4. No Kink Shaming
Chapter four
No Kink Shaming
“T his is the best day of my life.”
I glanced at Sydney from the corner of my eye before looking back at the road. “Did Olivier finally agree to put you in a ball gag and call you a bad, bad girl?”
“Better.” She grinned, tilting her phone from side to side. “Reid and Alison are breaking up. Bye-bye, squeaky toy sex.”
I refrained from pointing out that her roommate-she-totally-wasn’t-in-love-with breaking up with his girlfriend probably shouldn’t be “better” than her sort-of-boyfriend finally doing something in bed that was for her instead of him and held my hand up for a high-five. “About fucking time. What happened?”
She propped her elbow up on the little ledge beneath the closed car window, resting her cheek on her hand as she looked at her phone. “It has to be something good because he just asked me to tell him if he’s being a dick.”
“Ooh, gladly,” I said. “Tell Reid I say he’s a dick.”
“I haven’t even read you the message.”
“My statement stands.”
“Okay, well, we need to tell him if he’s being a dick about this ,” she said, then read from her phone again. “‘She said I’m kink-shaming her.’”
I grimaced. “Ugh.”
“Yeah, but he says it’s not kink-shaming to not be into the same thing as someone else.”
I hmm’ed in reluctant agreement. “Tell him establishing his dick status can’t be completed until he tells us specifically how the conversation went down.”
Syd tapped on the screen, pausing and thinking for a moment before typing more. Probably because she was asking Reid what he said in a much clearer way than I’d suggested. She tapped her foot cheerfully in the wheel well, humming along to the radio until his response came through a few minutes later.
And once it did, her face darkened.
“Ohhh,” she said, drawing the word out in a low tone. “Yeah, no, Reid was definitely not kink-shaming her.”
“No?” I asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror and shoulder checking before switching lanes to pass a small grey car doing ten below the speed limit.
She shook her head. “Nope. He even sent me screenshots.”
“Wait, did he break up with her over text ?!”
“No, they argued and I guess she stormed out partway through and then texted him.” She half-laughed, the sound almost incredulous, before she started reading. “‘You’re a goddamn hypocrite. No one should have to be ashamed of what their’—she used the wrong they’re , ugh—‘into and I hope you know how much of a dick that makes you.’”
“That was Alison?”
“Of course.” She kept reading, moving on to Reid's response. “He goes, ‘I never said you should be ashamed of that or that it was a problem, Ali. I said I don’t want to watch my girlfriend cheat on me or—’”
“Wait, what ?!” I interrupted.
“Yeah. Because apparently she’s into cuckolding.”
“You’re joking.”
She shook her head. “Which wouldn’t be so bad, except she wants the whole ‘I’m doing this because you don’t satisfy me’ aspect of it. And pulled that out mid-sex without telling him first.”
My mouth dropped open. “She didn’t.”
“Mm-hmm. So of course, he got upset and said he was still into her, but he would never be cool with her telling him he’d never be able to satisfy her or to hurry up and finish so she could go find a real man to do what he couldn’t.”
“That seems more than fair.”
“Yeah, but Alison took him setting a boundary personally and told him she couldn’t be with someone who wouldn’t respect what she liked sexually and he told her he—”
She cut herself off, paused for a heartbeat longer than it should have taken to read whatever it was she’d read, then made me jump as she started cackling .
“Oh, he’s such a dick!” she said through her giggles.
“What did he say?”
She pushed her hair back off her face, taking a breath to control her laughter. “‘I can’t be with someone who talks about me like that, even if it’s a fantasy. Syd’s the one with the humiliation kink, not me.’”
I raised my eyebrows high enough that I felt it in my cheekbones. “Your what kink?!”
“Hey. No kink-shaming,” she said, wagging a finger at me.
“I’m not. I just… how did I not know that about you?” I asked.
She shrugged and from the corner of my eye, I could see her face staining pink beneath her freckles. “I dunno. I mean, it’s kind of embarrassing to admit.”
