Want to Come Undone?

Part One: Elesea in Dreams

I hurl the can against the canvas out of frustration, splashing blood red paint against the floor and walls, crime scene style. Fuck it. I need to check myself, so stop to roll a joint. No one smokes joints anymore, which is a shame. The ritual of rolling a joint is nearly as relaxing as the joint itself. I haven’t been able to paint anything in weeks, and I’m getting irritated. I need something more aggro, so switch out Cocteau Twins Pink Opaque for The Damned’s Neat Neat Neat. I briefly consider going next door to see if my neighbor has any blow, but decide to pop open another energy drink instead. Funny, all the sugar and additives in this gut rotting beverage are arguably worse for my body than a bump of coke. But nevermind that. How do I shake this creative block?

I decide to abandon the project and take my joint down to the waterfront. That always calms me. It’s turning out to be a gorgeous day, despite yesterday’s thunderstorms. Or maybe because of them. I often produce my best work in the wake of turmoil, so I get it, I tell the universe. I find a place on the seawall to sit and extract my earbuds so I can hear the sound of the waves crashing into the pilings. My Piscean nature compels me to the water when I need to self-soothe. I spark my joint and watch the sun gleam on the water, listening to the waves roar as the ocean exhales them onto the shore before inhaling them back into her depths once more. Slowly, the frustration begins to ebb.

I inhale deeply, filling my lungs and holding my breath at the top. I count to seven before releasing fully through my mouth. After a few more rounds, the frustration all but abates. I need to take this feeling with me back to the loft. That’s the problem. It’s easy to ground and get zen while I’m sitting here, near the ocean. But then something always comes along to fuck me up again. I suppose that’s how life is in the Olde Town for many people. We’re all scouring the city for these precious, borrowed moments of tranquility; cleaving to them for as long as possible before the city methodically steals them back. The city is brutal. I never expected to stay here, especially after my mother and brother were killed in a partisan rebellion. But then I found my chosen family, joined the underground collective, opened The Diner, and. Well, here I remain. I suppose it’s as close to home as anything else I’ve ever known.

I don’t want to abandon this moment. Why is serenity so difficult to hold onto? I sigh deeply as I look at my watch. I’m sure Owen is fine at The Diner alone, but he always gets nervous if I don’t make an appearance by late afternoon. It’s understandable; danger lurks like a beast of prey in every gangway of the Olde Towne. You never know when the Sweepers will strike, and I’m mouthy enough to get pinched by a Sweeper who’s feeling particularly self-righteous. Technically, The Diner is on neutral ground, at least in tacit terms. But, as an outspoken female, I can’t be too careful. Non-white men are simply shot or thrown over the wall. Women, on the other hand. Better not think about that. Nothing will push me from my zen place faster.

I finish with seven more rounds of breathing, scanning each chakra along the way. My third eye chakra and pineal gland are ablaze. This baffles me because my third eye chakra is my creative center. If it’s so damned active, why can’t I paint? I scan again. My root and sacral chakras feel slightly misaligned. This gives me pause. The root chakra is all about security, safety, and feeling grounded. Am I blocked because I’m worried that something sinister is about to go down? Of course, there's another possible interpretation: the sacral chakra signifies sexual desire. I hate to admit it, but I’ve been feeling pretty ungrounded since Naddy unexpectedly cut ties.

Whatever, doesn’t matter, I tell myself as I stand and stretch. I mean, yeah, I thought we were clicking, even though we only dated for a couple months. We undeniably had a lot of mind blowing sex, but we didn’t spend all of our time in bed. Many nights, we talked for hours. If I’m honest, I thought we were both catching feels. I do have the tendency to over romanticize things, and Naddy is an unapologetic cad. Still. Her absence underscores how special, how seen, I felt in her presence. I check myself. No, I honestly don’t think I had expectations or attachment to any particular outcome. I think I’m just annoyed at being so abruptly and summarily ghosted. I feel like I deserved at least a Well, that was swell, but the swelling’s gone down, so I’m gonna bounce. Or something.

