Pain Slut

by J. A. Rock

  “Totally in!” Kamen said.

  “I’m not really in the mood for meat.” Dave leaned against D. “But I’ll go.”

  D looked at me.

  “Oh no,” I said. “I have . . . work.” Actually, I had to attend a gathering of vampyres because I was too cowardly to tell the man I was sleeping with that we needed to stop being a part of each other’s lives. But nobody needed to know that.

  He turned to Gould, who shook his head. “Busy. Thanks, though.”

  D studied Gould and Dave, as though he knew something was wrong but couldn’t figure out what.

  Dave stood, casting a last glance at Gould before hurrying into his bedroom to get ready.

  The coven met in some woman named Cathy’s house. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting—a Gothic mansion with buttresses and spires, lit by torchlight and filled with the screams of the damned? But it was just Cathy’s place, and Cathy had a kitchen full of cross-stitched platitudes and a cappuccino maker.

  She served us hot dogs.

  I talked to Archimedes Wendell, the coven’s oldest member. He explained to me that he was four thousand one hundred and fifteen years old and had been around when the pyramids were gleaming white. He had a tattoo on his shoulder of a raven eating a Bible. He went by Archie.

  “You doing all right?” Drix asked me.

  I nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “It’s going to get a little weirder. But I think you’ll like the weird part.”

  I spent the rest of the meal watching Drix. The way he interacted with the others. He had that same vibrant, gentle-but-arresting energy I remembered from the day he’d taken the sunflower picture. I noticed too how often he touched other people. He’d warned me they were a tactile group, but it was still amazing to me. Hands on one another’s shoulders, the sharing of food and drink. Hugs and kisses for greetings and good-byes.

  It reminded me of how bewildered I’d been at first by my friends’ easy physical intimacy.

  But the most noteworthy element was how at home Drix seemed here.

  I wished, for just a moment, that I had some way of making Drix feel at home with me. That I could offer him this level of intimacy and openness.

  No, I reminded myself. Don’t even wish it.

  I was going to tell him it was over. Not tonight, because I knew how much he enjoyed the coven meetings, and I didn’t want to ruin his night. But tomorrow, absolutely.

  Then he’ll think I’m ending it because I don’t approve of his vampyrism. Better wait a few days.

  Okay, a few days. And I’d try not to sleep with him between now and then.

  After dinner, Cathy stood. “It’s time to see to the initiation of our newest member.”

  For a second I was afraid that I was the newest member. That Drix had, unbeknownst to me, volunteered me for initiation into the coven. I had opened my mouth to protest that I was merely a black swan, when a young man at the end of the table rose. He was as pale as Drix, with black hair and Harry Potter glasses. Black skinny jeans and a black flowing pirate shirt.

  He walked with Cathy through a door and down a flight of steps to the basement. After a moment, the rest of the Dark Ravens stood and followed. I kept close to Drix. The silence that had descended over the group was eerie.

  In the spacious center of the basement, the young man knelt on a folded towel. He didn’t look afraid.

  “What’s happening?” I whispered to Drix.

  Drix put an arm around me. “He’s going to be whipped.”

  Oh.

  “Tonight,” Cathy said, “Peter offers his blood in order to join the ranks of the Dark Ravens.”

  “It’s symbolic,” Drix told me in a low voice. “We won’t really make him bleed unless that’s what he wants. But everyone in the Dark Ravens is brought forth into wakefulness with a small amount of pain.”

  “It really does seem like a cult,” I whispered.

  “So does all your kneeling and bowing and ‘Yes, Sir; no, Sir.’” He shot me a grin.

  I lifted my chin, mock-haughtily. “I do not say ‘Sir.’”

  “I’ve noticed.” He ran a hand over my shoulder.

  I can’t end this.

  Cathy continued, “Peter agrees to uphold the tenets of the Dark Ravens. Respect all. Do harm to none. Share the experience of being alive. Of having a body that hungers for connection. A mind that lusts for knowledge. A spirit that thrives on energy.”

