THE WINDUP GIRL
Rafael waited for me in the garage again; dressed in his usual black.
As he opened the door, I said, “That little whisper at the end of our last date was fucking diabolical, sir.”
He stepped back and scrubbed a hand back over his hair. Was that his tell for embarrassment?
I let him pull me to my feet. Goddammit, was he a player after all? “Part of your usual approach, Mr. Devilish Charm?”
“My usual approach to seduction is to lurk in dark corners, hiss, and hope for the best. Did I make you uncomfortable?” For a moment, he seemed genuinely worried.
I leaned against him in the elevator. “Yes, but not in a bad way.”
Startled, he looked down at me. How was the man who’d commanded me to touch myself suddenly so self-conscious?
“Relax. I won’t bite you for being sexy.” Not unless you ask nicely. I patted his arm, proud of myself for turning his own words back on him, and waltzed into his apartment.
A mouthwatering aroma hit me: roasting meat and a blend of sweet, spiced, and savory.
“I hope you like Moroccan food. Lamb tagine, specifically. I subbed out the tomato paste to make it safe for you. No dairy.”
“You made this? Doesn’t it take a long time?”
“I started it after you left yesterday,” he admitted. “It has been marinating overnight.”
He served us in a small breakfast nook off to the side of the kitchen.
We sat in tall café chairs at a high, octagonal table of dark wood, inlaid with starbursts of mother-of-pearl.
The plates were handmade ceramic in earthen colors.
Each one had a slightly different hue and a small, spiral appliqué. They complimented the colorful food.
The lamb was exquisite; honey and apricot coated my tongue, blending with the savory spices for a near-orgasmic experience. I forced myself to slow down.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” I dabbed at my mouth with a cloth napkin.
His eyes dropped to his plate, and he pushed a carrot around with his fork. He’d already inhaled an impossible amount of food.
“I grew up the kind of poor most Americans can barely comprehend. When I finally had money to spend on quality ingredients and utensils, I developed a cooking fixation. I rarely do it these days since I do not like leftovers. Too many times eating spoiled remnants as a kid.” He smiled at me, softening his words.
“Thank you for the opportunity to do it again.”
“You are amazing.” I shoveled another forkful of lamb and dried fruit into my mouth.
Rafael poured me another glass of Tempranillo and refilled his own. “To answer your question, I am terrible at embroidery. No patience for it.”
“Embroidery?” I squinted at him, trying to determine if he was messing with me.
“I wanted to decorate my clothes, try something different, but it did not go far. Everything I wear is bespoke as it is.” He watched my face. “Also, I am terrible at drag.”
I almost dropped my fork. “Now I know you’re fucking with me.”
Rafael clasped a hand over his heart. “I swear to you. I tried, but I am too damn tall to walk in heels. And too ugly for makeup.”
“Please tell me you have pictures.”
“Hell no. No evidence,” he laughed.
We finished the meal and retired to the den. I needled him for more details about drag, but he dodged them all.
Rafael leaned back in his leather chair. “Turns out I am also ill-suited to West Hollywood party culture. Any party culture, really. Especially if it involves hookups. Ends badly for everyone.”
“Wow, I really cannot imagine you in WeHo.” Did he wear a harness and a jock strap like so many of the party gays? God, I would like to see that.
Rafael’s nose wrinkled. “Keep it that way. It was a terrible idea, but I was young and trying to find myself.” His fingers played silent piano chords on the armrest. “Does it matter to you if I am a top, bottom, verse, or side?”
“No? Should it?”
“Good answer.” He shrugged. “I have encountered a startling number of straight women who claim to be allies, but turn wildly homophobic the instant I say I am bisexual.”
“I’m sorry. That’s awful.” This poor soul wore his wounds right on the surface. “You don’t have to tell me anything if it makes you uncomfortable, but I want to know as much as you’d like to share.”
“I have already shared far more than I can readily believe. Something about you disarms me.” Rafael’s brows knitted, and he finished his wine. “But there are things that may change your mind about getting involved with me.”
Here comes the bid to wear my skin as a dress. I sat straighter, leather creaking with the motion.
“I see the look in your eye. Please, I am not a predator, but I have survived some unbelievably fucked up shit.” Rafael exhaled heavily, waiting for my reaction. “You must be tired of hearing me talk about myself. I know I am.”
I mirrored his posture, keeping my body language open. “Not at all. You have an incredible voice and you’re fascinating. I want to understand you.”