I try to shake it off. It is what it is. Nothing I can do to alter the circumstances. I take a few more grounding breaths before I leave. I hope like hell everyone will simply Namaste the hell away from me on my walk through the Olde Towne to The Diner. It’s quitting time Uptown, so the OT will soon be flooded with sex tourists and pleasure seekers of all walks, especially considering it’s Friday. Crap, I’d better get moving. Owen’s a fine cook, but his neurodivergence doesn't lend itself to people skills. Plus, this misaligned root chakra business has notched up my spidey senses. Better to be at The Diner if things do go sideways.

I stick to the waterfront as long as possible, but I’m eventually forced to move through the more densely populated area of the OT. Three Uptown men are walking in front of me, talking loudly and occupying too much space. I roll my eyes and take a deep breath. I’m trying to stay zen here, can everyone fuck off a little? I’m waiting for them to get distracted so I can pass unmolested. I’m still wearing my paint splattered coveralls, which aren’t very flattering. Hopefully that helps. As luck has it, a man from the docks with a wide, shark toothy grin waves and calls to the Uptowners in front of me. They excitedly trot off to get a piece of Mr. Shark Grin’s action. I hope they don’t make their way to The Diner, but realize it’s an unfortunately grim possibility. I shrug it off and seize my opportunity to make it to the safety of The Diner.

I don’t know if I’ve spooked myself, or if there really is a particularly odious evil afoot, but I shift into hypervigilance mode as I dodge and weave my way up the hill. I arrive just in time. It’s busier than usual and Owen is on the brink of a meltdown. He darts from the kitchen, grabs me by the shoulders, and pulls me in for a hug the moment he sees me. He’s not one for physical touch, so I know something is way off kilter. Damnit. I hate being right about the wrong things. When I ask him what’s up, he has some difficulty articulating, but nods to the table in the far left corner. Sweepers. It’s clear by their cheap suits and space they occupy. Their sense of entitlement is so turgid it permeates The Diner.

I look around and sense that a few of the patrons want to get the hell out of dodge. But my regulars are stubbornly planted, ready to throw down, Stonewall style if need be. They’ve got nothing to lose. The odds don’t matter anymore. They nod and wink in support as I survey the sitch. These are my people. And they’ve got my six, whatever may come. My heart swells with pride. I love my chosen family. And I love being a part of the rebellion. It’s times like this when all uncertainty fades away; this is where I am supposed to be. Whatever that means, for whatever it’s worth. It must be worth something.

The Sweepers immediately start barking orders at me from across the room. I already want to punch the loudest of the three in the face. Namaste, motherfuckers. I motion at my coveralls and hitch my thumb toward the back of The Diner, indicating I need to change, but will return in a jiffy. One of them grunts in disapproval, another grumbles something about the help, and the last makes a particularly inflammatory remark about needing to keep my kind in check. It’s hardly the first time I’ve dealt with this, but it’s increasingly difficult with every passing encounter. That’s what they want, I remind myself; to rattle us, to keep us in fear, living on our knees. Fuck. That. I think defiantly as I head back to change into my uniform. I’d much rather die on my feet than live on my knees.

I pop a xanax and a weed gummy before I head back to deal with the shit show. One of them tells me I clean up real nice, for a lesbian. Un. Believe. Able. So we’re playing like that, straight out the gate? Smiling with dead eyes, I ask what I can get them to eat. I try to word it carefully, to avoid invitations, but they find a way to work in: Are you on the menu? I vomit in my mouth a little.

Miraculously, I am able to maintain my plastic smile as I swallow the bile and reply, “I’m not on the menu, I create the menu. I’m the owner.”

But they already know that, they’re Sweepers. It’s their business to know who owns what in the OT. I tell them I’ll give them a minute longer to decide, then turn to leave.

The guy among them most bloated by poor diet and privilege isn’t having it, “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you. Bitch.”

There’s an audible intake of breath, followed by tomblike silence from the other patrons. Snap, one of my most fiercely protective regulars, raises an eyebrow. He’s ready to cut a bitch, even at the expense of his own life. But that’s too high a price. I won’t allow it. I nod slightly, letting him know he can stand down for now, but remain on the ready. The tension in the dinner is palpable.

“I’m sorry. I think you misread my name tag. It’s Elle. You know, like the letter,” I trace an L in the air with my finger.

The guy looks like he’s about to burst at his bloated seams when I add, “It’s ok, no worries. Words are hard. I understand.” My saccharine sweet tone confuses him.

