4. Hailey
I pull the towel from my hair and use it to wipe the steam from the mirror. My eyes are red and slightly swollen. My lips are stained from the wine I downed while in the shower. It’s nothing makeup won’t hide.
Slowly, my hips sway to a sultry blues mix pouring throughout my condo. I wipe the steam again, lower on the mirror, until I can see clear down to the flare of my hips.
After the dip of my collarbone, Smokey’s wings spread wide across my chest. The inky-black arches and curves stretch from one side of my body to the other in an intricate series of thin lines and then taper over the swells of my breasts. The dragon’s regal face stares viciously back at me. His eyes are tattooed at the center of my sternum. His claws and tail curl low between my breasts.
Grit’s lion tail entwines with Smokey’s serrated dragon one. My griffin crawls across my torso, his rear lion feet running down the center line of my abdomen. Thick, ruffled feather wings unfurl wide and point down my obliques. His front talons settle on the right side of my belly button, and his screaming eagle head baits my chimera, whose lion and goat heads and snake tail twist on the opposite side of my belly button. Charlie’s body is an amalgamation of ferocity and strength. He nestles low on the left side of my belly. His rear snuggles close to my bare pussy.
The pieces are tied together with an elaborate rose vine with large thorns that accentuate my form's natural curves and dips, lending femininity to the harsh creatures that mark my body. The three are far from the only ones. They are the first and most precious to me.
They are my internal scars manifested. Old wounds healed. Mostly. They represent my growth and my dedication to living.
I dance and watch my monsters move until I can’t help but check my phone once more. The app is open already. I’m a fiend, a recovering fiend in a full-blown backslide. It’s not my patients’ app. Nope. It’s not the app that set me down this path hours ago. It’s my favorite of all the little icons on my phone. It’s one I haven’t touched in months. In just a small collection of minutes, I’ve made up for all those days away.
The center of the screen reads Crave and do I ever.
I click on my profile and hold my breath while it refreshes.
The dots on my private page have been black for the past two hours. Option one. Option two. Option three. Option four. They’re listed in order of my preferences. Tonight, I’d take option ten, if I had one. But I don’t. Over the years, I’ve whittled my list to my preferred partner and the ones I can stand.
Somewhere in the city, on my options’ phones, my corresponding dot shines green for the first time in a long time. I’m waiting rather impatiently for one of them to click my button, accept my request, and make my night a little more bearable.
This is not a dating app. It’s not even a hookup app. Though, it kind of is.
Crave is a sex club that gets a nice chunk of my yearly income for catering to the very specific desires of its members. Patrons are background checked, screened monthly in-house for a squeaky clean bill of health, administered a detailed survey, and matched with others whose desires mirror their own, all while managing confidentiality and anonymity if requested.
The three dots are still black.
“Fuck!”
It is a Friday night. Most would think the beginning of the weekend would be the prime night for a little deviant action. It is a prime night for the action of the masses, the vanilla, those who feel as though they’re living on the edge by tossing back a few overpriced drinks and going home with the first person to show interest.
Now that I think about it, going home with a stranger is living on the edge.
What I do is taboo. How I do it is safe, sane, and consensual. Now.
I toss my phone onto the marble counter, dry my wild mane, style it into a demure chignon, and apply makeup that I hope I’ll be crying off by the end of the night in a positive way instead of a depressing one.
The chirp of my phone fills the marble bathroom. It’s a special ringtone for my concierge at Crave. I’ve never been happier I set it up when I joined the club three years ago than I am tonight. I’ve been dodging calls from the hospital and texts from colleagues all evening.
I answer fast and press the device to my ear. “Hello?”
“Miss Calkins?” My heartbeat expands, reverberating through my ribs and jarring my skin at the mention of my pseudonym.
“This is she.” I am most certainly not the first female president of the American Psychological Association, but I use her name. At least, I used to, once a month.
“I’m happy to let you know your option one has accepted your request.”
“Really?” My palms sweat, and I sound like a ten-year-old being gifted a pony. I don’t care about those desperate developments. “The app isn’t showing it.”
“Yes. Option one hasn’t been active at Crave for several months. He’s submitted a new test, and we’re awaiting the results. Of course, we won’t allow him back until all is clear.”
“Of course.” I practically run to my closet and toss open the doors lining the hallway outside my bedroom. “How long until you expect to know?”
“Within the hour, miss.”
“Thank you.” My fingers shift through the laces and leathers. “And please, tell him thank you for me.” A rushed test means he’s agreed to pay five grand to accept my invitation on such short notice.
“Yes, miss. We’ll see you at the south entrance at ten o’clock.”
