1
Grace
Male Primal Hunterseeks Female Prey for a one-time, anonymous hunt.
No faces. No names. No repeats.
I go stillthe moment I see the ad.
Around me, people chat and laugh. Someone whooshes by in full on bondage gear, a throuple moans in the corner, a seven foot woman in a gold wrestling singlet steams milk behind the counter, and I barely notice any of it.
It’s just a piece of paper, fluttering on the message board in the camp coffee shop. One kinky request amongst dozens. But in my mind, it’s a beacon, so clearly meant for me that it might as well spell out my name in bright, flashing neon.
I read it again, focusing on each word. Primal. That one alone sends excitement shimmering through me. And Prey. I swallow hard at that, feel it in my bones.
“So what do you think, Gracie? Should we do the workshop on sounding or the one on sex without orgasm?” My best friend Max asks, sounding a million miles away. “I hear Mistress Quest is amazing, so I’m leaning towards sounding, but it might be a bit much for you on your first—” Apparently noticing that I’m no longer by her side, she stops and turns. “Uh, Grace?”
I’d answer, but I’m stuck in front of this ad, a thousand familiar fantasies running through my brain. In them, I’m sprinting, breathing hard, scared, but not terrified. Not really. I mean, there’s a little fear underneath it all, but that’s just part of the thrill. I hide, turn to look back, see nothing. But he’s there. He’s always there. And, in my dreams, he catches me. He takes what he—
“Grace! What are you…” Max follows the direction of my gaze. “Oh.” Her eyes widen as they slide to me, then back to the ad. “Oooooooh.”
Because she’s Max and she’s fearless and never hesitates, she reaches out and tears the thing down.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” I tell her, rule follower that I am.
With one of those scrunched up expressions that says,Whatever, Gracie, she slides her arm through mine and drags me along. “So,” she says as we join the coffee line. “You gonna do it?”
“I don’t know.” I’m buzzing inside, every part of me worked up, screamingYes, yes, do it!“Maybe?” I can’t stop staring at the ad. We should put it back so he doesn’t get mad. Then again, what’s he gonna do? Punish me? The idea shimmers through me, half dread, half excitement.
“You totally should.”
The person in front of us grabs their coffee and throws us a smile as they head over to the cream and sugar station. They’re wearing nothing but full body sparkle paint and knee-high combat boots. Not a stitch of actual clothing. Max gives them an easy wave, but I can’t quite meet their eye. After spending a week at kink camp every summer for the last five years, she’s an old hand at this. I, however, still don’t know where to look.
“Mad Max!” The towering amazon behind the counter squeals.
“Lamé! You look amazing!” Max and the barista exchange a long, tight hug over the counter. When they’re done, Max wraps an arm around me. “This is Grace. My best friend in the entire world. I finally convinced her to come to camp.”
“You a hugger?” At my quietSure, Lamé leans over and engulfs me in her jasmine-infused embrace before letting me go. “Welcome to Kink Camp, honey! How do you like it so far?”
“It’s…” I can’t find a word to describe how absolutely different this place is from anything I’ve experienced. Everyone here is unique, so unabashedly themselves that as just myself, I feel almost like a fraud. Lamé, for example, is rocking the wrestling singlet, which outlines perky nipples and shows off a dusting of scarlet curls at the neckline. Her coppery skin and perfectly straight black hair remind me of Morticia Adams, an impression that’s only reinforced by the wicked gleam in her eyes. The bracelets on her arm tell me her pronouns (she/her/they), that she’s a switch, into power play, and in a relationship, but open to other partners. “Amazing,” I finish with an admiring smile.
Lamé looks around at the coffee shop’s occupants. “Isn’t it?” With a sigh, she turns back to us. “What can I get you two?”
We order and I zone out while Lamé works the big espresso machine like a maestro, her long, sparkly nails tapping out a mesmerizing rhythm.
Really, though, I’m thinking about that piece of paper in Max’s hand.
“Hey, Lamé, what do you know about this?” Max reads my mind. “Think it’s legit?” She flattens the ad out on the counter.
Lamé turns, mid-steam, catches sight of the ad and crinkles her face at Max. “I didn’t know you were a Primal.”
“Not for me.”
Lamé’s eyes move to me and narrow, one bright red eyebrow lifting. “Oh, yeah?” She drops what she’s doing and slides back over to the bar, squinting at me so hard I begin to squirm. “You gonna respond?”
I start to shrug and then stop myself. I didn’t come here to watch from the sidelines. I came here to let myself live, to find myself. To be myself.
To stop hiding.
