The image crystallizes. Marty's perfect ass in the air. His dick hanging between his legs. Waiting for me to spank him. Waiting for me to use him.
And I feel... nothing.
Worse than nothing.
I feel repulsed.
The thought of controlling someone, of being the one in charge, of wielding power over another person's body—it makes my stomach turn. It's so fundamentally wrong that I physically recoil, closing my eyes and shaking my head to dislodge the vision.
"Hey, you okay?" Marty's voice cuts through.
I open my eyes. He's staring at me with concern, his salad fork frozen halfway to his mouth.
"Yeah, sorry. Just—" I force a laugh. "Brain fog. Low blood sugar probably."
"You should eat." He gestures to my pizza. "Seriously, take your time."
I take another bite, chewing mechanically while Marty watches me with those kind, worried eyes.
Normal girls would be charmed by this.
Normal girls would appreciate a guy who checks in, who notices when something's off.
But I'm not normal.
I haven't been normal in a very long time.
And sitting here with Marty, pretending I could ever be satisfied by someone this safe, thisvanilla, feels like the cruelest joke I've played on myself yet.
Marty leans forward across the table, his whole posture shifting. The casual yoga instructor energy drains away. His eyes lock onto mine—not the polite, friendly gaze from before. Something sharper. More focused.
"Can I ask you a question?"
His voice is different. Deeper. The careful brightness stripped out of it.
A tiny buzz sparks low in my belly. So faint I almost miss it.
"Sure," I say, setting down my pizza slice.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His fingers drum against the table edge—once, twice—then stop. His jaw works like he's chewing words he can't quite swallow.
I smile despite myself. "What's the problem?"
"I just—" He stops again. Looks down at his salad, then back up at me. "There are different kinds of guys, right? Like, there's the… the sensitive type. The ones who do couples yoga and talk about their feelings and want to build emotional intimacy before—before anything physical."
I nod slowly, watching him struggle.
"And then there's the… the dominant guys. The ones who take charge. Who make decisions. Who—" He clears his throat."Who want control. But not in a toxic way. In like, a—a structured way."
The buzz intensifies. Just barely.
"And then there's—there's somewhere in the middle, I guess. Guys who adapt. Who can be whatever their partner needs." His fingers resume drumming. Stop again. "Or guys who pretend to be one thing because they think that's what women want, but they're actually?—"
He cuts himself off, breathing harder.
I wait.
"What's your type?" he finally asks.
