Chapter 20 Trading Material #3
You wanted to be a designer.
And I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I like it. Not that that matters.
But what would you do now, if you didn’t have to worry about money? What would you want to do?
This isn’t something I want to talk about. That I don’t know what I’d do in this dream post-capitalism scenario that also isn’t relevant. I do have to worry about money, always. Giving my family the life I never got is the lowest, biggest level on my Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
So, I pull a trick from the Cat Cromwell book of smoke screens and deceptions, and steer us back to fun territory.
Can we talk about us?
Boom. His text bubble appears.
Yes.
And the kissing.
Yes.
It’s working for you?
Don’t just say yes
Yes. Why do you ask?
Rule-bending freak. I smile, pushing away the feelings. This is just fun. I’m having fun. He is, too.
I assume two mature business partners would also discuss their physical intimacy during such times
And the current parameters of agreements, e.g., do you want to continue kissing me
secretly
You don’t have to
I won’t be like
Yes.
Offended
Oh sorry
He’d interrupted me. Over text.
I’m fluttering. My stomach, my chest, my pulse. What is it about him that does this to me? I’d ask him, if he were here, so I could hear his deep voice eloquently and succinctly summarize everything he understands about me that feels, alas, right out of my own grasp.
But he isn’t here.
And I sit up straighter, staring at the screen.
Faust isn’t here.
He doesn’t want to date me, I understand this.
And I’ve always had my rules against that myself.
But it had been a no boyfriends rule. We could do things that many, many people like to do, freely, and seemingly don’t die after doing.
I’m almost thirty, he’s sworn to secrecy, he just said he likes what I do, and—I don’t know. It’s selfish. I just want it.
I ignore his It’s okay text, incredibly thankful that he’d suggested texting this.
I think I’ve changed my mind
My heartbeat drums in my neck, sending wave after wave of sweaty heat over my face as I watch my text bubble stand bravely on my screen. A lone soldier.
Faust’s bubble joins mine.
About?
This jerk. Critical, insufferable jerk. He knows what I’m implying.
The heat drifts lower in my body, to my stomach. Lower. He knows, and he’s pushing me. And isn’t this what I’m asking for?
Sex.
Full sentence, Arcadia. That was the rule.
Being spoken to like that shouldn’t turn me on. It’s weird, and demeaning. And the more I examine what’s morally wrong about it, the wetter I get.
I want to have sex with you.
Happy???
Yes.
But there’s this, too. Making him happy. What Faust’s offering me is comforting; he wants something very specific, and I can give that to him, and vice versa. When we inevitably part ways, it’ll be as simple as shaking hands and putting away the chessboard. Mess-free.
I work up more courage.
Will you tell me what you like? Like the details of this thing for you.
Sexually?
Yes. ( you)
Usual limits.
No bondage. No pain.
I like control.
Limits. Huh. Swiping into my browser, I google “normal BDSM limits” and return moments later.
Same re: limits
That was very fast.
Well I am a woman who knows herself, Fausto!!
Hm.
We’ll see.
You think I’m going to ask you to spank me the first time we have sex
No. But you might the tenth, eleventh time, and we would need to discuss it.
I’m falling into autopilot, fascinated and aroused and very angry we’re in two separate countries.
10! 11!!
So what does “control” look like
I tell you what to do and you do it.
Or I ask you what you want, and you tell me.
Honesty. Of course that’s what would get him off.
Isn’t that just like
Good communication/sex
(Theoretically)
I think so.
The following orders, though—not for everyone.
And I might make you wait sometimes, before you get what you ask for.
Would you like that?
Ummm!!!!!!!!
I don’t know.
That’s okay. You’re thinking about so many things.
Thank you for telling me.
Fuck, this is totally sex for him. Talking. The mental aspects of controlling and being controlled and winning and losing and playing by a very strict set of rules. And this might be sex for me, too. I’m breathing harder than the times I’ve physically touched people.
It’s actually kind of funny you’re an f1 driver into bdsm
Like rules
The formula
Mm.
And what’s your safe word?
You can use it when we talk like this, too.
If it ever feels like you should.
Because he is totally lost right now, like I am.
This doesn’t feel like normal Faust. Intense, yes.
Hot, for sure. But he’s in another role, I think—Dominant Faust, with a capital D—and that lets me step into one, too.
Away from every version of myself I’ve known, including the me that wouldn’t do this.
Is it very lame and basic to use “red”
Like stoplights
For cars
I like it.
How about red, yellow, green?
Red is stop. No questions asked.
You say red, everything stops, and that’s always okay.
Yes ok
Yellow if you aren’t sure.
Classic.
Green means go.