  Peter bowed his head.

  Drix leaned close to me once more. “It is a cult. The difference is, it’s for fun. We’re not actually brainwashing anybody.”

  I was surprised when Cathy called Drix forward.

  I noticed, for the first time, that Drix carried a black single-tail whip, braided leather, about three feet long. The popper was leather and tapered to a point.

  Drix stood behind Peter, one hand on his nape. Cathy knelt in front of Peter and unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it down his shoulders so the fabric draped his lower back and pinned his arms, but left him exposed from midback upward.

  He looks like Harry Potter. I can’t watch Drix beat Harry f-ing Potter.

  Drix whispered something to Peter, and Peter nodded.

  Drix took his position. There was a swish and a crack as Drix delivered a throw across Peter’s shoulders. Peter quivered but didn’t make a sound.

  Another crack.

  Peter tipped his head forward.

  The whip struck again, lower and a bit harder. Peter gave a soft cry.

  Drix’s technique was good. After a couple of sidearm lashes, he moved to knotting. These were softer, forward throws, and while Peter gasped at each, he seemed to be relaxing into the rhythm. Drix whipped down his back, easing the strength of the throws as he went lower. Soon Peter was crying out with nearly every lash, unable to hold back the sounds.

  It was erotic, and absolutely beautiful. The welts Drix left were pink and would fade quickly, except for a couple of darker ones across the shoulders. Peter’s sides were heaving, and his skin glistened with sweat.

  It was over quickly. Drix dropped the whip.

  “Stand,” he said kindly.

  He helped Peter up and embraced him, mindful of the welts. Peter buried his face in Drix’s shoulder in a way that made me feel longing and envious.

  “Welcome,” I heard Drix say.

  The others came forward to welcome Peter. I hung back, but caught Drix’s eye.

  Well done.

  He found his way over to me. Put his hand in mine. I didn’t pull away. “Are we creepy?” he whispered.

  “I’ve seen creepier.”

  “Want me to whip you, someday?”

  I can’t let you.

  “If you have to ask that question . . .”

  He squeezed my hand and looked around the basement. “Miles, you’re, like, the only person I’ve ever met that I felt comfortable showing this to.”

  That hurt as deeply as grief. Struck some place in me that hadn’t been touched by anything else but Hal’s death—except this time, I didn’t even understand what I was losing. Safety. Closeness. Adventure. A friend. No number or combination of words was enough to describe how it felt to let go of a future I’d never know because I couldn’t risk living it.

  My phone rang on Tuesday. Restricted number.

  Britney.

  My heart raced. I’d been anxious since the night of Harry Potter and the Blood Rites of the Dark Ravens. Privately—irrationally—I feared that Beacon Center spies were planted everywhere, snapping my picture as I went to vampyre gatherings and Subs Club meetings, and then reporting back to Cheryl. I was half-afraid Britney was calling to say there was no way she’d ever give James to me.

  “Miles Loucks.” I answered the phone in the same clipped, professional tone I used at A2A. Winced at the sound of myself.

  “Um . . . Miles? This is Britney Herbert.” The voice was low. Some combination of tired and disoriented and over it, like she’d fallen asleep in class and then been called
on.

  “Hi, yes. Britney.”

  “Cheryl said you wanted to talk to me.” She pronounced the name “Shurl” and glossed over the middle consonants of her words. This is Brihh-ny. You wannid to talk to me.

  “Yes, I . . .” don’t know where to start. “I wanted to introduce myself. And see if you feel I’d be a good candidate to adopt James.”

  A pause. Some staticky fumbling. A long breath. “Shurl says you got good scores on everything.”

  “Well.” I walked into the kitchen and fumbled around, opening cabinets even though I wasn’t looking for anything. “I’ve been working closely with Beacon Center to become the best candidate possible. I . . .” Just tell the truth. “I’ve been looking forward for a long time to becoming a father. I think I could be a very good one to James.”

  “You got money?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You got money?”

