lot of it, a sense of bond that nothing else could break, or replace, it required a sense of removal from the reality. According to these literatures, it often was highly addictive, she was addicted to Will. She began to understand why Will always asked her to be quiet - it was part of the script. She began to realize why Will needed her and talked to her in such a way as if he owned her, and told her that she could do things when she did not ask to be permitted. 

She began to see a pattern. He would occasionally write, “Yes you can come to see me.” He needed to give her the permission. When she asked or suggested things, he would not always agree to it, he needed to have final say. She was frustrated most of the time, saddened by his lack of response, she hid in a corner, in private, she would cry because he had deprived her of the basic needs, the need to connect with him, yet she felt belonged, not to him, but with him. His oddball behavior made sense to Cassandra, his sense of domination spilled over to life itself, as if he was waiting for her to show up and now she had showed up, he was able to exercise his power on her. 

Cassandra begged to be with Will on days when he was free, in daylight.

“I had not seen you in daylight, not ever.” She commented on the fact they often stayed inside of his apartment when they did manage to meet up.

“But you did see me in daylight, when we went to Ocean Beach.”  Will answered. Cassandra was not sure to hit him over the head with the book she was reading, or to laugh at his weird sense of space-time continuum.

“Darling, it was fourteen years ago.” Cassandra reminded Will.

“We flew kites.” Will made a comment as if it took place yesterday.

“On top of it, I had no memory of it.” Cassandra countered.

She reached for his balls, and she touched his penis, gently massaged it until it became hard, and she fed it into her pussy, now wet like a puddle, he glided into her, while spooning her, rocking her, so very tenderly. The contrast, between the tying her up, spanking her, entering her by force, and to cradle her as if she was this most fragile flower, his fragile flower, made the relationship in a way, so powerfully intoxicating.

Cassandra read it somewhere BDSM couples often form a bond that was not necessarily love, but a deep trust that nothing else would break. She felt that with Will, despite his largely absent presence in her life. When she was with Will, she was complete, he brought the most natural side of her out, and she felt that she was bringing that side of him out as well. The side where he whispered quietly into her ears, in public, and told her how much he enjoyed putting a collar on her, and wanted to take her to public places while holding the leash that was tied to the collar around her neck.

She wished – on those nights, on most nights, when she was away from him, what it was like to be with him always, to belong to him, not just with him, but thoroughly belonged to him. She wondered if their lives would be drastically different, if her logical, sensible side would win out, or if her natural, instinctual, sexual perversity would win out.

IV The Tide Changes

On those evenings, which was the majorities of Cassandra’s evenings, she wondered about Will, what Will was up to, whether he was with someone else, or whether he wanted to see her more often.

On those evenings, Will thought of the same thing. He finally was able to open up to someone, someone whom he always adored. Someone he could love, give all that he was able to give. Will’s lugubrious enthusiasm was often shown early in the morning, when he was alone, alert and most energetic. He was a morning person, after his run, he would sing, in the shower, he would plan the day with a thoughtful note to himself, to send Cassandra a loving note, to tell her how much he enjoyed their last play date, and how much he wanted her body, and he would expect a note from Cassandra, of course, before his own reply to her, because she was always the person who sent him a note first, and he would reply gingerly, playfully, and teasingly.

He loved this game, this game of BDSM, this game of controlling every move in this chess game. He was a good chess player in college, he knew how everything worked statically, he knew he was in control, had an upper hand, and he had her in his pocket, unlike the first time, fourteen years ago, when she slipped away like an eel in water. They did fly kite that day in Ocean Beach, she was fumbling with the rope, and he caught her, he kissed her in that convertible he drove her in, just like he kissed her now, but she was slippery like an eel then, she kissed with abandon, she laughed like a little girl, and she walked away when he insisted on playing based on his ground rules.

But not this time, Will told himself. She came to good senses, she knew that I needed the control. I was the dominant one in this game, and I called the shots.

Cassandra knew that about Will this time too. She entered this relationship knowing what she would have to give up her power, her way of things.  She liked it for a while. She put up with Will’s temperament, his changeable ways, his last minute cancellation and his excuses.  She knew she needed Will for that deep, dark, secret fantasies and she was strangely OK with all of it. So she thought.

