Certain Requirements Page 2

  “I could fake it!” I objected. “I can act.”

  She shook her head. “You’d be better off subbing for money. But the clients would mostly be guys.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “A sugar mama?”

  “Good luck finding one,” she said and rose to pour us more coffee, then paused with the coffee pot in her hand. Meghan stared at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “It’s the funniest thing. A couple of weeks ago, Bill and I went to a play party, and we met somebody who’s looking for a live-in sub. She has, uh, certain requirements.”

  “Like what?” I asked cautiously.

  “Female, queer, submissive, femme.” I nodded as I fit the categories. “I don’t know all of it, but she mentioned she wants a woman to cook and clean for her.”

  “That’s a little strange.”

  “She was hot, if that helps. Sort of a dapper butch. About my age, maybe a little older. She works in tech, some hotshot thing. I bet her place is amazing.”

  “I could cook and clean. But I’ve never met a tech person I could stand.”

  “She seems like a good person. But you probably don’t want to be a live-in sub.” Meghan refilled our cups. “It’s sort of sex work. That’s not your thing.”

  “I don’t know,” I said thoughtfully. I’d always been curious, but unlike Meghan, my experience with bondage, domination, discipline, submission, sadism, and masochism had been entirely within the bounds of romantic relationships. I did not go to play parties or munches, did not have a Fetlife profile or any serious training beyond a few rope bondage classes and a knife play workshop I attended with my post-college girlfriend, Ronnie, years earlier. But in my fantasies, I dove into submission, deeper and more completely than I ever considered in real life. I read erotica about countless tops dominating an eager-to-please submissive, and about relinquishing control in ways I’d never discussed with my girlfriends. Sometimes I thought trying my fantasies would be liberating, but I worried that I was too scared for liberation.

  Desperation was a pretty powerful motivator, though, and I wondered if submission could keep me afloat financially while I pursued my dreams. “So subbing for a room, huh?” I asked. “That’s unusual. Why does she want that?”

  “Ask her yourself.” Meghan dug her phone out of her pocket. “I’m texting you her email.”

  I checked my phone. An email address and the word “Kristen” flashed at me.

  “Give it a try or don’t.” Meghan shrugged. “It might not be a good fit. But at least you’ll have explored it. And anyway, you aren’t allowed to say that you’re going to be homeless anymore.”

  I blinked. I thought of the affirmation I’d been saying for months. “Everything I need comes my way,” I’d intoned that morning while staring at myself in the mirror. I looked at my phone. Everything I need comes my way.

  Chapter Three

  I emailed Kristen while I walked to the BART station. My palms were so sweaty that I thought I might drop my phone. Luckily, I’d spent the previous year dating online pretty exclusively, so I had my virtual charm down pat.

  Hi, I typed, in an email with the subject line, This is awkward.

  My name is Phoenix (and yes, my parents did give me that name, which makes sense if you know my parents). In addition to really liking parentheses, I’m an aerial dancer, a kinky queer femme, and a friend of Meghan’s. Meghan said she met you the other night and that you and I might hit it off. She also said you had a room you were looking to fill with somebody who met ‘certain requirements.’ I’m incredibly curious about what those might be.

  Because some folks do better with a visual, here’s my YouTube channel, so you can see me dangling off silks, ropes, a lyra hoop, and some trapezes. Notice that my costumes are basically underwear. If that piques your interest, drop me a line, yeah?

  I then spent the entire ride back to West Oakland obsessing about how to sign off. Peace? Sincerely? Best? Some cute little emoji? Should I turn off my automatic email signature on my personal email account: “Phoenix Gomez, aerial dancer,” with a link to my aerial Facebook page? Did I want this random stranger to have access to my full name and my profile? But if I included a link to my performance videos, she’d be able find me easily enough. Should I skip the link to my videos? But as I’d realized pretty quickly through all that online dating, those videos were more alluring than I ever was in real life. While I was cute in person, in those videos I was magnetic. Every girl I’d directed to that channel had gone out with me at least once, if only out of curiosity. I was strong, flexible, sexy, creative, and powerful in those videos. Whatever the situation was, those videos would almost guarantee me a follow-up from Kristen.

