Power Bottom

by Jeremy Jenkins

  Then the atmosphere of the room shifted — I could feel it. There was this quiet holiness to the air as if we were suddenly in a sacred space.

  I read some of the sentences scrawling across the fabric. It was profoundly personal stuff that I would never have the courage to share with an audience.

  By the time I returned to my stool, I felt like I’d had some sort of emotional experience, some kind of bonding with Lily. It was like I had seen her naked; like I’d seen a glimpse of her naked heart.

  “Very good,” Professor King said after the class had taken a good look. She blinked a few times behind her red spectacles, then called out, “Ryan, you first.”

  The older guy at the far end of the half-moon of stools sat up straight and shifted uncomfortably.

  I knew he was called on to critique Lily’s piece; to rip it to shreds. But after the vulnerability she’d just shown us, it was almost impossible.

  I’m sure like me, the class was reeling from the emotional openness. Suddenly we all felt connected to the piece, to Lily, like she and her work was something precious.

  “I… uh,” Ryan stuttered. “It’s good.”

  “Very insightful,” the professor said dryly.

  A chorus of chuckles sounded throughout the classroom.

  “How can Lily improve her piece?” she pressed.

  “Uh… I don’t know,” Ryan admitted.

  “‘I don’t know’ is not an acceptable answer, Ryan. You’re not helping Lily by merely saying it’s 'good.'”

  I felt for Ryan. This was the trick of critique — at first, it seemed like the artist was the only one getting grilled, but in reality, the rest of the class was, too. We each had our turn in the hot seat, forced to give critical feedback.

  Ryan said some half-baked critique about the stitching on the arms, and I watched the professor purse her lips and take note of his response. That weak feedback would inevitably pull down his grade on this like a stone tied to his G.P.A.

  The feedback cycled around the room, and I was surprised that as the spotlight got closer to me, I didn’t feel my anxiety rearing its head. The monster stayed asleep.

  Maybe Adam was right. Maybe that session with Dr. Brinkman squeezed out most of the pus.

  “Luke,” the professor finally said.

  I snapped to attention. Unlike poor Ryan, I’d had time to think of a response.

  “The print is beautiful,” I started.

  Lily brightened.

  “It could be even better if you reduced some of the pleating that’s folding the words. In a way, it’s like the folds are hiding what you’re trying to say. There’s too much going on. Choose words or folds, not both.”

  “It’s meant to be partially hidden,” Lily fired back. “Because at any given time, even if we're emotionally open with someone else, there are parts of ourselves that we’re still hiding. When the garment moves, the folds shift so you only get fragments of sentences. Just like in an open conversation, you alternate between saying what you mean and meaning what you say. It’s all a trick we all do, meant to hide the most vulnerable parts of ourselves. It’s a shield — like fashion itself — against being naked.”

  Damn.

  I was lost for words. There was a quiet chorus of nods around the room.

  Lily… she was strong. Stronger than I first thought. Stronger than I was by a long shot.

  By the time the critique ran through all of the students, Professor King had stopped taking notes. The last few critiques were as weak as the first, because nobody had anything left to refute Lily’s piece.

  She’d laid herself emotionally bare in front of nine of her peers, and dared us to hit her in the heart with arrows. But I was surprised to see that none of them were strong enough to hit her.

  “This is precisely what critique is for,” the professor said, looking up at the class. “The secret to art — no, the secret to life, to getting through, is vulnerability. There’s strength in vulnerability. Did you see what just happened? Lily opened her veins up here and not a single one of you could properly criticize her work. That’s exactly how the fashion world works — as long as you’re honest and open, it gets harder and harder for critics to pull you down. Thank you, Lily.”

  She smiled proudly, then dragged her work back to her desk.

  I watched her go, feeling like I wanted to reach out and cultivate a friendship with her. But I was much too scared to do it… maybe if I stared at her from time to time, she’d come over and talk to me.

  All I knew was that I craved what she’d just shown to the class; I craved her emotional strength.

  And Dr. Brinkman had asked me about my friend group here in New York. My support network. The only names I was able to come up with were Adam and his cousin Laura, who also went to Parsons. Though, she was so busy in her senior year that I rarely saw her.

  Luckily, Lily pulled her stool close to mine.

  I watched as she sat on it, her platinum locks pouring over her shoulder. Even from here, she looked strong and sure of herself, like Daenerys Targaryen or something. I couldn’t help but feel a warm sensation of admiration for her.

  We sat side by side as the rest of the critiques unfolded in front of us.

  Before I knew it, it was my turn.

  Even though I loved critique, there was always a small flutter of nervousness that took hold within me before I started speaking. The fear always crested right at that instant; that moment when the other students’ eyes fell on my work for the first time. Though, I couldn’t tell if the sensation that flowed through me was nervousness or thrill.

  Maybe a little of both.

  I did my best to keep my eyes down as I pulled my mannequin to the front of the room, feeling the eyes of the class on me.