While he tries to work out whether or not he’s being mocked, I turn and walk away, calling over my shoulder, “Be right back with some coffee.”

I’m walking a thin line, I remind myself. Except.

Except I’m not certain I care anymore. I’m fucking tired of their intimidation tactics. I know what will happen to me if they take me alive. Has it come to that? I wonder. I walk back to get the coffee and immediately notice that Owen has switched to military mode. He was a ranger in the special forces, a lifetime ago. He’s a trained assassin, prepared to go out in a hail of gunfire to protect his tribe. He lifts the back of his apron so I can see he’s packing. If the Sweepers so much as lay a finger on me, they're dead men. That won’t be the end of it, though. It will only be the beginning. But that’s where we are.

I take deep breaths while I wait on other customers. I want to reassure them that everything is going to be fine, but I also want to let the Sweepers know I’m not intimidated. And I’m certainly not going to respond to Bitch. They can suck my dick. The Sweepers are growing agitated. They’re intentionally talking loudly enough to be heard from across The Diner about how women are meant to serve men and raise their children. Typical inflammatory Sweeper rhetoric. I reluctantly head back. I want to pour steaming hot coffee right onto their crotches. If I do that, they’ll assuredly attempt to haul me off. Here and now.

Owen will get his gun, Snap his knife and, if any of us make it out alive, our days will be seriously numbered. The Sweepers will launch a full scale raid, hitting not only The Diner, but the docks, the underground, even the art loft. It’s too many potential casualties to contemplate. I can’t have that much blood on my hands. I realize that I’m standing there motionless, coffee carafe in hand. One of them is saying something, but his words are muffled by the blood rushing to my head. It’s all I can do to bury my rage. I want to eviscerate them. I am trying to focus on my breath. I can’t ground myself. My hands are trembling.

“Hey! Are you stupid too? You’ve got one fucking job to do. You forget how to pour coffee?"

I can feel the diners holding their breath. The moment is fraught with tension; a powder keg ready to ignite. Goddess forbid anyone strike a match.

I pour the coffee onto his crotch and, as he shrieks like an absolute girl in agony and disbelief, I smash the carafe into the second guy's skull, then use the broken glass of it to slit the third guy’s throat.

I shake the fantasy from my head.

“Hello? I said pour me a cup of coffee. Now, Bitch.”

I try to steady my hand as I pour coffee into his cup. I am seething with rage. I’ve heard that expression before, but finally understand it. Intimately.

“There you go. Was that so hard?” He asks. And then he leans over and smacks my ass.

Owen jumps over the counter and is halfway across The Diner when, like a hero from a Marvel movie, in walks Sydney. I almost visibly sigh with relief, but I can’t blow his cover. He’s been working his way through the ranks of Uptown as our covert for months, and we need him to stay embedded. I have literally never been happier to see him in my life. Fortunately, Sydney is a super quick study, reads the room, and calls to the Sweepers excitedly.

“Hey, guys what’s up?” He doesn’t give them a chance to answer. Sydney is even more protective of our underground family than Owen and Snap.

“You gotta come see this. There’s a pop-up sex show on the docks. They’re picking guys from the audience and taking requests. Shit’s getting real!”

The Sweepers are all in. They gather their cheap suit jackets and spring into action.

The most cantankerous of the bunch makes eye contact with me as he says, “Let’s go have some fun, guys. Service here is shit anyway.”

And with that, they’re off. The Diner heaves a collective sigh of relief. I doubt there’s a pop up sex show on the docks, and I am not really sure how Sydney is going to field that, but I trust he’ll work it out. Owen approaches to ask if I’m ok. He was ready to kill them all, I can see it in eyes. He would have eliminated all three before the first guy’s body hit the floor. Snap comes to lay a gentle hand on my shoulder in support.

I can feel it now: we’re on the precipice of another bloody revolution.

A few hours later, Sydney returns to tell me it’s all been taken care of. I don’t ask questions. He insists on walking me home. I don’t protest, but tell him that I want to go to the loft instead. I’m suddenly feeling inspired. Sydney isn’t an artist, but knows most of the people in the loft. He says he wants to catch up with a couple friends while I paint. He offers to walk me home later if he’s still around when I’m done. I don’t decline, but forewarn him it could be a while. He copies that and takes off to do his own thing. I am immensely grateful for him, for all of my people.