  In the end, I left my automatic signature on and finished my email with, Thanks for considering my unsolicited interest in possibly maybe being your sub. I hope receiving this sort of bid from a complete stranger wasn’t completely off-putting.

  Obediently (maybe),

  Phoenix.

  Then I freaked the fuck out. This freak-out had to be contained however because as soon as I got home, I changed and headed off to an advanced trapeze class. Forty minutes after I’d sent that terrifyingly flirtatious email, I was upside down, hanging by one knee, while the instructor called out positions and 90s music blasted in the background. Before I knew, all my worries faded away.

  I loved low-flying, mostly static aerials. This meant no trapeze swinging back and forth through the air, and usually being able to reach the bottom of the apparatus from the ground. It also meant no safety net so I was careful not to risk a fall. I couldn’t let my attention wander when I twisted myself around the ropes of the trapeze or balancing on the trapeze bar.

  I also performed on silks, long pieces of fabric rigged from the ceiling, and on ropes. Though these let me go higher up, there wasn’t a net with these either. Even after years, I still occasionally got jitters if I looked down from the top of these before a trick. The key, I’d learned, was not looking.

  My favorite apparatus was lyra hoop. Like a big Hula-Hoop hung vertically from the ceiling by one or two ropes, it was no safer than anything else I performed on, but I always felt more secure on it. Maybe it was because it was so solid, even as it spun, or maybe it was because I’d put in the most hours on it. If I was ever still stressed after an aerials class or training session, I tried to sneak in a little time on the hoop. Twirling up in the air always cleared my head.

  Sending that email had made me wonder if I’d need a little hoop time after trapeze class, but by the time I was done with my class, I felt like I’d been wrung out. I was dripping with sweat, pleasantly exhausted, and had gotten out of my head and into my sore body. Aerials always made me put aside my worries and pay attention to my body, to the present moment, to the line between pushing myself and hurting myself so I didn’t go too far. Who needed to meditate when you could go upside down?

  Kristen and my little email were a distant memory by the time I got home and jumped in the shower. As I pulled on sweats, I realized my phone was dead and plugged it in without a glance. I joined John in the kitchen just as he finished cooking, because my timing was perfect, and settled in for a night of Netflix and John’s latest experiment from 660 Curries.

  When I stumbled to bed, stuffed and sleepy at nearly midnight, I was shocked to see not one but two emails from Kristen. The first was simple if a little formal. She thanked me for reaching out and pointed me to her FetLife account. Then she suggested that if I thought we had “common ground,” I could email her again and we might meet for coffee. She did not mention the room or give me any more information about herself or even her last name. This was not promising.

  The next email was sent an hour after that one and was much more encouraging. It read, Whoa. I started watching your videos after I emailed you and I have not stopped. You’re amazing. Let’s meet. Even if we don’t have chemistry, I’d love to see one of your shows.

  Sincerely,

  Kristen Andersen
(but you should call me Kris)

  I smiled to myself. I debated emailing her back, but decided it could wait until the morning. She was hooked. I clicked on the link I’d sent her and watched myself unspool from red fabric, dropping dramatically close to the ground. In another, my hair brushed the floor as I hung by my heels from a trapeze. The camera zoomed in on the left side of my face as I winked suggestively. In some videos, I was all lean muscles and olive skin, my curves barely concealed by sparkly bras and hot pants Sasha had made. I was short with a relatively big butt and thick, strong legs, which made finding clothes a pain. Plus, people who didn’t know assumed I was weak because I was a small woman. But in these videos, I was nothing but sexy and powerful.

  One of the videos zoomed in on me tightly, the background barely visible. My wavy hair tumbled over my shoulders wildly. It wasn’t the best video because it didn’t catch every trick that well, but it made me look like a silent film star, glamorous and enigmatic.

