Intimate Geography

by Tamsen Parker

  “My point is I don’t want to be stuck in a box anymore. I’d like to go out in public with you. I’d like to introduce you to my friends. I’d like to be able to tell people that I have a relationship with you.”

  “Your parents know,” I hedge. That had seemed to placate him for a while. What’s changed all of a sudden? “Why is this bothering you now?”

  “Do you know who Peter Salvadge is?”

  “Sure.” What does an editor at The New York Times have to do with this?

  “I work with him sometimes. Not regularly, but occasionally he’ll give me a call. He did yesterday, asked me to do a comic for him.”

  “That’s great. When’s it going to come out?” I don’t usually get a hard copy of the paper, but for this I will. It’s possible I have an envelope of Crispin’s comics tucked in the back corner of a drawer of my bedside table. It’s also possible I take it out and look at them when I’m missing him. But I’m taking that tidbit to my grave.

  “It’s not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he asked me to do a piece on the mess in Phoenix and I told him I couldn’t because I had a conflict of interest.”

  My stomach sinks. I wouldn’t like seeing Crispin’s cleaving humor directed at one of my clients, but I wouldn’t ask him to give up work because of it. “You could’ve taken it.”

  “I’m not pissed about losing the job, India. Yeah, it would’ve been nice, but there’ll be other jobs. I’m ticked off because I couldn’t give him a goddamn reason. I would’ve liked to tell him that I know you, that we’re together.”

  “You could’ve said you know me.” My mumble isn’t particularly convincing, and I can’t deny the frisson of terror at the idea of Crispin telling someone at the Times that we’re together. I should stop there, but I just can’t. “But I’m not—”

  “I know. You’re not my girlfriend; you’re my submissive. You’ve made that very clear. I’m saying I’d like for that to not be true anymore. I want more from you. I’ve never wanted more than that from anyone else. I never understood what the big deal was, but now I do. I’m forty years old. I don’t want to wait around anymore for what I want. Unfortunately for me, I think I’m the only one who wants this.”

  “I—” is all that snakes out from the vines choking me. Crispin wants me to be his girlfriend? I haven’t been anyone’s girlfriend…ever.

  “Christ, India. I know Hunter fucked you over. He was an asshole, and what he did was awful and unforgivable. I’m not Hunter. If I wanted to screw you over, I could’ve done it already. I don’t want to. I wouldn’t. I want to be with you and not just when we have a contract that says it’s okay.

  “I want you to stop hiding behind all of this ‘I’m so damaged’ crap and come be with me, too. I want all of you, not just the bits you feel like doling out on any given day or what’s left over from your love affair with your gay best friend. I want to be invited to sleep in your bed. I want you to call me instead of Rey when you need help, when you’re hurt or unhappy. I want to be able to rely on you for those things, too, and not feel like I have to set an egg-timer for every conversation we have. I hate the fact that you trust me enough to tie you up and beat you, but not to call me and tell me how your day was. I’d like for you to trust me with more than your body. I want to feel worthy of all of you.”

  “Crispin, I can’t…”

  “Yeah, I know.” The flatness of his tone makes my heart seize. I stand there willing myself to say something. Anything. I can’t yet. Be patient with me, please. Someday. I want that, too. From you. Crispin, I— “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “You’re breaking up with me?” It’s a stupid thing to say. If there were something to break up, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

  “There’s nothing to break up. I’m not renewing our contract.” His voice is gentle, the one he uses to soothe me when I’m afraid, but I wish it were harsh. If you’re going to hurt me, fucking hurt me.

  “Why didn’t you tell Rey? Or why didn’t you not tell anyone? Since it’s just a contract?” I sound calm, but humiliation and hurt are shooting through my body and I might start crying.

  “I thought you deserved better. A lot better, actually, but I can’t force it on you.” With one final blow, he adds, “Take care of yourself, Kit.”

  I hold the phone to my ear until the dial tone sounds, until the odd, uneven beeping starts. He’s hung up, it tells me. He’s gone. But how could that be true? How could a five-minute phone conversation end a relationship I’ve been devoted to for over a year? An automated voice on the other end, female and oh-so-calm, is telling me to hang up and try again. Try again? No. Never will I try again. Never will I put so much of myself on the line for someone else.