  “Oh. Not . . . a lot, but enough to support a child. Enough to give James everything he needs. And to have a college trust.”

  More static. “That’s good.”

  I tried not to make assumptions about her based on her voice. But I worried suddenly that she wasn’t very bright, and that James wouldn’t be very bright. That maybe I should have waited and had a biological child.

  Nonsense. Any child can be educated. I’ll be taking James out of an environment that won’t allow him to reach his full potential.

  Or I’m an asshole, and I’ll make him into an asshole.

  We talked a bit about her pregnancy, which was apparently going well, except that she puked whenever she ate citrus and could smell farts “from, like, twenty miles away.”

  At the end of the conversation, she said, “I’m gonna tell Shurl I want you to have James.”

  I had to sit down and wait to make sure my voice was steady before I spoke again. “Wow. That’s . . . I really would like to adopt James. I’m really grateful you’re—you considered me.”

  “Well, you seem like you’d be real good to him. You can come to the hospital if you want when I’m due. It’s June twenty-fifth. You can see him when he’s born.”

  “Of course. I’d like that.” I was trying to wrap my mind around how . . . detached she sounded? Was that the right word? I mean, how could you tell a stranger you’d talked to on the phone for twenty minutes that you wanted him to take your child? How could the Beacon Center send me profiles of children and say, Would you like one of these? I mean, every Christmas, I sent Mom links to, say, three different pairs of shoes I thought she might like. Do any of these suit you?

  The adoption process had been incredibly difficult and complicated on the paperwork end. But the parts that seemed like they should be complicated—like actually obtaining the child—were treated so simply.

  “His name’s James Aidan, after my cousin,” she said. “He died in Iraq.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I told her.

  “It’s okay.” There was a crinkling sound on the other end, like she was opening a bag of chips. “I think you’ll be a real good father.”

  I hung up feeling strange. Like I wanted to believe her that I would be a good father. Like maybe things from here on would be simple and . . . okay. I’d find the right crib, and I’d be the right kind of father, and I’d miss Drix, but I’d survive missing him.

  And everything would go according to plan.

  I went to the window and looked out at my manicured, swing-set-less backyard.

  Just because you don’t expect something doesn’t make it a disaster.

  I couldn’t remember, for a second, where I’d heard those words.

  My dad.

  My dad, who’d quit his office job when I was eight to go drive trucks.

  I recalled the day I’d quit my cubicle job to open A2A. I’d spent a year getting the business plan ready. Six months refitting the building. And even after all that, I almost couldn’t turn in my resignation to Cubicleland. I had visions of my store sinking within months. Of having everyone know I was a failure. I drafted the resignation over and over. I recited each new draft in my sleep. I woke from dreams I couldn’t remember, but that always left me feeling like I’d done something horribly wrong.

  Eventually I’d gone to my boss and handed her the letter. She’d read it and congratulated me. And then I’d gone out into the world and done something that wasn’t safe, wasn’t easy.

  I looked down at my folded arms. Realized I was shaking.

  But I’d lost Hal. Just over a year after A2A opened.

  I knew there wasn’t a connection. Rationally, I knew it. And yet some nights I still looked in the bathroom mirror after I was done brushing my teeth, and I wondered—if I’d stayed at my old job, would Hal still be alive? Had I pulled a thread that unraveled some small section of the world? And if so, was there a way I could put things back together? Or at least avoid doing it again?

  I closed my eyes.

  If I stayed safe, maybe I could keep others safe. Perhaps security was contagious—like how I sometimes grew more relaxed around Drix simply because he was peaceful.

  “You give yourself too much credit, Miles,” my mother had said, the day I’d told her I wanted to adopt and then had immediately confessed my fear that something bad would happen just because I wanted this.

  I didn’t understand how that worked. How I could believe myself the center of the universe—some careless puppeteer who destroyed nations by thinking a dirty thought, or enjoyed moments of beauty through his own sheer worthiness to witness them—and still feel like I would never, ever be enough.

