Then
I waited at the subway station for the train that would take me home. I had just gotten off work from a trendy restaurant in Chelsea where I served. I hated all the stuffy Manhattanites who looked down at me like I was fucking dirt, but the tips were pretty good, so I didn’t complain. I had just turned twenty-three and had already been working full-time for four years. I barely got by in my shared Park Slope apartment, but I refused to live anywhere besides Brooklyn. I wanted to be where all the fun was—all my friends had parties every other day, and we bar hopped up and down Brooklyn every weekend, all weekend. Even when my shift at the restaurant ended at 10 or 11 p.m., I’d still be ready to party for another four hours.
I was drinking too much. I knew I had a problem, but it was the only way to mask the enormous weight of loneliness and trauma I had felt for almost my entire life. I didn’t know what it was like to feel any different. I had no idea if the pain would ever dull.
As I waited for the train, I swiped through the several dating apps I had on my phone. I met a few men off of them but they were all one night stands. I wasn’t sure if I was looking for much else than that. The one I was the most curious about was the “kink friendly/BDSM” app. I had never done anything remotely kinky in my life, but I was dying to; I thought that was the missing piece in my sex life.
So many of the messages I received on the kink app were either from men who lived far out of the area or from those who sent unsolicited dick pics. a message from someone with the username YourNextDom popped up. Intrigued, I opened it.
Hello, SweetJackie. I’m Michael. You’re beautiful.
I clicked on his profile picture. Holy fucking shit. He can’t be real . He has to be fake . He was easily the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. I skimmed through his pictures and he even posted a shirtless mirror selfie. My pussy pulsed. God damn .
Hello, Michael. I don’t think you’re real, I wrote back.
He immediately responded: That’s not a very sweet thing to say, SweetJackie. Why do you think that?
I smiled as I replied: Because you’re too fucking hot. A man that looks like you doesn’t exist.
My heart fluttered when he messaged back: You better watch your mouth. You could get punished for speaking that way to me.
I put my phone away, blushing. The train had arrived, and I had no idea how to respond to him. If he was real, I was in big trouble.
I walked out of the subway station, feeling my phone vibrating in my pocket. It was Michael. I don’t like waiting, SweetJackie. I decided to be brave; I had nothing to lose. I wrote back: Prove you’re real and I’ll beg on my knees for forgiveness. I can’t believe I just wrote that. But he’s not real—he can’t be. I have nothing to worry about.
My heart nearly leapt out of my chest when I saw a video request from him. I stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to my apartment. Fuck, I look like shit.
I hesitantly answered, and his face appeared on the screen.
“Hello, sweet Jackie. Is this enough proof for you?” He had an Irish accent and his eyes were a dark, deep gray. His face must have been chiseled by God himself.
“Um.” I smiled as I looked at my stunned face at the bottom of the screen. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
He gave me a quick smile. “So, when do I get to see you on your knees?”