I rip a couple of bong tokes and put on Love’s Secret Domain by Coil as I mix my paints. I work furiously for hours, completely losing track of time. I’m not typically much of a portrait artist but, after I’ve filled two canvases, I stop to admire my work. The first canvas is a depiction of The Diner. Owen is bopping around in his headphones while cooking. Snap is sitting at the bar with three of his ladies, laughing joyfully. A few other regulars litter the background, everyone eating and talking amiably. Comfortably. As if they don’t have a care in the world. As if they aren’t anticipating a scene like the one today to erupt into bedlam at any given moment.

The second canvas is a depiction of Tangos, the underground French bistro that hangs a lot of my art. Antoine is serving customers plates of delicious-looking food, his kind, round face smiling widely. Like it’s Paris in spring. Once upon a time, we took nights like the one depicted in the painting for granted. People in the OT don’t take anything for granted anymore. Moments like these, with friends, with family, are all we have left. If we let our oppressors take these moments from us, they truly win.

Observing the paintings, I realize The Diner and Tango’s are inconsequential. These places aren’t my home. These people are my home. That’s what home is: your people, your tribe. I look down. One empty canvas remains. It’s primed and ready. Love’s Secret Domain is on repeat, and circles back to the first track. I pick up the canvas and place it on the easel. I knew the story wasn’t finished, but I wasn’t sure how it ended. Until now. I start painting with abandon, surrendering to the vision. It’s come to me in dreams, several times now. I know why I have resisted it, but I no longer can.

Right on cue, the titular track of the album begins playing.

In dreams, I’ll walk with you. In dreams, I’ll talk with you. In dreams you are mine. All of the time.

I finish, breathless, spent, and stand back to contemplate her likeness. The severe black bob that frames her exquisite, strong jawline. Her long, delicate neck and jutting clavicles. The mischievous glint in her dark, green-gray eyes. Her Mona Lisa smirk that always makes me feel like the secrets of the universe will spill through her full lips right into the depths of me. I can’t deny it. That wasn’t merely a fling. Naddy left to do whatever it was she needs to do, but she’ll return. We didn’t meet by accident. Naddy is part of my tribe. We are inexorably linked. That’s how the story ends. More importantly, that’s how it begins.

“Come back Naddy,” I whisper to her likeness, to the universe, to her. Somehow, I know she can hear me.

“Wherever you are. Whenever you’re ready. I’m here. Come home.”

Interlude: Submission

Naddy's reason for frequenting the OT was twofold: she could be herself, and she could be with Elle. Her flat, day job, and primary side hustles were Uptown. She didn’t even need to go to the OT to get drugs. She knew which bodega owners were OT implants and allies. But something was stirring inside with ambivalent unfamiliarity. Naddy was typically decisive to the point of impatience. She knew what she wanted, and was often resentful of having to wait for the world to catch up. She was aware that she had intimacy issues, and that Elle had gotten to her in ways no one else ever had. Because Elle had gotten her. Rather, Elle had gotten the parts that she’d been able to share. But then, there were always things. Just. Below. The surface. Weren’t there?

Her secret self. Certain proclivities she hadn’t worked up the courage to divulge. It wasn’t that she was ashamed, rather she’d grown so accustomed to compartmentalizing that she no longer knew how to integrate. Or if she truly wanted to. Naddy was fiercely private and autonomous, while Elle was far more community oriented. Elle lived alone, but was often in the company of her employees, fellow artists, and various comrades in the OT resistance.

Elesea refused to play by Uptown rules, whereas Naddy had embedded herself Uptown in order to tear it down from the inside out. Same agenda, different methodologies. Naddy considered it advantageous: the patriarchy was a malignant beast that needed to be attacked from all sides. Elle’s OT rebellion would prove invaluable when the inevitable came to pass.

For the first in a long time, Naddy found herself at odds with her dualistic nature. She’d monetized her sexual kinks and, in so doing, had nearly convinced herself that she was strictly play for pay. Her alternate personas were healthy outlets. She recognized that. But spending more time with, and catching feels for Elle had sparked an epiphany: people could be more than one thing.

