I walk past the first room I ever redid, the formal dining room I converted into my personal library, my dream room. Three of the walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases full of nearly every genre. There’s a writing desk in the center of the room, and an overstuffed chair with a large ottoman in one corner where I spend hours getting lost between pages. A thick rug covers the wood floor that I love to squish between my toes. And there’s a small side table next to the chair that’s only large enough to hold a diffuser and my coffee. Yeah, it probably is weird to fill the room with relaxing lavender-scented steam and then hop myself up on caffeine, but that’s just who I am as a person.
I pass through my living room and past my kitchen, making my way to my bedroom, where I toe off my ballerina flats and nudge them into the closet. I strip out of my blouse and slacks then shimmy out of my panties tossing them into the hamper beside my dresser. I unhook and let my bra fall down my arms, catching it in my hand before putting it in the top drawer where it goes with all the rest. I didn’t sweat today, seeing as it’s air conditioned in the school and a wonderfully mild temperature in the middle of autumn, so no need to wash my bras after every wear and wear them out. Those suckers are expensive. And while I have enough money to live comfortably for years to come if I don’t splurge, thanks to my inheritance, undergarments are not something I want to waste money on.
Although there was one splurge I made, but I’ve definitely gotten my money’s worth out of it—the five-figure membership fee for Club Alias. An extravagant amount to most people, but priceless when it comes to my mental health. I’d pay it over and over again for the peace it brings me, but luckily, it’s a lifetime membership unless one breaks the rules and gets banned.
I, for one, am anything but a rulebreaker, so I won’t ever have to worry about getting booted from my happy place. The rules of Club Alias are like Fight Club—you don’t talk about it. You don’t tell anyone about it unless you trust them to join, at which time you have to be their sponsor. You’re responsible for them, and if they break the rules, it’s on you. No one wants to get kicked out, so everyone is super cautious about the people they’re willing to vouch for.
I personally learned about Club Alias through my therapist, Dr. Walker. After years of being his patient, he had me sign a non-disclosure agreement before telling me all about the club, where he thought I’d benefit more from than on any type of medication. And he was right. As long as I get my weekly dose, it gets me through the rest of the time without having to zombify myself with anti-anxiety and anti-depressants, which I’d taken various cocktails of since my parents died and never found the right combination for me. The club was the perfect prescription for me.
I pad into my bathroom and turn on the shower, letting the water heat up and making sure I have the right scented shampoo for my Dom of the evening. He prefers the fruity to the floral. After I’ve washed my hair, shave everything from my neck down, and soap up with my citrus body wash, I give everything one last extra rinse before stepping out and toweling off.
I wrap my hair up in a towel and slide my arms into my robe, tying the belt at the waist. I have a few hours to relax before I’m to be at the club tonight, and I plan on spending it in my comfy chair in my library, devouring the next VB Lowe book. Turns out, one of my favorite romance authors is a member of Club Alias and married one of the owners, so I get signed copies whenever she releases a new one. Which is quite frequently, if I think about it. I heard her talking one time about how her husband uses her word count as a game at home. I didn’t stick around to hear the details, but there was something about sexy punishments if she didn’t meet her goal for the day.
It sounded romantic to me, enough to make the tendrils of jealousy creep along the edges of my consciousness. And while I was having the greatest orgasms of my life every week, it made me uncomfortable to think about the loneliness I tried not to acknowledge when I was at home.
What would it be like to be in a relationship with someone who actually understands my needs? Someone who I could live this life with daily instead of having to wait for my weekly fix on Friday evenings. Sure, I could go any other day of the week if I wanted, but having to wake up so early during the work week—be there an hour before school starts plus my hour-long commute—doesn’t really allow for me to go more often. And normally I’m so exhausted after my Friday night adventure that going back Saturday evening is just a no-go for not only my ladybits but also my psyche.