12
"What the hell do you smell like?" Vega pokes her head through the door with the face of a nosy neighbor. "Because the air in here is thick." She sniffs without shame. "Industrial lube, brothel vanilla, and mortal sin. My pores are bleeding, Lasky, just so you know."
I’m slumped in the chair, old T-shirt, no bra, no decorative dignity to speak of, a warm towel over my hips that covers nothing and annoys the hell out of me, hair stuck to my neck, legs shaky. If you’re looking for my clean panties, the corner dealer’s got them as a souvenir.
"Sex, Vega, what else would it be. Sex with its own label, the good stuff—sweat-certified, echoing off the walls, consensual and with instructions. Classy." I can’t even muster any drama; I’m out of spit.
Vega parks her ass in front of me, one eyebrow up, with the stance of a late-night panel host. If I open my mouth without permission, she’ll crucify me. She’s here hunting for folklore for the soul and breakfast controversy; her feed needs content.
"Let’s get to the juicy part, yeah? How many days have you been in this festival of porn with feelings?"
"Eleven," I drop the number, steady.
"Eleven days of intensive fornication with the lady who’s got a killer stare and a Siberian accent?"
"No, ELEVEN nights. We sleep during the day. We’re in nocturnal superhero mode—satin cape, and the bat’s a silicone dick. Vampires who squirt—roll the film."
"What a lovely pastoral scene, Alaska, thanks," she mutters. "And all good? Pelvis still intact? Vaginal walls holding up?"
"Pelvis and pussy surviving, nipples chafed, thighs go on strike every time I sit. Shame? That took a cab out on day one."
She laughs and keeps up the interrogation.
"So are you two official now or what?"
"No, but it’s not just sex, babe. It’s a whole erotic ritual.
There are rules, there are outfits—or none—there’s a sequence.
I show up, shower, put on what she tells me, which is usually nothing when she’s in full drill-sergeant mode, then a quick briefing and I obey.
A Girl Scout of sin—no merit badges, orgasms as rewards.
And I love it. Filth with affection, everything clear, everything talked through. "
She lets out a skeptical little laugh.
"You’re telling me you—the same Alaska who won’t let anyone tell her how to take her coffee—now lets a woman boss her around?"
"Yeah, babe. Tragic and wonderful. I know, but my brain passed the baton and my pussy’s in charge now. And it’s a relief. I go with it. And I moan. A lot. The neighbors are already pricing out soundproofing my room in the building WhatsApp group."
She doesn’t laugh. She gets more serious.
"But listen, kid—doesn’t it worry you that dynamic might be messing with your head?"
"No, girl, she checks in about everything. I feel safe. If I say stop, she stops. The thing is, I don’t say stop. I can’t. I’ve got a curse or a selective lobotomy. Take your pick."
"Fuck, you look rough. Not once have you told her no to anything?"
"The candle, Vega. I said, ‘Hey, careful, I don’t want to end up singed,’ and she went full Slytherin, and I was wide-eyed—then five minutes later I was exploding and asking for an encore. I don’t understand a thing."
"You’re hooked," she pronounces.
"I’m not, fuck. This is a spiritual retreat with lots of sex and little incense—okay, zero incense—but tons of wet wipes and lots of toys. And I’m happy."
"BDSM poetry, if you say so. Your next book, Sonnets on a Leash."
"Look, all I know is that every night she tells me I’m hers, detonates my orgasm with sniper aim, then pets my hair, leaves a glass of water on the nightstand, and tucks me in if I’m shivering. Dirty and tender at the same time."
"But Alaska… Do you know anything about her? What does she really do for work? That woman’s got money.
Have you seen her car? Those are 19-inch rims and a screen like something off the Best Buy wall.
Where does she live? What’s her last name?
Is she a console gamer, or the type to do crosswords in her own blood?
Any detail we can at least use to Google her without summoning Mulder and Scully? "
"No fucking clue," I admit, and my laugh dies. "I only know how she makes me feel and how well my anxiety sleeps after, and that’s everything… and also a monumental turd."
Vega lets out a sigh that weighs a pound.
"I’m not here to kill your buzz, but look at you. She’s got you dancing on command and hasn’t even told you her last name. You—queen of I-go-alone and nobody tells me shit—lying here, in love, nipples begging for Vaseline, and a dumb look on your face."
"It’s just… it’s different, Vega. I can’t explain it without selling it short."
"And what if she only wants to keep you until the crush wears off?" she finishes, two seconds away from tossing holy water at me.