It sounded trite, she loathed to admit. The type of kink play that she enjoyed, the different ways she elected to express her gender, those weren’t facets of herself; they were a sum greater than their parts. In simplest terms, even if she weren’t considering a relationship with Elle, it was time to embrace her authentic self. For herself. She couldn’t keep compartmentalizing and lurking in the shadows. She’d done too much of that in her youth and young adulthood. Naddy was no longer a hapless observer of her life; she was the author of it. She controlled the narrative. If Elle was unable to accept all of her, Naddy would have to cut her loose.

She didn’t want that. She wanted to be with Elle. If she were totally honest, their relationship felt. Fated? She felt a peace with Elle she’d never before known. But Naddy didn’t believe in fate. She believed in manifesting her own destiny. She was the captain of her pain.

Naddy knew she didn’t owe anyone an explanation of her whereabouts or dealings, but felt a slight guilt pang heading to the OT without stopping by The Diner to see Elle. Arguably, she was far enough away from The Diner or Elle’s flat to be spotted. But that was precisely the point: she shouldn’t care whether or not she was spotted. What she did was her own business, and she was open for business. She needed to bring her inner demons to light in the only way that made sense. She donned her pin striped suit, knocked back a percocet and a valium with a couple shots of tequila, and headed to the kink club.

She’d been there several times, but something about tonight felt different. She couldn’t quite articulate it but, as much as she wanted to pull herself together, she wanted to come undone.

Part Two: Samanatha in the Red Dress?

If I don’t try, I’ll never know. And that’d be a fate far worse than whatever humiliation might potentially await me. I want to be dominated, and so few women are able to rise to the occasion. Do I really have to wear a slinky red dress in order to find a top? Or am I clinging to antiquated notions of dominant/submissive roles? As I color my lips matte red, I wonder when I became more androgynous than feminine. When was the last time I wore lipstick? Or a dress? What exactly am I getting myself into? Do I really want to enter a kink club as a submissive? More importantly, should I wear fishnets or silk thigh highs? I stand and admire myself in the vanity mirror. Gender performance is tricky, but I have to admit: I look hot as femme presenting. Heads are definitely going to turn. Hopefully, they won’t roll. Silk stockings, I decide.

The patrons of the club are fairly well vetted. Potentials have to be referred by current members. Your name has to be on the list and, if you show up alone, you have to arrive before 10. I’m not exactly sure why, but suspect it has to do with their limited consumption policy. The later it gets, the more likely people are to turn up intoxicated. I call a car that arrives too quickly, so hurriedly hit the bong and knock back a xanax with some gin before racing downstairs. I try to let go of expectations; it's just another game of cat and mouse. Besides, expectations are invitations to disappointments.

I don’t give the driver the exact address, rather I have him drop me off at the gas station around the corner. In all likelihood he knows the score, especially given my attire. Fortunately, he’s either oblivious or disinterested. The night air is crisp and the city sounds farther away than I’d imagined. I should have worn the chunkier heels, I think, as I attempt making my way up the graveled drive. Stiletto boots? What was I thinking? Maybe I’ll find a top with a shoe fetish. Who knows? I realize I’m game for just about anything. But, seriously, who gravels a driveway? So annoying!

I pause to pull a rock from my shoe and briefly contemplate abandoning the entire mission, but the doorguy spots me. Somehow, now that I’ve been made, the gig is up. It’s real. It’s go time. I straighten my silk stockings with careful consideration. I don’t want the doorguy to detect my apprehension. Also, there’s something inexpressibly confident about a woman who stops to straighten her stockings. Call me crazy, but it’s true.

I stiletto shimmy my way into the club to the dulcet tones of Thrill Kill Kult’s Waiting for Mommie. The bartender is a self-ascribed leather dyke and offers to take me home if I don't find what I’m looking for. I’ll consider it. I have no genuine interest in her, but there doesn’t appear to be much else going on. I look around. The decor lacks overall cohesion, but isn’t combative: a light blue, oversized chair here, a chartreuse loveseat there. It could be garish, yet somehow manages an understated elegance.