“Isn’t that kind of the point?”
“The… oh, shut up !” she said, though she grinned and joined in when I started laughing. “It is, but it isn’t. Like, I don’t love being embarrassed. I just kinda like being told, like…”
“You’re a bad, bad girl?” I finished when she trailed off.
“Sorta,” she admitted. “Or, like, being called a, um… slut.”
I nodded in understanding, even though she didn’t say anything more. Sydney and I had exactly one conversation over the course of our friendship about being slutty and calling ourselves sluts and the concept of sluttiness in general.
Not that we’d only talked about it once. It had been countless times, often over strong drinks and skimpy dresses after someone felt the need to share their judgements on the way we lived our lives. The memories of all those talks had folded together, blending and mixing until they made up the one conversation we’d had time and time again.
That there was nothing wrong with enjoying sex as often and with as many people as we liked, so long as we respected the people we were with and ourselves.
That we weren’t ashamed of being so-called sluts, even though I felt like that word had ruined my life in high school.
That the word only had as much power as we gave it, and that we both felt like we were ready to stop giving it power.
And that if either of us ever heard someone refer to the other as a slut, we’d physically or emotionally slap that person. Because while the word only had so much power, the intent behind it was often negative, and I wasn’t going to stand for someone trying to insult my best friend like that.
“You know I’m not judging you for that, right?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said, though there was relief in her voice. “If anyone would get it, it’d be you.”
“I mean, shit. If it’s that hot, maybe I need to try it some time,” I said. “But I am a little surprised Reid knew about that when I didn’t. How’d that happen?”
“Oh, God,” she groaned, though she started laughing. “Let’s just say Truth-or-Dare gone wrong. He’s never going to let me live it down.”
“That’s kinda kink-shame-y on his part, though,” I said.
She shook her head. “It’s fine. Honestly, Nell. You know how Reid and I joke with each other.”
And oh, did I.
On the day the two of them got their heads out of their respective asses and admitted they wanted to bone each other exclusively for the rest of their lives, I was going to buy a pack of cupcakes. The fancy kind made in the correct way, with icing piled higher than the cake part because we all knew the cake was just a vehicle to get the icing to your mouth.
Then I was going to bring those beautiful cupcakes downstairs to Reid and Syd’s—because I could not handle the prospect of this not happening in the near future—and sit down at the kitchen table with them to celebrate. There would be an assortment, so I’d ask them which cupcake they wanted. Syd would pick one with purple icing, regardless of flavour; Reid would pick chocolate, regardless of any more interesting flavours.
Once they’d chosen their cupcakes, I was going to carefully remove them from the box. Then I was going to take one in each hand, lean across the table, and mash it into their faces as payback for the years I had to put up with them dancing around and pretending they weren’t going to fuck one day.
Because they were. And God help the city of Ottawa when that happened because I imagined getting all those years of pent-up pining out would shake the ground hard enough to bring down buildings and cause the Rideau to overflow. I’d already planned out the sermon I was going to give Reid when they announced they were dating, which culminated with me reminding him that there was no guarantee he’d be standing at the front of the room during Sydney’s future wedding, but that as her best friend, I most certainly would be.
But there was no way Reid and Sydney were getting together anytime soon. They were inconveniently almost never single at the same time and both of them were too stubborn to do anything but hide their internal angst at how much they wanted the other. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to press Sydney’s buttons and pressure her into dating someone just because I thought they were meant for each other.
I wasn’t Anne-Marie, after all.
When we finally arrived at the park where the Illumi-Nite starting line would be, Sydney was still breaking down all the details from Reid and Alison’s breakup. I wasn’t intentionally ignoring her, but there was a ton of stuff going on around us that stole my attention.
