And him.
I feel a chill run through me. It’s strange thinking of the three sides to Logan I’ve already seen. I saw him half-naked in his towel; raw and exposed, rough around the edges and hard. I saw him for coffee; charming, polite, and kind. And then there was the Logan from the club: masked, dangerous, strict, and absolutely dominant. My core clenches around nothing just at the memory of him.
I’ve been with beautiful men before. I’ve been with kind and charming men. Some of them have made attempts at dominance, but I can see it now for what it was. False bravado. Nothing more. When I was within Logan’s power at the club, it was complete. I hung on his every word and breath, waiting to be commanded, craving his orders. Even though I had just met him, I felt completely safe in his control.
I haven’t been able to put my finger on exactly what has me so drawn to the experience, but maybe that’s it. I was able to give myself over to someone and felt complete trust in the submission. The freedom of knowing he was ready to explore my limits and boundaries. The experience was thrilling, but beneath the thrill and apprehension was a deeper sense of trust and acceptance. Maybe I’m imagining it all after the fact. I feel silly putting so much stock in a five minute encounter, but stupid or not, I can’t change the way I feel.
It could be that a lifetime of the people I care most about betraying my trust slowly poisoned me. It made me numb. But this new kind of relationship Logan has introduced me to isn’t just about pain and domination. The deep, all-encompassing kind of trust required to submit so completely is like a release for me. It’s too soon to know why or how, but I think being with Logan could be good for me. It could be exactly what I’ve been needing.
I feel sexually awake for the first time in my life. I feel ready to be taken, dominated, and used. I don’t even care how dirty that is, or how much it makes me sound like a whore. I have suffered through enough traditional relationships and enough traditional sex to earn the right to try something new.
I realize I’m still standing, hand poised to knock. I suck a breath through my teeth and get it over with, rapping my knuckles against the door two times. I wait, hearing the rattle of empty cans and plastic bags rustle from inside the small trailer.
Ronnie swings the door open. He’s tall, but not as tall as Logan, and not nearly as built. He’s lanky except for the beer belly pressing through his stained wife-beater. The smell of beer and stale sweat emanates from him, making me want to plug my nose. Like my mom, he has the look of a former high school star who peaked early and has only gone downhill since. He still has strong features, but his once powerful jaw line sags and his hair is creeping back from his forehead. He wears a dark expression until he sees its me.
“Emmaline,” he says, smiling wide “Come in.” He kicks a ripped trash bag that’s leaking liquid out of the way and gestures for me to step inside.
“Actually, I’m in a little bit of a hurry. Is my mom home?”
“Who’s that Ronnie?” asks my mom from inside.
“Get your ass out here!” Ronnie yells, voice full of sudden anger and annoyance. I hate the way he talks to her. My dad was always timid with her, and Ronnie couldn’t be any more different. He treats her like one of the trash bags littering the floor of their trailer, and she lets him. Maybe it was her misguided way of getting back at my dad for leaving. Maybe she thought the more miserable she made herself, the more guilty he would feel for leaving. She should have guessed he wouldn’t care.
My dad was indifferent to anything but his own best interests. Most men quickly learn to put themselves second when they start a family. Mom always said that part of my dad’s DNA was missing. I still remember when he stole the six dollars Mark had spent weeks saving up. Mark wanted to buy some stupid pack of cards because all his friends were into that. But dad used the money to buy beer. Or how he spent years promising me a car for my sixteenth birthday and I learned he ended up using the money to get himself a motorcycle instead, which he crashed a month later. If I had known there was a way for him to get his hands on my trust fund, I would’ve guessed he’d steal it a long time ago. I was dumb enough to let a few quick Google searches answer the question about whether he would have access.