of me. So I’m still tripping over the idea that he owns a place where women—and men—are paid for having sex in front of an audience.
Yes, I understand that it’s consensual, that it’s a lifestyle choice some people enjoy, but it’s weird. It’s wrong, in this scenario. Hansel is my hero. And heroes don’t belong in sex clubs. They just don’t.
Heroes belong at home with a wife and kids, or a nice dog and a fishing pole and a good book, or a grill out on the deck. I’m not saying he can’t have kinky sex. I’ve got nothing against kinky. I think I might even like it kinky. That is not my problem.
My problem is the décor. What the fuck? I just don’t understand.
My problem is the casting call for sex partners.
My problem is that when I stepped outside the lines, he shoved me out the door. I made myself hurt him, and when I stopped playing by the script—when I started to let loose a little, to act normal—he couldn’t handle it.
Why not?
I’m not sure I can even handle knowing.
A small, cowardly part of me wishes I could forget I even saw him. Laughable, of course. I got to touch him, feel his hands on me. His mouth on me. I heard his laugh. I was there with Hansel, after ten long years of wanting nothing more than him. How could I forget that? How could I want to?
I…fuck, I don’t know. Can I say I love him? Is that insane? It’s been ten years, plus the soul-sucking experience of Monday afternoon, and still…I want him with both mind and body.
I reach onto the table beside me, grab a chocolate-covered strawberry, and pop it into my mouth. I eat a few more while I stare out at the hazy Vegas sunset, streaking in between the billboards and buildings.
I’ve been sitting here almost all day and night since leaving The Forest Monday evening. Sitting here, trying to tell myself to close the door on this part of my life. Cut my losses and go home.
He didn’t know I was me, but if he had? I’ve got no reason to assume he’d care. I’ve got every reason to assume he wouldn’t want to see me at all, given an option. Or if he did, he wouldn’t want more than a ten minute hi-how-are-ya. He wouldn’t see the two of us as having anything in common anymore. I don’t know for sure, of course, but that’s what I think would happen.
So here I sit, stuffing my face and avoiding the thought that I’m leaving tomorrow. Avoiding the extreme….the extreme disappointment , I think as tears start to flow.
I was right there with him, and I didn’t play it right. I couldn’t make him want to keep me there.
I dreamed of that for years, and it was…wrong. So wrong. So disturbing, with the decorations like the ones at Mother’s house; the way he wanted me to hurt him. Maybe the worst part is, it makes me wonder about… fuck! I start to sob.
Why did he want me to do those things? What does he need with a…submissive woman? Why isn’t he married?
Why aren’t you , my conscience whispers.
He should be happy. He shouldn’t be lonely. He seemed lonely.
I should have talked to him—as me.
It wouldn’t have mattered.
It might have.
Go back, then.
But I can’t.
I know I can’t. It’s one thing to be rejected when he didn’t know who he was rejecting, but if he looked at me like that, knowing I’m Leah…
I just know I couldn’t handle it. I’d be looking for pills before I even made it to the airport.
I shove out of the chair and throw myself on my bed, where I hug my pillow and cry hysterically until I fall asleep.
When I wake, it’s ten o’clock. I feel no better. Only quieter. More resigned. More disillusioned.
The heavy questions bump through my head, making themselves known to me in loud whispers despite my refusal to acknowledge them.
This is the end of the story for Hansel? This is his happily ever after?
What did you expect, Leah? Where is yours?
But I’m me, and my failings and my longings are not news. His are.
I get into the bath and dump a mountain of bath
Yes, I understand that it’s consensual, that it’s a lifestyle choice some people enjoy, but it’s weird. It’s wrong, in this scenario. Hansel is my hero. And heroes don’t belong in sex clubs. They just don’t.
Heroes belong at home with a wife and kids, or a nice dog and a fishing pole and a good book, or a grill out on the deck. I’m not saying he can’t have kinky sex. I’ve got nothing against kinky. I think I might even like it kinky. That is not my problem.
My problem is the décor. What the fuck? I just don’t understand.
My problem is the casting call for sex partners.
My problem is that when I stepped outside the lines, he shoved me out the door. I made myself hurt him, and when I stopped playing by the script—when I started to let loose a little, to act normal—he couldn’t handle it.
Why not?
I’m not sure I can even handle knowing.
A small, cowardly part of me wishes I could forget I even saw him. Laughable, of course. I got to touch him, feel his hands on me. His mouth on me. I heard his laugh. I was there with Hansel, after ten long years of wanting nothing more than him. How could I forget that? How could I want to?
I…fuck, I don’t know. Can I say I love him? Is that insane? It’s been ten years, plus the soul-sucking experience of Monday afternoon, and still…I want him with both mind and body.
I reach onto the table beside me, grab a chocolate-covered strawberry, and pop it into my mouth. I eat a few more while I stare out at the hazy Vegas sunset, streaking in between the billboards and buildings.
I’ve been sitting here almost all day and night since leaving The Forest Monday evening. Sitting here, trying to tell myself to close the door on this part of my life. Cut my losses and go home.
He didn’t know I was me, but if he had? I’ve got no reason to assume he’d care. I’ve got every reason to assume he wouldn’t want to see me at all, given an option. Or if he did, he wouldn’t want more than a ten minute hi-how-are-ya. He wouldn’t see the two of us as having anything in common anymore. I don’t know for sure, of course, but that’s what I think would happen.
So here I sit, stuffing my face and avoiding the thought that I’m leaving tomorrow. Avoiding the extreme….the extreme disappointment , I think as tears start to flow.
I was right there with him, and I didn’t play it right. I couldn’t make him want to keep me there.
I dreamed of that for years, and it was…wrong. So wrong. So disturbing, with the decorations like the ones at Mother’s house; the way he wanted me to hurt him. Maybe the worst part is, it makes me wonder about… fuck! I start to sob.
Why did he want me to do those things? What does he need with a…submissive woman? Why isn’t he married?
Why aren’t you , my conscience whispers.
He should be happy. He shouldn’t be lonely. He seemed lonely.
I should have talked to him—as me.
It wouldn’t have mattered.
It might have.
Go back, then.
But I can’t.
I know I can’t. It’s one thing to be rejected when he didn’t know who he was rejecting, but if he looked at me like that, knowing I’m Leah…
I just know I couldn’t handle it. I’d be looking for pills before I even made it to the airport.
I shove out of the chair and throw myself on my bed, where I hug my pillow and cry hysterically until I fall asleep.
When I wake, it’s ten o’clock. I feel no better. Only quieter. More resigned. More disillusioned.
The heavy questions bump through my head, making themselves known to me in loud whispers despite my refusal to acknowledge them.
This is the end of the story for Hansel? This is his happily ever after?
What did you expect, Leah? Where is yours?
But I’m me, and my failings and my longings are not news. His are.
I get into the bath and dump a mountain of bath
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