  But there’s the crux of it, right? The best I have to offer wasn’t good enough. I am not good enough. All my worst fears have been confirmed. I am too fucked up to deserve to be loved. No one will want me the way I am, and I don’t have the time or the tools to fix myself. I hold the phone to my ear for so long the prerecorded voice gives up and there’s silence on the other end.

  I know I should feel something. Anger, sadness, desperation…something. But what I am is numb. It’s going to take a while for this to sink in. I can delude myself for a few more weeks that this isn’t real because I don’t see Crispin every day. I don’t talk to him. I don’t come home to the smell of his cooking or his stupid flip-flops resting on the mat by my threshold. We don’t have “Hi, honey, how was your day?” conversations, and the shape of him isn’t imprinted in the bedclothes on what isn’t his side of the bed. Does Crispin even have a side of the bed? I haven’t thought of it before, and now I don’t have to. It’s moot.

  My phone’s made its way to my side under some direction that wasn’t mine. Now what? It’s Saturday morning. I brought work home with me, hoping there might be some phone sex shenanigans, but perhaps it’s best to go into the office. Fewer distractions. Fewer reminders of Crispin. I shouldn’t think of him as Crispin anymore. He’d want his name back like he’s given me mine. Perhaps to be distributed to the next woman who comes under his care, like a spare set of keys.

  The idea makes my stomach riot in protest. No. My Crispin. If he takes everything else away from me, let me at least keep that. Maybe if I keep thinking of him as Crispin, he won’t be able to bestow that privilege on anyone else. I’ll keep it in my head, a mental scrap to cling to like I’ll stash his shirt in the back of a drawer.

  That’s what I need to do. Shove this in the back of a drawer. I don’t have time for this shit. Right—distraction. Make a plan. Coffee, clothes, car. That will kill an hour. And then I’ll make another plan. And then another. Lather, rinse, repeat. And when I can’t do it anymore, I’ll call Rey. Like I always do.

  *

  I make it to three o’clock.

  “Buongiorno, bella.”

  “Rey—”

  “What’s wrong?” The fierce protectiveness in his voice makes a corner of my mouth lift. His tone implies, Tell me who did this to you and I will fuck them up good.

  “Cris. He—”

  “Did he get hurt again? I swear to god I’m going to break his boards over my knee myself if—”

  “No. He’s fine. He…” I heave a sigh. It hurts to say it out loud. “He’s not renewing our contract.”

  There’s silence on the other end, and I wonder if I’ve lost him. “Rey?”

  “I’m here, little one. I’m so sorry.”

  I nod, knowing he can’t see me but that he’ll feel me anyway. There’s the sound of furious typing coming through the line. “What’re you doing?”

  “I’m moving around my clients so I can come down. Tonight? Or do you want me to wait until tomorrow?”

  “It’s Saturday, you’re crazy busy. You can’t drop everything because…” Because my boyfriend broke up with me. But that’s wrong. So wrong.

  “This is not a choice you get to make. The only say you have is when I’m coming,
not if. Tonight or tomorrow morning?”

  “Tonight.” My voice is a study in reluctance. Why is Rey so good to me? What have I done to deserve him? He’s made similar promises to other people, and I’m not sure how he earns a living. Maybe I’m the biggest wreck in his scrapyard and the others don’t bother him so much. Someday I’ll go back to being more self-sufficient, but for now, a ping travels over the ether from the Bay and tells me Rey’s booked his flight.

  “Pick me up at nine?”

  “Of course.”

  “Promise me one thing, little one.”

  “Anything.”

  “Between now and when I get there, be good. Be careful.”

  “I always am.”

  Chapter Ten

  ‡

  Rey stays with me until Monday morning and after he leaves, I try to behave. I really do. He calls me every day, and when we sign off, he demands the same oath: Be good. Be careful. I give him the response to his call, but my words are hollow. The good news is that he doesn’t have to worry about me behaving too badly because I’m dead inside. I can barely muster the will to get out of bed in the morning, never mind into trouble.