"Maybe she does," I say, pissed off, even though a crappy little alarm goes off in my head. "Look, if it comes with an expiration date, slap it on the label and I’ll burn through it while it lasts. I know what I’m playing at.
And if she breaks my heart, you pick me up at the finish line, hand me a Gatorade, insult me a little, feed me greasy Chinese, and we move on. "
"Easy to sound brave from that chair with a towel."
"Last night she left my ass red—that also gives me courage," I blurt, and Vega chokes on a laugh. "Technical detail: she keeps bringing me brand-new toys. I obey and she celebrates."
"You’re worrying me and entertaining me in equal measure, which pisses me off, because I happen to like your mental stability."
"I’m more stable than ever, Vega. The 4 a.m. dramas are gone. No ghosts chasing me, no anxiety burning my chest, I don’t burst into tears staring at the washing machine. Only my thigh hurts, and that has a solution: arnica and active rest."
"Okay, but do a little digging. Full name, ID, a burner LinkedIn, something. Let’s not repeat that thing with the DJ from Murcia who turned out to sell home-security systems."
"I’ll get intel today. Plan A: post-sex pillow talk, no interrogation. Plan B: lift her wallet and read the cards. Plan C: snap a pic of her car insurance when she’s not looking. Plan D: ask her straight up—I can do that too, believe it or not."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, screen lit with her name.
Short text. She tells me: pre-shower, hair up, no panties, collar on the nightstand, and don’t snack on sugar—she wants me hungry.
I start laughing, I get vertigo, I get obedient.
I bite my lip, breathe, nod without realizing it, stumble to my feet, grab the towel.
Vega starts cracking up. She throws a cookie that lands between my boob and my pride.
"But promise me," she says, finger raised, "that if the blonde ever calls you ‘my little pup’ and you don’t pee yourself laughing, you’ll let me commit you to some rural convent that sells jam."
"Deal," I say, solemn, "but only if you sign up too and we become nuns together."
"By the way, I’m not coming back tonight," says my soul twin and escape artist, as she repaints her mouth with a red so aggressive I’m afraid I’ll get stained just looking at her.
"I’m leaving you the kingdom, so if you feel like hanging from the ceiling fan while the blonde whispers filthy things in your ear, knock yourself out, queen of the mambo.
All I ask is cleaning—mop, bleach—and no viscous surprises between the cushions, because the girls from the youth center are coming on Sunday. "
"National treasure, babe. Medal for civic merit." I say it while fighting for my life in the kitchen. I’m over here risking it against a knife that’s decided to kill itself by melting its handle against the flame.
Vega cracks up, points at the drama, grabs her keys, crams half a bazaar into the big bag, blows me a Malasana showgirl kiss, and I half expect canned applause to come out of the microwave, because the scene begs for an audience.
"Have a blast, babe. And don’t mess it up—I don’t want to go ID you at the morgue with your pussy front and center."
And she click-clacks down the hall in heels, soft door slam, freedom.
I’m left with the zombie knife and a crooked ego.
I tidy up, turn off the burners, wipe the counter, toss the melted handle in the trash, and head to the balcony, my shabby little peace corner with a direct line of sight to the neighbor’s boxers.
If I angle the chair a bit I can see his aloe plant, and I get the dumb giggles, because I need to focus and my brain decides nope—today it’s on sabotage mode.
I’m wired, hormones for days, and the idea of making fresh pasta crosses my mind—rolling pin, flour on the counter, tutorial video—but then I remember last time: the range hood on fire, firefighters sweating, me in one of those foil emergency blankets, the photo making the rounds in the group chat from the group home, my sister sending voice notes, and my downstairs neighbor lighting candles to the Virgin Mary.
Hard pass. I call the expensive sushi place, the one with the black box and the minimal logo, the one that sends bamboo chopsticks and soy sauce in a glass bottle.
I order gyoza, sashimi, uramaki, and edamame I never even eat, but it looks classy and it calms me to have bowls filled.
While I wait for the delivery guy, I set up the whole thing on the terrace—low-budget indie-movie vibe but with ambition—dollar-store candles to disguise the last-century textured walls, a little tablecloth I inherited from a former roommate who now lives in Berlin and says she meditates, a playlist of old bangers I know by heart, red wine already open, another nicer bottle in case the night runs long.
I pour cold water into a glass pitcher to play the sensitive one.
I fold napkins following a TikTok tutorial; what I get is something sad, a limping turtle.
I laugh, leave them normal, and that’s that—the goal is to eat, and then we’ll see.