Despite Anne-Marie’s description of what Illumi-Nite was, it wasn’t until that moment that I realized what we were actually in for. I didn’t know a ton about neurodiversity, but Reid had ADHD and Remy, Anne-Marie’s boyfriend, was Autistic. And from talking to them, I knew enough to wonder how “Overstimulating Nightmare” became the theme for an event that supported neurodiverse people.
I mean, it was a lot, even for me. Thumping music and excited shouts filled the air the moment I closed my car door. The sun was still up, but not for long; the race was scheduled to start three minutes after sunset to really lean into the whole night part of it and I could already see the towering structures with black lights and disco balls marking the race route.
And then there were the people. I thought Sydney and I had gone a bit overboard with our outfits, but the people milling about made us look like we’d done the bare minimum. Anne-Marie said we’d registered too late to get the racing T-shirt they were giving to people and definitely too late to get a team name or custom message added to it, so to wear white or bright colours. Syd had gone with a neon yellow shirt that clashed horribly with her reddish-blonde hair and added a rainbow tutu over her running shorts. I’d cut up an old white shirt, using strips of fabric to tie parts of it together and morph it into a racerback tank with plenty of fringe so the tanned skin on my stomach and back peeked through as the fringe swished around me. I’d added a neon pink sports bra beneath and while my spandex shorts were black, they had a metallic rainbow leopard print pattern on them that I figured was colourful enough to count as part of the theme.
But around us, people were clad in everything from full one-piece neon jumpsuits to pure white bikinis with mini-shorts. There were multiple people walking around in morph suits of all colours, a shirtless man who had painted his chest and back with body paint, and a group of guys wearing unicorn onesies with rainbow manes.
There were normal-looking people too, of course. Old people with walkers and T-shirts tucked into Bermuda shorts. Old people with thin, leathery legs poking out of baggy running shorts, white tube socks pulled halfway up their calves and running belts like the one Ben had with full water bottles around their waists. And also teenagers and kids and parents and college students and whatever you call adults who aren’t parents or students, like a group of women in their thirties wearing those sports bras you could fill with a bottle of wine to sneak it into hockey games and some hippie-esque women who you just knew leaned into their identities as the cool childless aunties, and JP.
“What the fuck,” I said, stumbling as I realized he was about twenty feet away from me. Then, as I realized the rest of the goddamn Marchand family was standing with him: “What the actual fuck?!”
“Ah, mes chers !” Anne-Marie squealed, noticing me and Sydney and waving us over, her long blonde hair pulled up into a high, flouncy ponytail that seemed to bounce with her excitement. She was wearing an electric blue shirt paired with a bright pink vest declaring she was Event Staff and there was a temporary rainbow infinity symbol tattoo decorating one high cheekbone. Beside her, Della Kinsley was wearing the white racing T-shirt and a pair of pink running shorts, while Jean-Luc Marchand was wearing a tight pair of running shorts and a light grey sleeveless shirt with the race bib pinned directly to it. Marc-Andre milled nearby in a pair of navy blue dress shorts that were completely inappropriate for running, his head tucked down as he tapped on his phone.
And then there was JP, wearing the white racing T-shirt, though he’d obviously registered early enough to get a custom message on it because bold rainbow letters spelling “SIX FOR SAM” were sprawled across the back. He was wearing a baggy pair of basketball shorts that were such a light shade of grey, they were almost white, hitting just above his knee so you could see a hint of his toned thigh muscles when he moved the right way. He also had a set of sweatbands on his wrists and forehead that were faintly stained with coloured powder, a word I couldn’t quite read embroidered on the headband, and that telltale amused smirk playing on his lips as my eyes met his.
The bastard.
I looked away, knowing damn well that his smirk grew even as I did, and waved at Anne-Marie.
“There you are.” She shuffled forward on her tiptoes, giving both me and Sydney a hug hello. “I was wondering if you had backed out, chérie !”
I frowned, looking down at my phone. “You said the race didn’t start until sunset.”
“Yes, but people usually come early to enjoy the festivities,” she said.