There are two people sitting at the far end of the room on a beige sofa; a binary-appearing dominant/submissive couple. The dom is clad in a leather vest and pants. He’s sporting a handlebar mustache, and I’m not sure where the hair on his chest ends and the open vest begins. If he were wearing a leather biker cap, he’d be a dead ringer for that one Village Person. The submissive is so effeminate I do a double take. They’re probably trans or non-binary but, for a hot minute, I wonder if they’re a cis-gendered woman. Their long blonde hair cascades over a powder blue, ostrich feather boa and translucent white tank top. It’s a bit too on the nose for my taste, but werk it gurl! I shrug.

I sit on one of the chartreuse loveseats adjacent to the couple in order to eavesdrop. I'm fairly certain their convo is playing out like a cheesy 80’s porn, so can’t help myself. Also, it’s a great vantage point; I can see the entire club. I sip my gin and tonic and wince. The bartender must have poured me a solid three fingers of Beefeater. I’m trying to catch snippets of the couple’s convo but it’s all grunting and lisping, so I turn my attention to the other three dom, male-presenting people in the opposite corner. They’re cooling themselves with handheld fans and decided nonchalance. They must have rock-paper-scissored for who got dibs on the pretty blonde. Guess the bear in the hair vest threw the winning rock.

The dom and their toy get up to head toward the playrooms and, as they pass, I notice the submissive toy, who’s wearing more makeup than I am, is boasting an impressive bulge in their impossibly tight booty shorts. Whether trans or non-binary, they definitely possess male anatomy. Dang, gurl, I don’t need to know your religion, I almost blurt. I check myself and look away, wondering if this is really where I want to be. But the music is good, so I figure I’ll hang out long enough to down my nuclear gin and tonic. Maybe once I finish my drink I’ll reconsider the bartender’s offer.

I'm thinking about how I could definitely go for an indica weed gummy to calm my nerves when it happens: She walks in. To say that she commands attention is a massive understatement. Fuck, even the fanboys in the corner gasp and turn head. She’s. Stunning. She’s six feet tall if she’s an inch, never mind the four inch heels. She’s wearing a suit so finely tailored mannequins world wide would be envious. The French cuffs and collar of her silk shirt pop bright white against the charcoal gray of her blazer. The flared lapels and snatched waistline are impeccable. I find myself wondering if my curvaceousness is somehow indiscrete. She’s lithe and taught, leaving me fraught, wondering if I ought not. But we both know I will.

Every move she makes is as calculated as it is unguarded. She glances at me before moving purposefully to the bar. I know if she approaches - when she approaches - I need to follow protocol to the letter, or I’ll spend the rest of my days as tightly swathed in regret as she is in that pinstriped suit. When she turns and winks at me, angels sing in heavenly choir and Jesus weeps, last temptation style. I tell myself I got this, despite the fanboys punctuating my anxiety with sharp inhalations. Thanks, guys. I really want my first experience as a sub in a kink club scored by exaggerated gasps and synchronized fan thwapping.

She Takes. Her. Time. Saddling up to the bar. She orders a whiskey, neat. Whiskey drinking women both arouse and intimidate me, so that checks out. Suddenly, my gin and tonic, no matter how stiffly poured, seems gauche and sorority girl. May as well have ordered a vodka redbull, I chastise myself. The woman leans over and whispers something in the bartender's ear, causing her to nod and plop a cherry into the glass of whiskey. Sharp inhalations and rapid fan work from the corner boys. I glance over. They are literally clutching one another in anticipation. I cue up quickly. It’s on. She’s coming for me.

When she turns and makes eye contact, I'm not the only other person in the bar: I am the only other person in the universe. I’ve been prepping tirelessly for the past week with the friend who referred me. Make eye contact, then look down demurely. Play it cool and coy, dumbass. But she’s so stunning; the quintessential study of androgyny as female presenting. Her severe blue-black bob is as carefully curated and tailored as that damn suit. It should seem conspicuously overworked, yet there is something about her that’s surprisingly disarming.

Even if I’m the hundredth victim to fall prey, I am willingly sacrificial. She sits next to me and the energy exchanged is white hot. She downs half the whiskey, then offers me the remainder, cup extended between elegant, tapered fingers. The cherry is somehow significant. It takes me a beat to realize it’s the acknowledgment of consent. It’s so obvious I nearly laugh: she wants me to offer her my cherry. I knock back the drink with more aplomb than I feel. The whiskey burns a warm path down my eager throat as I push the cherry, stem forward, with my tongue. I place the cool, round body of the cherry between my lips, stem protruding, while maintaining my downward gaze. Demurely, damnit.