  Half of the videos on my channel were just me, and the rest were me with partners performing duo acts. Almost always, that partner was Sasha. Her short blond hair and fair skin made it easy to tell us apart. Sasha and I moved in synchronized rhythm. We hung off each other’s limbs and folded our bodies around each other in artistic shapes. Of course Kris was hooked. Those videos were hot. The only question was if I could live up to my own image.

  * * *

  The next morning, I realized that that wasn’t really the only question. I also needed to find out about Kris, her place, and whether I really wanted to sub for her. I skipped my usual Sunday yoga class in favor of some vigorous googling. I learned Kris was the CEO of tech start-up that I’d heard of but never thought much about. Tech stuff bored me tremendously, so all I really understood was the company developed apps, had started in 2008, and that it seemed to make a stupid amount of money.

  The word “wunderkind” was thrown around a lot when anyone wrote about Kristen. As a teenager in the early days of the internet, she’d taught herself how to code in her native Seattle. She earned a computer science degree from the University of Washington while moonlighting building websites. After college, she moved to California and got a job at the then relatively young Google. There wasn’t a gap in her résumé from then on, with years of freelancing on top of working at major tech companies before she launched her start-up. At thirty-six, she was successful in a way that sort of made me nauseous.

  Also? She was cute. In all her pictures, she wore an elegant V-neck sweater or blazer over a tie and button-down shirt, like that was her uniform. She had bright green eyes behind stylish, masculine glasses; glossy, short brown hair that clearly got cut in some expensive barbershop; and pretty lips on a handsome face. Her mouth seemed to rest like she was about to laugh in every picture, but always at a joke that only she knew.

  Next, I poked around Kris’s FetLife page, which meant joining FetLife. I gave myself a username that was pretty close to my real name and hoped it wouldn’t be a problem. Though I’d been experimenting with BDSM since college and curious before that, I’d been strictly a private player. I read some books and owned decent restraints, but I’d kept myself separate from anything that could be classified as a “scene.” I couldn’t quite take a lot of the BDSM stuff seriously, mostly because I could not get into the terminology. Looking over profiles and picking out a “role” for my own made me feel like I needed a kinkster dictionary.

  Kris’s profile was accessible enough at least. Her screen name was pretty generic, nothing that made me embarrassed like, say, “Mistress Kristen.” She identified as dominant, which was no surprise. Her picture was her outside on a sunny day, wearing sunglasses and a tank top. Her picture revealed that she had nice arms and also that she totally had the same tank top as Ollie. She had another picture, too, one of her in a very sharp three-piece suit.

  Her profile said, “I work long hours, so I’m not as active in the scene or on the site as I want. I’m also not as available as many potential partners might want. I like partners who have their own lives and their own interests. I especially love topping alpha femmes who run the show professionally and have their shit together, and bringing them to a place where they can let go and then past that. I’m not good at being a girlfriend, but I give great aftercare. I’m primarily interested in regular play partners. I’m interested in sharing my home eventually, though not in a strict 24/7 D/s relationship, or a traditional vanilla one. I’m still friends with just about everyone I’ve ever played with, and I want to like the people I tie up. I’m interested in women. I’m a cisgender butch lesbian, in case you weren’t sure.”

  Her profile also gave me a list of her turn-ons. Giving: face-slapping, biting, bruises, hair pulling, flogging, spanking, bondage, rough sex. Receiving: service, oral sex. Everything to do with: butch-femme, control, aftercare, and femmes. Watching others wear lingerie and red lipstick. Putting bratty bottoms in their place.

  Yeah, let’s meet, I emailed her as soon as I read that. When do you want to buy me coffee?

  Weekdays are crazy for me, so it will have to be the weekend, she replied right away. Next Sunday, 10 a.m., Philz in the Mission. There wasn’t a question mark in sight.

  It seemed to me that the place she was putting this bratty bottom was her spare bedroom, rent-free.