  I’ve been coming to San Francisco whenever I can for the past couple of months, needing the comfort Rey furnishes and desperate for the control he provides. Whenever I come up, he offers to play, but I refuse. It would sate one of my cravings, but Crispin spoiled me and I suspect getting my kink on would only call attention to the other things I lack. Rey loves me, I know he does, but it’s not the same.

  When Rey ushers me into his house after picking me up at the airport, he confiscates my laptop, my Blackberry, and my cell.

  “But—”

  “You’ll get them back when I drop you off at the airport. Jack and your clients know you’re off this weekend, yes? You’re allowed some peace once in a while, and as god is my witness, you’re going to get it. You know I think you’re the prettiest girl in California, but you’re looking a little ragged these days.”

  I glare at him, but it’s true. I’ve been working myself to the bone, trying to forget. I don’t want to do anything else. I don’t want to drink. I don’t want to fuck. I go to the gym and I go to work because I have to. Because I have obligations, commitments, and I’ll fucking honor them. And because Rey tells me to. I need to be good enough for someone. I need to not be a complete and utter failure.

  Over the eggs Benedict Matty makes us for breakfast, Rey nudges me.

  “I’ve got a client coming up from Silicon Valley tonight.”

  “Okay.” Aside from giving me a heads up that I won’t have Rey all to myself this evening and I’ll get orders to nest on the couch with a book or a movie, I’m not sure why he’s telling me.

  “I thought maybe you could help out during our session.”

  “No.” I’d do just about anything for Rey, but no.

  “You might like this one. He’s relatively new, but he’s going to be good. Very good.”

  “No.”

  “He’s got a PhD. And an MBA.” Rey raises his eyebrows, knowing the advanced degrees are an enticement. And it’s true—a spark of interest lights in my chest…and is just as quickly snuffed out. But a spark is better than nothing, right? It had better be because I don’t know how much longer I can survive like this. It’s been two months, and underneath the weight of devastation, I know I need an outlet. But not this. Not yet.

  I shake my head as I stare into my plate where the egg yolk and hollandaise are soaking into the perfectly toasted English muffin. Matty made it with bacon and chives, and I want to cry because Crispin used to make mine with ham and scallions. Everything in my life seems off, and I’m not sure how to fix it.

  Rey rests a hand over mine and squeezes. “You can’t do this forever you know.”

  I look into his dark eyes and muster a pale imitation of a smile. “I know.”

  That’s when the dam I’ve been keeping the tears behind fails, and I burst into ugly tears. Rey picks me up and brings me back to his bed where he spoons me and strokes me and keeps me in tissues during the seemingly endless crying jag.

  When he heads out to meet his client, I lie there, staring at the ceiling. I search in vain for something to keep my mind occupied. Rey’s bedroom is sparse. I’d call the dark wood surrounded by white and grey cold, but it’s meant comfort to me for so long that my brain processes it as home. My thoughts flit around my skull, and eventually I start to count the ways I’d like to be hurt. I think that’s an improvement? It’s at least closer to the status quo. That’s when I see a pinprick of light at the end of a long tunnel that doesn’t immediately fade away, an intimation of the possibility that this will be okay, that I’ll survive as a semblance of myself.

  *

  It’s been almost three months since Crispin ended our contract. I still think about him all the time, feel the hollow ache where my heart should be. I knew from last time this would be hard, but somehow being the one who was broken up with makes it exponentially worse.

  Work hasn’t slowed in the least. Chicago is almost wrapped up, but Phoenix is still claiming a lot of my time, not to mention the ongoing receivership of LAHA for which the annual update’s come due. Because it involves press, Jack’s delegated that polished shit nugget to me. There’s also the constant baseline of small projects and questions that show up in my inbox on any given day and multiply like frigging rabbits. At least Lucy’s holding up her end of the bargain. If she doesn’t always give me flawless product, she’s meticulous about providing me with what may as well be an IV drip of the world’s best coffee.