She places a hand under my chin, pushing it upward. Novice I am, I immediately break protocol and make eye contact. She traps my gaze. Her neck is exquisitely outstretched; blue veins pulsating with desire under pale white skin, cheekbones accentuated by clenched jaw. With her teeth, she pulls the cherry from my mouth in slow motion, allowing it to sway between parted lips. The sharp inhalations and aggressive fan thwapping abruptly cease. The entire universe is holding its breath.

Instinctively, I realize what I am meant to do. I drop from the loveseat to my knees. She nods in subtle approval. She bends at the waist, offering the cherry. I bite the fruit, allowing its juice to trickle down my chin and throat unchecked. Her tongue moves in one deft motion as she laps the juice from the hollow of my neck to my lips. With this, I know my fate is sealed. She’ll be the end of me. Strange, how naturally I embrace annihilation.

As our lips meet, I know that I will give myself to her in any manner she requests. She pulls back, eyes me curiously, and asks my name. To my chagrin, I am so rattled I forget my name. I even forget how to breathe. I’m desperately hooked. She whispers it’s ok, it’s her first time too. I know she’s lying, but it’s oddly reassuring nonetheless. Her voice is even sexier than I imagined, a sandpaper lullaby. She smells like amber and musk. Dragon’s blood maybe. Something sensual and earthy. Her voice hits the same frequency as a cat’s purr; therapeutically hypnotic. Her eyes draw me into their depths, conspiratorially. I want to come undone.

I tell her people call me Sam. She winks and introduces herself as Naddy. There is a collective exhale from the corner boys as their fans thwap in gay panic. I pick up the vibe they’re throwing down: Naddy is no stranger to this. Duh, thanks guys; eye roll emoji. I can’t help but wonder: if they’ve witnessed her picking up countless subs, why is this interaction so riveting? Then again, there’s nothing else going on, and us gays arguably love drama. Later, the fanboys will kiki about how they saw this whole thing go down. Hot goss!

I realize I’m merely sitting, watching her mouth move as she speaks. I’m entranced by the sound of her voice, the way she wraps her lips around her words, visibly constricting her throat as she expels her words in measured tempo. The control she exudes is masterful; she is divinely withholding. I can’t make sense of the actual words, but I’m clinging to every syllable spilling from her full lips. Her voice is a rapturous vibration that emanates from her sacral chakra, shooting through her throat chakra and into the depths of me. It’s an amount of control that I’m unable to command, even on my best days. I’m quietly awed.

She asks if I want to take a ride with her. My body’s response is axiomatic. The fanboys begin their fervent thwaping before I’m even on my feet. Wherever she leads, I will follow. The club discourages patrons from leaving the premises for safety measures, but it’s not grounds for expulsion. Really, it doesn’t matter because I’m with Naddy, and she is beyond reproach. Her command of every action and reaction is probably the hottest thing I have ever witnessed. Whatever happens, I am fully given to this moment.

We stop at the bar on our way out and Naddy slides the bartender a generous tip. The bartender obediently averts her gaze as she thanks Naddy, and I get the picture. I even get the frame. On a slow night, much like tonight, the top-masculine bartender found herself on the receiving end of Naddy’s charms. Perhaps even her riding crop. We exit the bar awash with catcalls of admiration from the fanboys. Naddy is a gay icon. Legend. They yass and snap in approval as she leads me past; trophy-like, I notice. And that’s how it feels to move through the world with Naddy; strutting past a milieu of people and things inconsequential in comparison.

Still, I don’t get the impression that she views herself as superior to the world, rather, that she’s writing her own script. How fantastically liberating that must be! I marvel as she leads me to her Chevy. She opens the moonroof and I can make out Mars and Venus in the fathomless sky, eternally caught in their cosmic dance. I can feel the stardust, the elements from which I’m composed, swirling inside me. Ordered chaos. The cosmos within. Life happening through me. I am part of the universe. I am my own universe.