Then one day, it was just another normal day in Cassandra and Will’s world. Cassandra went about her day, kissed her daughter Emily goodbye when she dropped her off in school, and her husband, Robert, the man who was never to be mentioned again in this story, but for all intense and purposes, would show up now, because dear readers, this story was about to end. She was waiting for her BART to arrive, when a text message showed up.

Cassandra never knew how to use text, but she knew this was from Will, she somehow instinctively knew. It was indeed from Will.  It read, “Baby, I got into a terrible car accident, in hospital now. Chances are not good.”

There was a sense of panic. Cassandra got back to her house, located the hospital Will was at, and took her car to the hospital instead of going to work that day. There she found Will lying, helpless, bandaged up, came out of a surgery, with IV drip. It was not happening. It couldn’t be happening. This could not happen. Cassandra told herself. She repeated it as if those words would somehow alter the outcome of Will lying in a hospital, dying.

She leaned over to kiss him. He smiled, or attempted to smile. His deep blue eyes seemed gray that day. His head covered in bandages, his legs lifted up, he said that the texts were sent by a helpful nurse. “You know, baby, I know you don’t do text. I am sorry, I couldn’t find a laptop they’d let me borrow”. Will was trying to be funny.

Cassandra was all of sudden in tears. She turned around to wipe them dry and returned back to face Will, flashing her beautiful, bright smiles. She didn’t want those to be the last parting words. The strange thing about people, who were involved in a relationship, was that they might not know that they were in a relationship, until it was too late.

All this time, Cassandra had pretended this part of her life, was a tucked away secret compartment that got opened twice a month, at the very most.  Will, was the last person to require her attention, and she was not sure if he needed that attention anyway. He was always the decision maker in their BDSM relationship. He paid the dinner bills, he put on her coat, he extended his arm out so she could loop her arm through his while they walked on the hilly San Francisco streets, he paid for parking and he took charge in ordering food. This was a pre-defined relationship that required every step of the way to be well thought out. She was not a kept a woman by all means, but in this submissive woman / dominant man dynamic, she was, strangely, Will’s property, twice a month, on his terms, always on his schedule. And it worked, until now.

Lying in the hospital’s bed, was this helpless man, a freaky car accident had reduced him to this normal calm-voiced man who once made Cassandra weak in her knees every time she was near him. He was not in control for once. He was in fact, losing his battle. She saw his lights dimming, she saw how he reached out to her, caressing her for possibly the last time. She wanted to cry again.  But she couldn’t. She for once needed to be strong. She had to find her strength. So she smiled.

IV Nostalgia is a brand of Narcotic

“Hi Baby.” She touched the lose strand of his curly blond hair. 

“Did you remember that you had asked me, how we first met, on that trip of ours to Portland, where you came to visit me and stayed with me? And I said that I couldn’t remember?”

“Well, I did remember, I found it in my journal dated 1998. You were right, we went to a restaurant, I ran into a colleague of mine there, and we had Italian food. You were right, we did go out. Though I still don’t have any actual memory of it. You were right to ask me to dig out those journals.” Cassandra told Will. 

“We had fun that night. You were right.” She continued.

Will smiled, she saw that boyish smile under the bandaged face. She touched his face tenderly, she remembered those rare nights when she spent with him, how after he had tied her up, spanked her silly, and how he forced himself into her ass, and how much pain she felt, and how much she enjoyed it. Afterwards, she liked to curl up next to him, sometimes putting her head on his chest, and touched his full set of curly hair, and how he said that he liked the way she touched him.

Cassandra wanted to cry again, not because of seeing the lights slowly leaving Will, but for her sudden urge of declaration of love. The word she never used in this context of relationship. The scholarly view of BDSM was that it would very rarely turn into a love relationship; it was often an intense, emotional, psychological relationship, but not love. But what was love anyway?

Could love exist when everything else failed to explain the emotions she felt for Will? And what if there was really nothing else mattered in this world but her sense of loss, the loss that when Will ceased to exist, she too would cease to exist? What if in this process, she had, despite her better senses, become a person who utterly, completely, resolutely, belonged to Will?

