Cuffing Kate. Alison Tyler

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      “Where?”

      “A walk.”

      “If you go by Juiceeze, pick me up a smoothie,” she said. “Carrot and ginger, please. That beer was foul. You shouldn’t drink those.”

      I didn’t answer. I worship Guinness.

      “And you don’t need any more coffee,” she added as I began to shut the door. “Putting caffeine in your body is like depositing counterfeit money in your bank account.” These were the pearls of wisdom Sonia tossed out every day. I let them roll under the dresser like dust bunnies on roller skates.

      Without a plan, I walked by Jules’s apartment. Then I stopped and looked at the shades on the windows. What if I went up and knocked on his door? What if I forced him to tell me exactly what had happened? I could imagine the way he would look at me. Every day, he bought java from the coffee bar, but we’d never actually spoken more than the most casual chitchat. What kind of crazy person confronts a virtual stranger about his sex life?

      I took a step. I spun around. I went home.

      * * *

      Patience is one of my only virtues. This strength comes with the fact that I have had to wait for nearly everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m not complaining. This is my truth. But is this also why I envy Sonia? Men fall into her lap. Instructors trip over themselves to hear what tidbit of wisdom she has to offer. This time, all I had to do was bide my time until she left for class.

      Her diary was exactly where she always kept it. Sonia would never think of me as a snoop. She lives so much on the surface, she never stirs her unvarnished toenails in the water to see if there’s depth.

      I sat on the edge of her bed, my hands shaking as I found the latest entry. Jules had asked her to dinner, but not at a restaurant, at his house. That was smart of him. Sonia has such restrictive eating habits. There are few decent vegan hotspots in the vicinity. He’d poured wine, which she accepted, even if she didn’t take a sip. Why had she gone to his place? From all the previous entries I’d read, Sonia had never gone home with a man.

      Her own words answered the question for me.

      He was a gentleman, and I loved the way he spoke. His words were eloquent as he described the text we’re reading.

      So what had happened? Sonia bored me for two paragraphs as she described her own feelings about the text then wrote a bit about how Jules had offered to coach her before her next debate. Finally there it was. A word leaped out at me, big and bold and black: Handcuffs.

      He said I was beautiful, but out of control. The way I had to gesture when I spoke, pacing, like an animal. He said he wanted to bind me down, so that I couldn’t move, and then he would see—we would see—what I had to say.

      I put the book down. I knew the ending already. She hadn’t let him bind her down. But I was aflutter at the thought that this man was so attractive, so intelligent, so kinky, and yet so unable to read the fact that Sonia was not the type of girl he was after.

      All year, I’d watched different men discover this fact for a variety of reasons. Sonia was like a coveted chocolate from the center of a scarlet, heart-shaped box—once you bit in, you found you’d made a disappointing choice. Too much nougat. Too many nuts.

      I’m the opposite. My co-worker, Dan, described me as WYSIWYG: What you see is what you get. Simple attire: well-worn Levi’s and an oxford button-down. Simple hairstyle: long and straight to the middle of my back. No frills, maybe, but simplicity can be sexy, too. Calvin Klein built his empire on clean-cut lines, didn’t he? Not that I could compare myself with the models in CK ads, but I have always striven for that sharp elegance. Black and white. No gray.

      I reread the part about being bound again. And again. Reluctantly I put her book back, exactly where she kept the journal, and went to my own room to touch myself. This was a skill I excelled at. In seconds, my hands were in routine motion—one stroking my breasts, the other making lazy circles over my clit through my panties—slow, languorous circles that had my breathing quickening immediately. But what to think about? What fairy tale to display today? I stared up at the ceiling, mentally tracing a tiny crack in the biscuit-hued plaster. Not sexy. I turned my head and took in the posters on my wall: black-and-white photos of lovers kissing on the subway, kissing in a way I’ve never been kissed. Sexy, but distant. I’d never experienced passion like that before.

      I turned my head the other way, confronted by my own image in the mirror over my dresser. Damn. Shy girl, with straight red hair, freckles, a lost look on her face.

      I shut my eyes. It was safer this way.

      There is a specific routine that always gets me off. I stroke myself gently at first, always through the barrier of whatever undergarments I have on.

      Oh, like that. Yes, like that.

      Only as the pleasure begins to build do I give in to touching myself skin to skin, fingers slipping underneath the waistband to taunt and tease. Why? I need to make myself yearn for release. See, when I’m by myself I have to play both Dom and sub.

      But did I?

      Suddenly I thought of Jules. He wouldn’t want me to touch myself, would he? He’d want my hands tied, so that I couldn’t move, so that we could see what would happen. Nice thought. But that presented an urgent problem: Could I actually come without any touching at all? Was that possible? I’d read about a porn star who could do this—a male, who would focus until he reached that pinnacle of pleasure all by himself. But, then again, he was a pro.

      With my hands at my sides, I spread my legs wide on my mattress. I thought of Jules, conjuring him up in my mind.

      When I draw, the pictures appear without thoughts. My hand works almost independently from my brain. I fall into the zone. That’s the easiest way for me to describe the sensation. Sometimes, when a picture is complete, I have no true recollection of having put pen to paper—or in my case, pencil to napkin. That’s where most of my art takes place. I draw all the time, quick sketches or “doodles” as my co-worker Dan says, a hint of a feature here, a line of an emotion there.

      Coming is like that for me. I lose myself in my fantasies. When I emerge, I am dazed.

      This was different.

      At first, I felt nothing. I was aroused, but I couldn’t imagine climaxing without actually touching myself, physically sliding one hand down my body, pushing my fingers under my white cotton boy shorts, finding my clit and pinching tight. I tend to tease myself—throwing in firm strokes in between the sweet caresses. This was frustrating. My legs were spread, my heart was racing, but nothing happened.

      I almost gave up right at the start, almost said, “fuck this” and went with the normal dog-and-pony show: round and round, in and out, round and round. A pinch, a spiral, a pinch. My hand was actually in motion, on the way back to the split of my body. But then I thought of what Sonia had written about Jules: He said he wanted to bind me down, so that I couldn’t move, and then he would see—we would see—what I had to say.

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