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what I heard coming out of there, I don’t
think I want you to show me,” I said.
    “I’m
not going to hurt you, I don’t know, it’s hard to come out and say, you kind of
put me on the spot,” he sighed.
    Against
my better judgment, I followed him to his spare bedroom. He ushered me through
the door, and walked over to open the closet. Inside were whips and rods, canes
and belts. There were various clamps, collars, and tools I didn’t recognize
displayed in an over the door shoe organizer. He walked over to the dresser and
opened the drawers to reveal giant dick shaped hunks of plastic and silicone,
as well as plugs of various shapes and sizes. Vibrators that
plugged into the wall. Restraints. More clamps. I was kind of horrified,
but also a little impressed.
                “Holy
fuck balls, Cash. Do I have to sign a contract now? Do you want to do this to
me?” I asked, genuinely concerned. I don’t know what kind of situation I got
myself in. For all I know, it could be one of those “If you want to be with me,
this is the only way you can be with me” deals. I’m super overwhelmed, still pretty
drunk, but mostly relieved that at least what I heard coming through the wall
was consensual. This was bondage gear, not torture gear, if there’s a
difference. I’m pretty sure there is a difference.
    “No,
this isn’t Fifty Shades. I don’t want to do this to you. I’m not a kinky sex
robot. I have established and well trained subs I don’t really like to take on
new, inexperienced ones. I’m not vetting you as a sub. I’m genuinely interested
in you,” he asserted.  
    “Do
you fuck these women?” I ask, convinced that this is somehow relevant.
    “Does
that matter? Yes, I fuck them. Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t. It depends on my
mood and the scene,” he explains.
      “I don’t know. Does it matter? I kind of feel like it matters. Maybe it doesn’t. Anyway,
what makes you think I’m inexperienced, that’s really rude of you to assume actually,
you don’t know me,” I scold.
    “Your
face when I showed you my gear kind of gave you away,” he laughed.
    “Ok.
You got me. Maybe I’ve never done any
of this stuff. But I think I’m into it. What if I wanted you to do this to me?”
I prod. He grabbed me and pinned me on the bed.
    “Do
what exactly? It’s not a blanket thing. There’s specific acts, specific kinks.
Not all of my girls get the same experience. It’s a very personal and tailored
to your likes and dislikes,” he whispered.
    “I
don’t know. I’ll do some research and get back to you,” I stammered. He laughed
and let go of my arms. While it may be true that I do not have in depth
knowledge of the inner workings of the BDSM lifestyle, I do find myself in
enough weird porn cycles to know that it’s something I’d probably be into. You
know the drill; you’re watching porn and it starts out innocent enough. Then
you start clicking on more and more depraved shit until you end up coming to
some bitch getting choked out while someone pours pancake batter into her ass
with a funnel. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.
    “I
don’t think I want to go down that
road with you. I mean, we can do rough shit in bed if you’re into that. We can
get kinky. But I don’t want to put you in a scene. I don’t want to make you a
sub. That would add a really weird dynamic that I don’t like, but, Jesus. We
haven’t even fucked yet. Can we just like… hang out? Get to know each other?”
he said with a hint of frustration.  
    I
get that. I guess. He wants to keep his romantic life separate from his- whatever
the fuck this is. So he is a weird
sex freak, but it’s not like he’s a rapist or murderer. He does weird shit with
other equally weird, consenting adults. I can deal with that, right? I should
probably be flattered that he sees me as a person, and not an object to attend
to his sexual gratification. Or fetch him his slippers or whatever the