She realized at that moment all those things that she ever wanted to tell Will, would be too late, if she didn’t tell him then. Like how much she had wished that he’d written more to her, talked to her more often on the phone, shared his life more with her, how she wished that he would demanded more of her time with him, even though he might be rejected because she had a life outside of his too?

She sat by the side of the hospital bed, the bed that was so decidedly small, utilitarian, and made strange squeaky noises like alien giving birth if you touched it just so. Her face transfixed on the monitor, Will was fast drifting to sleep under the morphine drip. And Cassandra started to tell Will this story.

“You know how you always told me how you met me for the first time? It was probably the best moment you had remembered me by. I was happy, you were happy. I was elated to have met you, my beautiful Will. I had no memory of that, so I appreciate you telling me each time.

You know what, I never told you this, but, Will, of all the moments that we shared fourteen years ago, there was one moment I truly remembered, I bet you don’t remember this. I remember how it was like for you to leave me.

You had an early meeting, in Eugene, and you stayed with me in Portland, it was crazy, it was so far away. Two hours of drive. But you wanted to stay with me. I liked it, a lot.

That morning you woke up, and you had taken a shower, and I was still asleep, it was 6 AM, you always got up a lot earlier than I did. You said that you’d go back to San Francisco that evening. You hugged me and said ‘go back to sleep little girl." I had thought I had one more night with you, in Portland, I thought you said that you were going to spend two nights with me, but you changed your schedule, just like you often do now.

Did you know what you told me? You told me that you’d see me back in San Francisco, on Thursday evening, when I returned from my project. You never called, or emailed. I waited for you to get in touch with me. I knew somehow in my gut you would not but I waited for you anyhow. You made promises, and you broke them, like you often do now. I never got mad at you. I was disappointed, even sad, but I knew you were you, you’d never change. I didn’t expect you to. That’s how I decided to end things fourteen years ago. I knew I could never count on you, not on a day to day basis anyway.

You remembered the happier times, how we met, how I stripped down to nothingness, shaven pussy, a white dress with no underwear on. How you went down on me, woke me up with your lips, but I remember how you left me, so nonchalantly, so full of promise, so full of hope and desire for a bright tomorrow. That tomorrow never came, not for me anyway.

Here I am, I found you again, fourteen years later. And you know what, I just realized this, our tomorrow would never come, again.”

Will was fast asleep by the time this long monologue ended. Cassandra found herself in tears, inconsolable.  Will was only 47. He would be dead, or not, depending on how exaggerated he was with his texts, sent by the good-hearted nurse, but Cassandra knew one thing was for sure. Whatever it was there between Will and her, it was to be severed. She was trying to fix a past mistake. She had her heart torn out by a charismatic young man fourteen years ago. She wanted her heart back, the complete heart, not the one that was patched up and could be broken into pieces anytime. She might have what it took to survive this BDSM dynamic, but she would never be completely herself outside of this BDSM relationship. She wanted more, Will, was incapable of giving more.

Will would never change, he would no longer be afforded an opportunity to change now, he could be dead tomorrow, or in a month, he would not be the domineering man who demanded things or permitted her to do things. He would not be there to take care of her, cradle her after her secret desires were fulfilled: some were pure pleasure, some were pain, but there was always the pleasure after. She would lose this one man who knew it all, saw it all, and he would never knew how much he hurt her, not physically, but emotionally. Yet she strangely desired and loved him unconditionally.

She wanted this to be the way to end it all. She wrote a note, in haste. “My Dear Will, take care of yourself. I love you, always.” She knew what this note would mean to Will. He had never permitted her to express herself freely, and she knew, instinctively, that dominating persona Will put up would not have appreciated reading this note, or this story, in fact, it would probably drive him away or make her less desirable to him. But that other Will, the one she knew perhaps really cared about her deeply, the Will who rarely came out to play, who remembered her in that white dress with fondness, who fell asleep soundly with his arm wrapped around her, would appreciate the sentiment.

With that, Cassandra picked up her purse, scarf and hat, and walked out of the door.

She would not return. She knew it in her heart, this was truly the ending Will wanted too.