Summer slave in San Francisco Ch. 02

I’m abuzz on the train ride home. I can feel my whole body, as if everyone can see every detail of my body despite the jacket, sweater, and skinny jeans I’m wearing. I think being stripped and appraised like that has an effect on one’s psychology.

Ok, I’ll speak for myself–it’s having an effect on my psychology.

The guy actually jumped at my offer! I can’t believe it. On an intellectual level this arrangement I cooked up feels like a rational, fair exchange. He trades his excess capital in exchange for my excess time and labor, and we both get a kinky thrill out of it. Done. It’s a win-win.

But actually doing it is something altogether different. “I’m going to be that guy’s personal slave for the summer,” I tell myself silently as trees, buildings, and streets whir by out the window of my train car. “Am I ready for this?”

Perhaps a better question is, “What is he going to do with me?”

The question hits me hard, with an earnestness and an urgency that I haven’t yet confronted. What will it actually be like? Will he be super horny all the time and just use me as a fuck-toy? I succeeded in ruling out anal sex, but I had planned on ruling out far more than that. Now that I think about it, I left the door open to him doing lots and lots of things to me, and it’s not like I can just leave if it gets too intense. I mean, I definitely have the right to pack up and leave whenever I want, but that would mean moving back in with my parents (at least while I find a steady job) and effectively closing the door on my dream career as a novelist. If this is going to work, I have to really go all-in.

What I realize in that moment is that I need this relationship to be more than transactional. If it’s just, “I get this and you get that,” then not only am I going to be constantly worried about things go too far, I’m going to feel exploited and abused as well.

“We have to both enjoy this,” I tell myself. “It has to be fun and a net plus overall, something we both buy into. It can’t feel like paying for a product or service.”

As for how to get there, though, I’m really not sure. I just barely met this guy and our first encounter felt a little competitive, even adversarial. “His name is Alan,” I remind myself. “And he’s a person just like you, probably wondering about this odd kid and his weird, brazen proposal. Cut him some slack.”

I spend much of the rest of the train ride home mulling ways to move my relationship with Alan–my future slave master–from exploitative transactional to enthusiastic consensual. I’m optimistic we can both get there, but every time my mind wanders to how the evening went, or to what the rules I agreed to permit Alan to do to me, my heart starts beating faster, my stomach churns with anxious excitement, and I find myself back at square one.

As I get off the train at my station and start the long walk to my room in the dorms, I hook my thumbs in the belt loops of my jeans and ponder the fact that I may spend long stretches of the summer without clothes.

“How will it feel to live naked?” I wonder.

My mind starts to swim and reel again with unchecked possibilities. Finally, a voice of reason inside me takes over.

I need to calm down, slow down, I’m freaking out. I can still back out, get a desk job, and rent a small apartment in my hometown.

This succeeds in calming me down, but despair, boredom, and regret immediately settle in place wild uncertainty had previously inhabited like a heavy stone dropping to the bottom of a quiet lake.

I’m not ready to surrender my dreams, I realize. Going home means suffocating who I want to be.

“Odd,” I muse. “It seems I can either surrender my dreams or submit to Alan. Which submission do I choose?”

By the time I get back to the dorms it’s obvious to me which one I want. But I’m still worried Alan, whom I still hardly know at all, will take full advantage of my vulnerability to do all kinds of things to me–things that, while technically not disallowed by our agreement, are in my mind a breach of the spirit of it. In order for this to work, I need him to work with me, learning what turns me on and excites me, what is and isn’t over the line for me. And I probably need to do the same, I realize, learning what makes my offer exciting and worthwhile for him and making sure he’s glad for the arrangement, too.

Back in my room, I open my laptop and begin crafting an email.

Hey Alan,

It was great meeting you tonight. I hope you feel the same. I didn’t expect to get naked so quickly, but I appreciate the candor. It’s certainly better than beating around the bush!

I’m pleasantly surprised how well we got along and that we see eye-to-eye on this whole thing. I was honestly doubtful I would find anyone for whom this arrangement seemed exciting and made sense. And I’m flattered you want to start right away.