“And to get ready to run,” Mr. Marchand added, grumbling a bit. “You can’t accurately track your time if you’re not at the starting line when the race starts.”
“We said you could go get lined up, Dad,” JP said.
“And it is okay, chérie ,” Della said. “There is still plenty of time.”
“I didn’t know your whole family would be here,” Sydney said, trying to divert the conversation. “It’s so cool that you all do this together.”
“Well, our children are very involved in this cause, so we wanted to show our support, too,” Della said.
Mr. Marchand chuckled. “And it’s the only place JP doesn’t get to follow in my footsteps, since he’d better be ahead of them.” He clapped JP on the back. “Right, son?”
And I didn’t know if it was because I was more in tune with JP’s face now or if something had changed, but instead of the laugh and cheerful agreement that he was just like his dad, JP’s jaw tensed and his usual easy smile was forced.
“Of course,” he said, then straightened his shoulders. “Well, I just spotted Ibrahim and Nic so I think we’re getting set up. I’ll see you all at the finish line.”
“We’ll head to the start, too,” Mr. Marchand said, and Della and Marc-Andre went with him.
“What was that all about?” Sydney asked.
“What?” Anne-Marie replied, confused, then glanced after her brother. “Oh, you mean Jean-Paul? He and his friends run this together. It is… Well, something of a tradition for them.”
It wasn’t quite what Sydney meant, but it did answer two of my questions, which were where JP was going and also if anyone else noticed the weird tension. But before Sydney could clarify, the only person in a five kilometer radius dressed in all black came up and threw a relieved arm around my shoulders.
“Oh, thank God ,” Bruno Lemaire, also known as the guy who agreed to be my date to all the bullshit events my dad had insisted I attend this summer, gasped. “I was going to hide in the outhouses if I didn’t see someone else I knew.”
“Ah, Bruno!” Anne-Marie said excitedly. “You came! I have your racing bib here.”
He glared at her. “Of course I came. You roped me into it.”
Anne-Marie tutted. “I did not rope you in .”
“You used my weak spot against me.” He looked at me like I was going to agree with him. “I bet she used it against you, too.”
“I don’t think your weak spot would work against me,” I said. “It’s your weak spot.”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, but she used your weak spot against you.”
“I did not,” Anne-Marie said. “Nellie just never told me she was a runner until I caught her jogging one night.”
“Wait, seriously?” Bruno groaned. “You’re a runner, too? How did you ever trick me into thinking you’re cool?”
“Jerk,” I said. “I was going to be nice and not even ask what your weak spot is, but now I want to know. It could be useful information.”
“Trust me, it would be the opposite of useful for you,” he said, sniffing.
“That just makes me want to know more.”
“Well, too bad, ma nouère ,” he said.
“You know Anne-Marie will tell me if I ask her,” I said.
Anne-Marie nodded. “It is true, I’m afraid.”
Bruno scoffed, though a hint of pink appeared on his otherwise pale white skin. “Well, she’s a liar.”
“Hey!” I said, pushing his arm off my shoulders. “Anne-Marie may be a gossip, and she might be sort of materialistic and really pushy and way too involved in everyone’s drama and far louder than she needs to be, but you can’t sit here and call one of my best friends a liar .”
“Thank you, chérie ,” Anne-Marie said, folding her arms. “I do not lie , Mr. Lemaire.”
Bruno ignored her, instead turning to me with an amused look on his face. “That’s how you talk about your best friend? Yeesh. What do you say about people you don’t like?”
“Oh, she would probably call them lovely and kind and generous,” Anne-Marie said. “That is how you know Nellie likes you. If she says too many nice things, watch out.”
“Hmm,” Sydney said, leaning in and lowering her voice as Anne-Marie pulled Bruno over to safety pin the bib to his shirt. “Is that why you keep calling JP a bastard?”
“Syd, you’re the sweetest and prettiest person I’ve ever met in my entire life,” I grumbled, and even though I stormed away, Sydney burst out laughing.