I knew Very wasn’t judgingme. Kink family was a pretty safe space. But my cheeks flamed just reading his words. I’d clung to him for more than an hour? It didn’t seem that long.
What did that say about me?
Not much, according to my studies. In the past, kink practices were seen as part of a range in psychopathy. But no longer. In fact, my professor in my current class said studies of practitioners of bondage, discipline, dominance and submission, as well as consensual sadism and masochism, showed the participants to be less neurotic, more open and that it was a behavior that was found to be relaxing.
I grabbed my laptop and opened it up to a page of my textbook I’d read over and over.
Practitioners frequently reportthat BDSM is driven by a desire for intimacy, stress relief, sensory pleasure, and trust-building rather than just pain or eroticism.
That meantI could have an afterglow that was real and pleasurable. What Preston did for me created that stress relief and sensory pleasure. And intimacy, which was huge.
But trust-building was another thing. I had trouble in that arena.
I hadn’t really been a baby for my other daddies. They weren’t interested. I did it in the bedroom while they were sleeping, cuddling with them, pretending they loved it. In the end, they weren’t the daddy types I needed. The caregiving was quick and uninspired. The fun times were more about them.
Maybe I was a terrible judge of character?
I put my studies away and changed into my favorite PJs. They were blue with cartoon cats and dogs chasing each other all around the sleeves and pants. In the center of the shirt were themain cat and dog printed big, and they were side by side rubbing up against each other. The word “purr” was written above the cat’s head. It made me laugh.
It was late, almost one a.m. I focused on sleeping so I’d be ready for the next day.
I had work tomorrow at noon. Because it was the weekend and the pub also served food, it got busy. I would be too busy to contact Preston anyway, so I didn’t need to think about that.
Still, I tossed and turned all night. I kept seeing him in my mind and it was as if his soapy clean scent had gotten stuck inside me.
I must’ve slept some because I woke around nine and felt pretty okay.
But I couldn’t forget last night.
I set Preston’s card on the kitchen table. As I ate my Cheerios for breakfast, I stared at it as if the words might change or morph to say:
Attorney at Law.
Daddy.(Looking for a baby boy.)
I laughed at myself.“You’re wishing on stars that don’t exist,” I said aloud.
But I couldn’t look away. The card, when I touched it, had a texture to it like tiny bumps you couldn’t see with the naked eye.
I picked it up and brought it to my nose, sniffing deep. There it was. Faint but him. A scent like leafy soap. And fresh daddy.
I looked from the card to my phone and back again.
Again, I spoke to myself. “You can’t call him just because he held you. You don’t even know him.”
My inner voice answered.So what?
“He’s a clubber but no one you’ve seen before. You just think he’s nice because his presence triggered your baby little.”
Why is that? Why did he trigger you?
“Like any gay man. I thought he was, um, nice-looking. A hunk. Our hormones look first. It means nothing.”
He triggered you.
“It doesn’t mean a thing.”
I picked up the card and headed for the trash. But I couldn’t throw it away. It was like it was stuck to my fingers. Like it was a hundred-dollar bill and I couldn’t let go.