Tonight, I will submit. All of life is an act of submission, I conclude. There’s no such thing as control, there is only surrender. I admire her profile as we soar through traffic lights and spacetime; any sense of self I thought I had rapidly growing as distant as the kink club we’re speeding away from. Or the unknown we’re racing toward. I have never felt so blissfully empty. I have never felt so blissfully whole. Our destination is unknown, but I feel like I’m going home. I’m not even sure what that means. For me, home has always been an elusive abstraction. But here and now, with Naddy, I’ve never understood anything more, or needed to understand it less.

I don’t dissect it. I embrace it.

I surrender.

Naddy presses play and the familiar melody of All We Ever Wanted Was Everything by Bauhaus fills the car. Fills the night. I could be nervous, or even afraid, but I’m uncharacteristically calm instead. When Naddy turns and catches my gaze, a serenity unlike anything I’ve ever known envelopes me. It doesn’t matter where she’s taking me.

We’re going home.

THE END

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TITLE: Want to Come Undone?

Genre: Literary Fiction, speculative fiction, queer literature

Age range: Adult

Word count: 6342

Author's name: Ane R Key

Why it's a good fit: I've written two shorts, each providing insight into one of three protagonists of my novel, OT Tribe. Each short stands alone, so can be marketed separately, or as a collection promoting the novel.

Hook: Sweepers from Uptown search the Old Towne for women and non-whites, eager to imprison or execute them. The Resistance is impending, and the Sweepers are growing increasingly emboldened, but Elle’s tribe is ready to rebel. Stonewall style.

Synopsis: Elesea is a renegade who runs The Diner, which operates as headquarters for the underground resistance in the Old Towne. She's formed a tacit agreement with the Uptowners: their secret police, the Sweepers, will leave her diner in peace as long as they are able to carouse the docks of the OT for sex-workers, weapons, and drugs. As tensions mount, Elle rallies her tribe. Yet, one key player is absent: Naddy, a woman with whom Elle had a brief but intense affair. Realizing that Naddy plays a crucial role, both in her life and in the impending revolution, Elesea sends out a psychic SOS, calling Naddy home. Naddy is busy wrestling her own demons in a kink club, where she encounters Samantha, another key player in the rebellion. Samantha and Naddy leave the club together, unwittingly heeding Elle's call to come home.

Target Audience: Fans of both the MCU and DC universes, as well as Neil Gaiman, Margaret Atwood, and John Burnside fans. People who enjoy stories of vigilante justice, revenge, and antiheroes. People who identify as non-binary, queer, or are otherwise disenfranchised. People who enjoy twists and creative, non-traditional literary fiction.

Author’s bio: I am a queer, female-identified, feminist, anarchist, and creator. I am an educator, agitator, and fierce advocate of bodily autonomy and critical thinking. I am an avid reader, a polyglot; a lover of languages, literature, and learning. I have my BA in Philosophy and World Religion, and my MA in Education and TESOL. I am US born and lived most of my life in Seattle, Washington. I have also lived in Japan, Germany, and currently reside in Portugal, where I teach English and perform energy work, guided meditation and tarot readings. My free time is spent traveling, reading, writing, watching films, or at music venues. I am dedicated to the practice of yoga, and spend my time between embodied, meditative states of consciousness and liminal, disembodied spaces. I'm also the proud owner of the world's best travel companion, my dog, Chopper.

Literary style: I create characters who challenge readers by defying traditional archetypes. I enjoy complex, interpersonal relationships, exploring, and subverting, concepts such as linear time, imposed paradigms, the patriarchy, and hetronormative assumptions. My favorite schools of philosophy are ontology and epistemology, and I find it interesting to weave threads of these philosophies into my work. I counterbalance these philosophical musings and reflections with rapid bursts of forward motion. I hesitate to refer to my work as plot driven as my first consideration is to the development of unconventional characters whom the reader finds inexplicably relatable. There is a fair amount of drug use and small measures of violence in my work, albeit none too graphic. Regarding drug use: Big Pharma and for-profit prisons are making an obscene profit in the war against drugs. Rather than being gratuitous, I submit the drug use as social commentary.

*Note: TheDevil in Disguise is the second short in the world of my novel, OT Tribe.

It is also published here, on The Prose