  Chapter Four

  Would I have gone out with Kris if I hadn’t been hoping to sub for a room? I thought about it as I took BART to the 24th Street Mission stop in San Francisco. Historically, I dated people who’d eventually be something big, but who were sort of a mess when I met them. My first girlfriend, Amanda, had gone on to get a PhD in English lit (with an eye toward feminist intersectionality) by thirty and adapt her thesis for an academic press. When we met, though, we were seniors in high school in Albuquerque. She was still using her given name and the male pronouns she’d been raised with. She was tortured about her gender identity, unfocused in her ambitions, and showing only hints of the brilliance she actually had.

  My next girlfriend, Carolena, was a fantastically political, furious student activist who never did her homework, and a wannabe rapper under the name La Verde. After college, she went to New York and became a full-time, well-respected activist.

  My kinkiest ex, Ronnie, spent most of our two years together working as a dog walker, getting faded in her ample free time, and stopping around the Bay Area to rescue stray dogs. After we broke up, she got into veterinary school and eventually joined a practice with a spotless reputation.

  My last ex, Beth, had been a sulky barista who constantly gave me just enough attention to keep me hooked. She took me out for a weekend trip to Napa and dumped me on the drive back to Oakland. Then she started therapy about her commitment issues, got a promotion to manager, met a genuinely nice woman, and was engaged before I’d updated my OKCupid profile.

  I thought it was notable that I loved these women before they really bloomed. Though I helped some, and in Amanda’s case, my sympathetic professor parents helped as much as I did, it wasn’t that I improved them. I just loved people unfinished and untidy, but most people don’t stay that way. On less generous days, I thought maybe I just couldn’t stand to be with someone who had it together when I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine myself with someone accomplished and sure of themselves when I was worrying about how long I could go without replacing my three-a-pack underwear from Target. Or when I was still toiling away and unsure if my dreams would ever come to anything.

  I couldn’t imagine how Kristen and I would have met in real life. We didn’t exactly move in the same circles. I also couldn’t imagine feeling brave enough to approach her, or any situation in which she’d approach me.

  But since we both knew Meghan and we maybe had complementary interests, there we were. Kristen stood outside Philz Coffee, wearing jeans, a T-shirt, a hoodie, and sneakers. She was on her phone, frowning, when I approached her. I was already sweating, running slightly late, and worried about my outfit. What did you wear to something
that was a date, job interview, possible new roommate meet, and kinky get-together all in one? I’d settled for black flats, fishnets, and a curve-hugging sleeveless red dress, topped off with giant hoop earrings. Seeing Kris, I worried I was overdressed.

  As soon as I waved, she gave me a big smile that revealed slightly crooked teeth. I’d never seen those in the pictures, I realized. She put away her phone. “Phoenix?” she asked.

  “Hi,” I squeaked and gave her an awkward hug. She was not as tall or imposing as I’d imagined, but she was still half a foot taller than five-foot-one-inch me.

  After she bought me coffee, we tried and failed to find an empty table. “Maybe we could walk over to Dolores Park?” she suggested.

  I nodded. I was so hopeful it would work out with Kris that I was a gulping, sweaty ball of anxiety. This was not my most attractive look.

  It was a beautiful August day, actually hot for a change, and Kris shrugged off her hoodie. She kept the conversation going for our short walk to Dolores, giving me a little background on herself. I was too nervous to do much more than nod along. When it became obvious that I wasn’t going to pull my own conversational weight, she told me she’d seen some of my aerial videos and was impressed.

  “Which did you watch?” I asked.

  “You and another woman were going up and down fabric in sync to Jenny Lewis.” She smiled.

  “I liked that performance.” I nodded, thinking of our careful climbs and drops on the silks. “The other woman is my friend Sasha.”

  “I saw another where she took your clothes off and put them on herself. You were on a trapeze.”

  I blushed. We’d done that low-flying trapeze act for a burlesque show years earlier. Sasha started the performance wearing only lingerie, but by the end I was the one stripped down to little more than pasties and a thong. She lay on the ground and pulled my shirt off while I dangled in a one-knee hang. I had held a crucifix pose as Sasha, kneeling in front of me, took my pants off. One night the zipper had gotten stuck and I stayed in the position so long that the rope had rubbed a patch of skin off my arm. I still had a scar.