I think I need a bit more time to commit fully to this. Since I’m moving out of my student apartment in two weeks, I propose we use part of next week as a test run, if you will. How about this: I come up to SF on Thursday afternoon and stay until Saturday morning. In the meantime, we act as if the arrangement was in force–I’ll spend my free time writing and you can take advantage of having me around to do your bidding. This will give us both the opportunity to see if things are going to work out the way we expect and hope. What do you think?

Anyway, it was great meeting you and I look forward to moving forward with this.

Sincerely,

James

My inner writer cringes at the repeated use of the word ‘forward’ twice in the final sentence, but I know myself too well and push “send” before my inner editor paralyzes me into inaction. Alan replies within minutes:

Dear James,

The pleasure was all mine. And I’m glad you’re getting used to being naked–I don’t plan to let you cover it up much. Of course you can take time to think it over some more. But don’t waffle too much. The arrangement is only attractive to me if I know you’re all-in. Enthusiastic consent and all that.

I think the test-run plan sounds reasonable. I particularly like that it gives us the opportunity to experience a weekday together. I’m looking forward to having you around.

Alan

“How does he respond so quickly?” I wonder. Unlike how I feel, there seems to be no hesitation with him. He must know exactly what he wants and have no qualms taking it. I, on the other hand, seem terrified that I might actually get what I want.

****************************

I spend the next several days trying to pretend that the things I’m doing matter. It’s final examinations week, but I’m only taking one course with an in-class final–the others are mostly senior thesis-related courses and my thesis is already completed. I’ve been writing a first draft of a novel I hope to publish–one of the major tasks of the summer, actually. Getting the draft completed felt huge, but ever since then I’m realizing it’s only the first step on a long journey to establishing myself as a professional novelist. For starters, first drafts are pretty terrible, as a rule, and I’m certain mine is no exception. I haven’t received feedback from my professors yet, but I’m sure there will be lots of work to do to make it publisher-ready. What I need is time and space.

That’s what this kinky slave summer is all about.

Long story short, I drift through the week’s events in a daze, already half gone. I spend more time seeing acquaintances and friends for the last time than studying or writing. I need this era to wrap up and finish before I can move on, which I’m impatient to do.

And then it’s Thursday, and I’m packing a small duffel bag with clothes and toiletries. I tell my roommates I’ll be in the city seeing a family friend until Saturday evening. They think nothing of it. I throw a few extra pairs of skimpy underwear in my bag for Alan, wondering if I’ll be wearing even that much.

My stomach churns the whole way to San Francisco. I breathe deep and let myself surrender to what is, to what will be. That’s going to be the key, I’m starting to realize.

Submission.

Submit. You don’t control it. Let stuff happen to you, one voice says.

But also use your voice and communicate what you want and need, another says, quietly.

Before I know it I’m walking up the steps to Alan’s loft. It’s warm for SF. I’m wearing skinny jeans and a t-shirt with the logo of my favorite tabletop RPG podcast on it. I wonder if Alan will understand the reference. I realize that would be really nice, knowing that we share something in common, that we’re “on the same team” in some sense. That we can trust each other.

Trust.

I mull the word in my mind as I knock. Feels like the word of the day.

“How do I communicate that I trust Alan?” I wonder. “And how do I communicate that I need to be able to trust him?”

The door opens and Alan–short, balding, and ever-bored–is once more standing there.

“Well, hello,” he says in his underwhelmed tone of voice. “So good of you to drop by.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I flash him a shy smile instead. It occurs to me in that moment that not only is Alan going to fuck with me over the next day and a half, he’s also going to take care of me. I’ll be sleeping in his apartment, using his bathrooms, maybe even eating his food. It makes me feel even more junior in this relationship, like a young woman dating an older man.

I think Alan notices some of this in my smile because I sense a quiet undertone of pleased excitement in his eyes, like someone about to assume a familiar and well-loved role.

“Well don’t just stand there all night,” he chides sarcastically, stepping back and opening the door wider.

I laugh awkwardly and mutter ‘thanks’ under my breath as I step into his domain, duffel bag in hand.

“I’m home,” I feel. But also, “Welcome to the lion’s den.”

“There’s your setup.” Alan points to his left. The odd little foyer and coat closet has been transformed into a cozy bedroom. A twin size bed fits along the front wall underneath a window with Venetian blinds. Between it and the closet sit a small night stand and a lamp. An oval rug covers the tiled floor.