  Here I was, a skinny small-town gay kid with a love for the submissive side of BDSM, showing a class of strangers something inspired purely from my kink.

  Next to me on the mannequin was a bust of crimson-colored intricate ropes and knots, reminiscent of the Lightning Harness. The bright red ropes zigzagged down the front of the mannequin. Underneath was soft black, almost silk-like fabric that I’d woven into a series of flat braided patterns.

  The work-in-progress was a sight to behold. At least I thought so. But the cherry on top of the cake, and the thing I knew the audience would focus on the most, was the telltale sub collar on the mannequin’s neck. A large, shiny metal ring was looped into the black leather, and it sucked in the eye like a magnet.

  There was murmuring throughout the classroom as some of the students shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

  I felt heat flood into my cheeks as the professor cut me with her gaze. “Description?”

  The words tumbled out of me, following the pattern of practice. I’d practiced giving this description to Adam at least five times last night, and despite how many times he assured me it was good, I was convinced it was terrible.

  My classmates’ eyes were like the tips of guns, waiting to shoot me down with their criticisms.

  I took a deep breath, willing to separate my work from my ego, then dove right in.

  “My work is about exploring the taboo.”

  Several students leaned forward on their stools, their interest piqued.

  I clicked the remote in my hand, and the projector nearby flickered to life. I’d slid The Fool card from my deck on top of the glass, and now its ancient design was dancing on the wall behind me.

  “I’ve combined Tarot — something that used to be taboo, with a taboo that’s becoming more and more mainstream: BDSM.”

  I drew in a rattling breath, feeling the seeds of my anxiety begin to quiver. But I was still coasting on the inspiration from Lily’s presentation. If she could lay herself open like that, so could I.

  She was smiling sweetly from the back of the class, watching me with a keen interest.

  “BDSM is about playing with power. It’s about the illusion of giving up the power you have and letting someone else play with i
t for a while. It’s about being tied up or tying someone up, but also the freedom that it lets you explore.”

  Surprisingly, my voice was getting steadier and steadier the more words left my mouth. I liked this — educating the world about the kink. BDSM was the subject most of my thoughts spent the majority of their time hanging out in, anyway. It felt good to open up a part of myself to the world like this, to share a piece of me with others.

  “This piece next to me is based on The Fool card, as you can see on the wall behind me. Tarot cards are symbols of a story called The Fool’s Journey. And the Fool itself represents newness and naiveté. I wanted to combine that naiveté with elements of the BDSM kink. Innocence with naughtiness. The beauty that’s at the beginning of a journey — the beauty of getting to discover something taboo for the first time.”

  I closed my mouth, realizing that my description was much too long. Though no one had stopped me. The class was all leaning forward, listening on the edges of their seats.

  Many cheeks flushed with color.

  I smiled nervously, but I hoped it came across as a confident grin.

  “Excellent, Luke,” Professor King said, making a note on her notepad.

  She seemed utterly unaffected by the sexual nature of my piece, which filled me with a sensation of relief.

  My eyes fell on Lily sitting at the back. Her face was beet-red.

  Then the smallest suspicion took root within me: Was she involved in the community?

  Before I could explore that thought any further, the professor began calling on students to give me critique.

  Like Lily’s presentation, I barely got any critical feedback on my work. It was mostly positive, or maybe the students were afraid to say anything.

  Once the last person uttered something about wishing there were more studs in my piece, the professor gave another speech.

  “Exploring the taboo is essential to art. It pushes the boundaries of what society considers normal, somewhat like a PhD pushes the bounds of human knowledge. Art is a magnificent medium in that way, especially through exploring the taboo, because it can cut through societal expectations like kicking a hole through drywall. You want to create things that shock people. You want to create things that make them feel uncomfortable, because that forces them to confront why it makes them feel that way. Luke, you did a good job of that here, but in the future, I need you to push even more into the taboo. Explore. Show us this world inside your head. This piece in front of us is good, but you’re playing it safe.”

  I felt like all the wind was taken out of my sails. I’d been coasting on the lack of criticism, thinking my work was finally good enough.

  But here the professor was, poking holes in my confidence.

  I sulked back to my stool next to Lily.

  “I thought it was fantastic,” she whispered next to me. “I’m Lily, by the way. I don’t think I’ve ever talked to you before.”

  She extended a porcelain hand, and I shook it, feeling excitement and nervousness eat at me. Was this what it was like? Making a friend?

  I was confident that I would somehow find a way to screw it up.

  A few seconds of silence ticked by, and then she asked me in a low whisper, “Are you part of the community here?”

  I paused, not knowing what she meant at first.

  She saw my expression and then clarified, “You know, part of the kink community.”

  I jumped a little and took a quick sweep around. All of the students were bustling about, preparing for the next critique. No one was listening to us.

  “Not yet,” I said. “My partner and I were supposed to go to a munch a little while ago, but then we chickened out.”

  She nodded slowly. “That’s fair. They can be a little… intimidating if you haven’t been to one before. But everyone there is really nice. My partner and I go to the munches all the time. The next one we’re going to is this Sunday. Do you plan on coming?”