“Many people are fascinated by the idea of me. Very few can tolerate the reality. You are genuine and kind, and I should tell you to run, but I am selfish.”
Rafael’s eyes pleaded for understanding. My heart wanted to give it to him.
“I promise to listen.” I folded my hands in my lap and gave him my best good-student posture.
More quiet chords from otherwise static hands. Silence stretched between us until the electric hum of the lights buzzed so loud it drowned out my inner voice.
I had to do something. “Do you think in music? Have you always studied it?” Maybe focusing on something he loved would ease his mind.
He exhaled. “Something like that. I was a prodigy. Wrote music in the dirt. Borrowed instruments where I could. Snuck into a Christian church to play their piano. Stole my first cello from a theater. A church janitor took pity on me and let me keep it there.” He finally blinked.
“I never attended college, but I have never stopped studying.”
His shoulders remained tense; hands clenching into fists on his thighs. Some boulder of truth teetered on the brink of crashing down on my head.
“Rafael, please tell me.” I leaned forward. “Whatever it is, I’m willing to listen.”
“This is where most people walk out1.” He sighed heavily.
“I have…never willingly had penetrative sex to completion. Ever. I do not like for my…sensitive areas to be touched. Pushing my boundaries triggers me to lash out violently or become self-destructive, and it is very difficult to control my temper in that state. It frightens people. Rightfully so.”
My heart twinged. Whatever I was expecting, it was not that. I reached for him and stopped myself. Violent, he’d said. This was a violent man. Maybe not a cheater, but something worse.
I dragged my attention back to the first part. “It’s ok if you’re ace. Asexual. That isn’t a dealbreaker for me.” Interesting that he’d mentioned top, bottom, and verse. Probably a test to see what I’d say. I didn’t even know what a ‘side’ was.
Leather creaked as he shifted his weight. “I considered asexuality, but no; I very much enjoy sex. Only…not in the ways you probably expect. I understand if you want to leave now.”
“Rafael, you are the most interesting person I have ever met. I’m not about to let your past scare me away. I am patient, and we can go as slow or fast as you want.”
He sat up, surprised, as if he’d expected me to march out the door immediately. “Are you sure?” The uncertainty in his voice made me want to cradle him in my arms and kiss him all better.
“As much as I can be right now, yes.”
He speared me again with that intense stare, looking right through me. Finally, he sighed. “There is no easy way to talk about this. I have lots of trauma around sex. Many of my non-negotiable boundaries are dealbreakers for others.”
I refused to let purity culture win. “As long as you’re clear about your limits and triggers, and communicate well in the moment, I’m sure I can work around it.”
Rafael hummed deep in his chest. “In order of ease of avoidance. First: No lavender. No perfume, candles, lotion, coffee drinks, nothing. I cannot abide the scent.
“Second: Do not touch my throat. The sides and back of my neck are fine. I never wear closed collars, ties, or necklaces for that reason, and once had a boyfriend get mad at me for refusing to wear a gifted chain. Also, do not ask me to choke you. Far too risky.”
I nodded emphatically. Easy enough, and I’d never really been into choking, anyway.
He took a deep breath. “Third: do not touch me below the waist or above mid-thigh unless I explicitly invite you to, and even then, move slowly. Do not grab my ass; do not reach between my legs.”
Oh. I suppressed a shiver. God, I didn’t want to think about what kind of trauma created that trigger. “I’ll follow your lead.”
He watched my face, perhaps searching for dishonesty.
“Finally, this is more nebulous, but I have a hard time receiving pleasure. I prefer pain, and I prefer it to an extent too extreme for most people. It may feel strange to talk about kink now, but this is how I function. I know my limits well, but you must promise to tell me if I push you too far.”
I relaxed. “That’s an easy promise to make and to keep.”
His brows raised. “You do not seem ready to run yet.”
Every instinct yelled at me to hug him. I shushed myself. “I mean, it’s unusual, sure—but nothing you’ve told me is that hard to avoid. It sounds like you’ve been through some truly awful shit, and I’m sorry. Do you always get violent when you’re triggered?”
“If it is minor, I may become agitated or unresponsive.” Rafael took a deep breath.
“You might as well know the whole story. My parents were killed in an accident when I was a baby. I grew up in an unregulated orphanage in Istanbul with several other kids.” His eyes grew glassy and distant.
“The woman who ran it beat and starved us. Her string of abusive boyfriends raped us at will. To this day, I do not know what happened to the others after I got out.”
My heart clenched. Jesus. No wonder he was so guarded and asocial.