“Perfect.” I hang up and look at the time. Thankfully, I only have to throw on clothes and text my driving service, which I do before picking a corseted silk dress that hugs my body from boobs to butt and leaves my tattoos beautifully free. Well, the ones on my legs, upper chest, and back anyway. It’s more than I allow when in the office or at any other time. I slip my feet into deadly stilettos. The jeweled green pumps pair marvelously with the emerald-green dress. I strap on a black harness, and then I hide it, my tats, and dress with a maroon velvet trench coat.
The intercom by my door beeps, letting me know my car is waiting. An elevator ride, a fantastical entryway, and a turnstile door later, and I’m safely ensconced in the back of a black Town Car. The divider is up. I don’t have to feel bad about not making small talk with the driver. Perfect.
For every minute we sit in traffic, my nerves rattle louder, and my hand inches closer to my phone inside my clutch. By the time we’ve sat at the same light three times, I break and text my therapist. The message is plain and simple.
I’m going.
A light’s standstill later, my phone rings. I contemplate not answering, but that would disrespect the process. After all, I started this.
I press the button and put the phone to my ear. “I didn’t text you so that you can call and charge me time and a half, Astor.”
“You know damn well I quit charging you last year, Hay Bale.”
“Sure do.” It was midnight damn near twelve months to the day when she’d called me frantic, begging me to save her brother’s relationship, and I’d agreed to treat his porn addiction. “How are the newlyweds, by the way?”
“Disgustingly in love.”
“Ugh! Love. The worst.” I laugh.
“I hate to be blunt, but if you’re already on the way, I know we don’t have long. I know what triggered you. Holly called earlier when she couldn’t get in touch with you.”
“Yeah.” My voice is small and quiet.
“We’ve talked about this possibility and have prepared several alternatives for pleasure-seeking to cope in a healthier manner.”
“And I’ve worn them all out in the lead-up.” My ankle bobs, nearly taking my pump off in the process. “It’s been a shitty week.”
“You should have called me, if not as your therapist, at least as your friend.”
“I know.” We aren’t supposed to be both. In the traditional sense, we aren’t. My walls make Mr. Judge’s look like a chihuahua’s agility fence. Over the past decade, the lines have blurred, making her the closest thing I have to one.
“You said you’d quit going to Crave for monthly testing.”
“I did, until last week. I needed a safety net. Maybe it won’t hit like it used to,” I lie. “It’s the best possible scenario at a time like this.”
“The best scenario would be crying on a friend’s shoulder or being snuggled up with someone who loves you.”
My skin goes clammy as she speaks of my literal nightmare.
“Option one is my partner. At least I won’t be bloodied or bruised.”
“Hailey, you know the kink isn’t the problem. It’s your aversion to connection.”
I do.
“You’ve come a long way.” Astor’s assertive voice takes a soft dip. I know what she’s going to say before the words leave her full black lips. “Think about the night we met.”
“I try not to.”
“Me too, but it’s a testament to how far you’ve come. How far we’ve both come.”
I hiss out a breath as shame coats my skin, canceling out my shower.
“I never blamed you, Hailey. I still don’t.”
“You’re better than most.” The only real person I can call a friend hadn’t started that way. We’d started about as far away from friends as two people could be.
At Princeton’s psychology department’s annual Christmas party, she found her then-boyfriend railing me in a bathroom stall. I hadn’t known they were dating. Hell, I hadn’t even known his name. Hadn’t wanted to.
I’d thought the less I knew about a person, the less there was at stake.
That miserable night proved my tenet good, but my methods faulty. It’d been a turning point in both our lives. Astor stopped settling for shitty men to have someone by her side, and I decided to stop fucking random men. I still needed a stranger, not a random one.
“Start investing,” Astor presses like she always does. I respond like I always do.
“I invest in stocks, not people. I invest my money, not my heart.”
“You don’t have to start with your heart, Hailey. In fact, I wouldn’t suggest it,” she counters.
The side of my shoe taps a staccato against the seat in front of me.
“Not to offend,” Astor continues, “no one wants your heart. Not straight out of the gate anyway. Hell, if you’re not looking for a connection, dating in New York is the safest place for you to practice.”
“If you were trying to sell anyone else on dating, I couldn’t give your promo even half a star.” Still, nervous energy weaves its way through my bloodstream.
She groans long and loud, knowing she’s fighting a losing battle.
The driver lowers the divider. “Everything okay back there?”
“Yep.” I force my foot to stop and offer a nod. He raises the partition without a word. “Okay, Astor, what do you suggest?”
“Go on a date.” At my grunt, she adds, “Not a full-fledged dinner, but at least out for coffee or a drink.”
The thought turns my stomach. “I’ll think about it.”
“Really?” Skepticism laces her voice.
In the vaguest sense of the word, I answer. “Yes.”