  Excitement swelled within me. “Uh… maybe, I’ll have to check with my partner.”

  “It’s just like any other social event. Only the people there don’t talk about their jobs or their promotions or anything boring like that. They talk about kink. You might get some ideas for what to create next in your excellent collection.”

  I smiled a little, feeling the warm waves of something I’d been missing for a long time: Genuine friendship.

  Though, part of me was freaking out a little, afraid that I would say the wrong thing and stomp on this small, fragile green stem poking out of the ground.

  My thoughts began to whirl like an unstoppable engine, and then a question tumbled out of my mouth without permission.

  “Are you a Dom or a sub?” I asked in a hushed voice.

  “What?”

  “Uh, never mind, that was rude.”

  “No, it’s no big deal,” she said. “You just caught me a little off-guard, that’s all. I’m a sub— it’s the only way to be.”

  “Oh my God, me too!” I almost shouted, excitement at finding a fellow “freak” like me out in the real world. Finally, I had someone to talk to about this. Finally, I could share my secret.

  Just like that, I felt the invisible weight that had been hanging on my shoulders begin to lift a little.

  Lily tilted her head to the side, her nearly white locks shimmering in the morning sun. “Do you think there’s a fire nearby or something? There are so many sirens this morning…”

  And for the first time during the class period, I noticed the wail of a siren. With all the excitement of showing off what I had created, keeping track of everyone else’s presentations, and befriending Lily, I didn’t even notice.

  Adam

  Whenever I got home and Luke wasn’t there yet, I usually took a few minutes to myself to decompress, relax, and get the day off of me. It was essential to keeping my two lives — my dangerous cop life and my love life with Luke — separated. I didn’t want the stress of my job to pollute the heaven we had here.

  I had just sank on the buttery leather couch after a long day when my phone began to buzz.

  There was always a small glimmer of hope that sparkled within me when that happened, hoping it was Luke. This time, I felt bad that I was a little disappointed that the name which appeared on the screen was my brother, Jake’s.

  “Hey man,” I greeted, trying to keep the reluctance out of my voice.

  “Hey, Adam! Long-time no talk. It’s like you disappeared off the face of the earth, man!”

  I re-crossed my legs, my heels resting on the coffee table. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, sounds like it. I’ve been watching the news.”

  “Oh, so you know about all that,” I said, pushing my tongue against the side of my cheek. I wondered how I could steer him away from this conversation…

  But this was my nosy brother. If he ever sensed something interesting, he’d latch onto it like a bloodhound.

  “Find any cool evidence?”

  The silver stud flashed in my memory. “You know I can’t discuss work with you.”

  “Ah, that’s no fun, man!”

  “Did you just call me for gossip?” I asked gruffly.

  Surely my parents had been asking about me — it had been a while since I’d talked to my mother. She was probably prodding Jake to shake me down for life updates.

  “No, just wanted to see how you were doing,” he said a little overly-cheerful, even for Jake.

  There was a pause.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he said in a voice two octaves higher than his usual tone.

  I decided to let it pass, but there was something on his mind.

  “You and Sarah still coming to visit next week?”

  He was silent for a beat. That had to be it.

  “Look, uh… about that.”

  “Oh no, Jake, what happened?” I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose. My first thought was how Luke would react to it — would he
be happier or worried that Jake was no longer dating his mother?

  The answer arrived swiftly: Worried. Luke was always worried.

  “Well… you know Sarah's bipolar,” Jake said, his voice tight.

  “I know,” I said, thinking of all of the times I had to rescue Luke from his house back in that small town. How he described the times when she’d turn into Scary Mom.

  “She had an outburst towards me. It was… I was scared, man. She had a knife.”

  My hand went to my neck, and I felt the scaly roughness of the smaller bandage under my palm. The way that woman’s eyes looked in that room when Claire and I had stormed that house… that was how Luke’s eyes looked when he yelled at me the other night.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked quickly, feeling my heart begin to race.

  “No… she was just cutting vegetables when it happened,” he said. “She was still holding onto it, and she didn’t threaten me or anything. But I… I didn’t feel safe, dude.”

  “When did this happen?” I asked, sitting up straight.

  “Two days ago.”

  “And you waited until now to tell me?” I asked, running my hand through my hair.

  “Dude, I didn’t know who I could tell! I didn’t know how to help her! After her outburst, she dropped the knife to the floor, and it stuck in the wood. Then she started crying.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked, hearing myself interrogate my brother with my cop voice.

  “She’s in the psych ward. She wanted to go there — I drove her.”

  A few heartbeats passed as I tried to assess what to do.

  “She told me not to tell you because you’d tell Luke,” he said. “She doesn’t want him to know.”

  “He has to know. She’s his mother!”

  “On the way to the hospital, she had her face in her hands and kept repeating, ‘Don’t tell Adam, don’t tell Adam,’ so I didn’t. But then I had to let you know that we wouldn’t be visiting you guys.”