  I opened my eyes.

  So why not be brave now?

  If it’s all a crapshoot anyway, why not hold on to Drix and see where this goes?

  No business plan. No dossier.

  Just teeth and skin and breath and sweat, and his hand in mine.

  Drix was at my house, trying unsuccessfully to help me unload the dishwasher. He didn’t know where anything except cups went, so it was mostly him taking things out of the dishwasher and handing them to me to put away. I’d told him about the call from Britney, and he’d been good about helping me sort through my conflicting feelings and my fears about the adoption.

  Maybe this was why Dave was always encouraging me to talk to him and the others. Because it helped.

  I knew Drix and Bowser had met a couple of times recently, and I was dying to know how that was going. “So you and Bowser . . .” I couldn’t find a way to initiate this conversation with any sort of finesse. “Are you getting along?”

  I caught his smile before he said, “Oh yeah.”

  “Yeah?”

  He handed me a whisk. “We’ve been working on some stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  Drix bent to kiss me. “You’ll see.”

  “Mmm.” I whacked his shoulder lightly with the whisk. “Soon, I hope.”

  He turned away and reached into the dishwasher again. “Who’s Hal?”

  I tensed.

  He faced me again, silverware in his hand. “You never told me who Hal was. You said you’d tell me later. But you didn’t.”

  “Oh, uh . . .” I leaned against the counter, trying to figure out how to tell this story to Drix. I had a short version for people not involved in the BDSM scene. And most people who were in the local scene, I didn’t have to tell. They already knew. “Hal was my friend. Part of my group of friends.”

  He waited.

  I made sure I could keep my voice neutral before I continued. “Hal was at Riddle one night, doing a scene with a dom who had a reputation for being careless. The dom left Hal tied up on the bench in the Tranquility room. Hal had a rope around his neck. The—the rope, um, twisted. And—it—” I stopped for a moment. “It strangled Hal.”

  Drix gazed at me, something deeper than sympathy in his eyes. As though he understood every bad thing that could possibly happen to a person in this world, and felt others’ pain like it was his own. “I’m so sorry.”

>   I shook my head. “A lot of people blame themselves for it. That DM, Michael. And Cinnamon, this woman we know—she was in the room with Hal when it happened, but didn’t realize he was in trouble. And, uh, GK and Kel. Riddle’s owners. They took it hard.

  “I guess the worst part is that Bill Henson, the dom—nothing happened to him. He was put on trial and found innocent. And the way the media reacted . . . you could look at comments on any news article and see that most people blamed Hal, or blamed BDSM in general.”

  “That must have been awful.”

  “Even I blamed Hal, a little. I was just never as close to him as the others were. He was always the kind of guy who stole the spotlight. You know? Every conversation had to be about him and some crazy idea he’d had, and people . . . followed him. Imitated him. Wanted him around all the time. And I never understood why. He took risks, and he . . . he never thought anything through.” My heart thudded. I’d never said this to anyone, ever. “I sound really selfish, don’t I?”

  Drix smiled ruefully. “It’s really okay.”

  My exhale was shaky. “I did care about him, though. And I don’t think it’s fair that Bill gets to . . . whatever.”

  “Make coffee in the morning and listen to the radio on his commute and binge-watch Netflix?”

  “Exactly.”

  He put an arm around me—not a long embrace, just a squeeze. As though he wasn’t sure if I’d be receptive to it.

  “Thank you,” he said. “For telling me.”

  We finished with the dishes and played a game of Scrabble, which helped the evening regain some sense of normality. By the time we got upstairs, we were both eager for pursuits more carnal than triple-word scores.

  “I want to do something for you,” I told him once we were naked in bed. “To you—kind of. Something that will hurt me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You might think it’s weird.”

  “Are we not past that?”

  “Do you do any bottoming stuff?”

  He smiled. “A little. It’s been a while.”

  “So my idea involves a . . .” I got up and fetched my gear bag. Removed a thick, hollow butt plug. “A pig hole.”