  I take the late shuttle up to LA the night before our big presentation on LAHA. We’ve had this project for two years, and we’d best have something to show for it if we expect to keep the third year of our contract. I’m twitchy and twisted up inside, feeling uneasy even though I’ve been over this presentation a million times. I am going to knock it out of the park. Or, according to Rey, bat a hat trick, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

  I check into my hotel, a swank place where the staff know my name, and head up to my room. I’ve stayed here many times, and the layout of the room is almost as familiar to me as my apartment. Better furnished, too. I make myself at home, sitting on the couch and flipping on the TV for something to do. My brain is fried, and I need a distraction.

  If I could order life up like the shrimp fra diavolo from room service, I’d put in for an ice-cold Dominant who’d leave me sweating and bruised in all the right places. I don’t want affection—just a balls-to-the-wall hard fuck, a metric shit ton of impact play, and a truly excessive amount of bondage. I don’t want to be able to move a pinky finger. If I played in public spaces, I’d have Rey get me into the best club in town. He’s offered, repeatedly. Encouraged, prodded, and—if I’m any judge of set of his jaw—nearly ordered.

  Somewhere in the rational part of my brain, I know it would probably be safer than what I do. To dox someone at your club, you have to expose yourself, and no one does that. The price is too fucking high. Except that’s what I would’ve said about Hunter—who does that?—and look how that turned out. In the face of the evidence, Rey backed off and let me do as I would. Despite knowing better, my head still insists it’s too risky. So I can’t. Won’t.

  But… An insane thought creeps into my head. I may not be able to indulge myself the way I’d like, but I bet I could pick up a quick fuck at the bar downstairs. Or better yet, several doors down. Anonymous sex is a thing for me, right? I could do this. I eye my phone and consider calling Rey to have him talk me out of it, but I’m a grown ass woman, goddammit. It’s a rite of passage to pick up some meathead in a bar and fuck his brains out, and hells if I’ll be denied that, too.

  I freshen up my makeup, slide on my shoes, and take up my purse. I am going to go to a bar.

  *

  “Hey there, gorgeous.”

  I give the guy who’s sidled up to me the once-over.

  “Um, hi.”

&n
bsp; “Haven’t I seen you here before?” He’s grinning at me with too-white teeth. They glow even in the dim lighting of this place. He’s at least dressed well, suit and tie, but his hair is over-gelled. He must drive an expensive car to make up for other shortcomings.

  “No.”

  I don’t remember the last time I went to a bar. Ever? Clubs with Rey and Matty, endless parties with Hunter, but a bar? I’m still speculating when Skeeze-Face leans in too close, his swampy breath hot and moist in my ear. “Well, I’d like to see a lot more of you. All of you.”

  I roll my eyes and give him my best withering glare. He’s kind of a prick. You’d think the arrogance would be a turn-on, but it’s the opposite. Arrogance is only hot if you’ve got something to back it up, and this guy would leave me high and dry. Repeatedly.

  Swamp-Breath takes the hint and walks off with his beer, thank god. Why did I think this was a good idea again? Oh right, I’m desperate. Really fucking desperate. It’s been almost three months since Crispin ripped out my heart and stomped on it, and I still can’t shake the vague ache in my core.

  But a bar? How do regular people do this? I scan the crowd, and I know nothing about anyone in here. Where are the files, the pages upon pages of information that have been collated on the people I’m going to fuck? Where are the references, the assurances from friends and friends of friends and sometimes exes that the guy’s a safe player? That he doesn’t have a record a mile long and isn’t going to steal your car when he slinks out of your apartment in the morning? And who knows what the hell diseases these people have. I doubt they know. Jesus.

  People do this every day? This is crazy-making. And bordering on psychotic. How irresponsible! And they’re getting shit-faced as well. As far as I’m concerned, fucking drunk is as bad as driving drunk. These people are flat-out stupid and reckless. And last but not least, how do you know you both want the same thing—or near enough—without a contract, a checklist, or at least a candid conversation to tell you? Not that a piece of paper is a guarantee of compatibility, but at least you’re not throwing a dart at the fucking wall. Insanity, I tell you.