Deep End

I THOUGHT IT MIGHT BE HARD TO SAY OUT LOUD, MOSTLY BECAUSE I never have, not to anyone who wasn’t . . . intimately involved in the matter. But the words flow out of me, as smooth as a perfect dive. No hiccups, no stutters, just a knife-sharp slice through rippling water. I picture a panel of seven smiling judges, raising several perfect-ten boards in unison.

Full points, Ms. Vandermeer. This disclosure of your sexual history was unimpeachably executed. Now hit the showers.

Not gonna lie, I’m feeling pretty proud. Unfortunately, Pen isn’t impressed. “You are into that?” She blinks and glances around the Coupa Café. Classes started this week, and campus is too crowded. Backpack straps wrapped around tanned shoulders, stickered water bottles, a new cohort of freshmen that comes in two versions: invincible and terrified. I started out the former, but my slide to the latter was swift.

Pen sets her elbows on the small wooden table, satisfied with our level of privacy. “You’re into what Luk’s into.”

“Well, I can’t be sure about that.”

“But you said . . . ?”

“There are many, many facets to kink and BDSM.”

“Right.”

“I’ve never talked with Lukas before this morning. I have no idea what he likes.”

“Should I tell you? He—”

“I—no, that’s not . . .” I clear my throat. Starting to have some regrets here. “That’s beyond the, um, scope of this conversation.”

“Ah.”

“You shouldn’t feel like you have to explain what you guys . . . but I was there”—unwillingly—“when you and Victoria were discussing the matter, and she seemed to be lending a slightly less than, um, sympathetic ear—”

“Hall of Fame–worthy understatement. Please, continue.”

“I just wanted to offer myself as a resource, as someone who has experience in . . . this.”

“And ‘this’ would be . . . ?”

“An established relationship in which only one party is interested in kink. Figuring out something you can both enjoy and can affirmatively consent to. If that’s what you want, of course,” I add with a small smile.

She leans back in her chair to study me, and I know what she’s seeing: damp dark hair, guarded dark eyes, unexpectedly dark sexual history. I’ve never navel-gazed too much about what turns me on—she could slap me on a microscope slide and label me Sexual Deviant, and I wouldn’t bat an eye. Still, it’s nice to see more curiosity than judgment in the tilt of her head.

“Luk wants to be in charge. Is that what you want, too, or . . . ?”

I shake my head. “The opposite, actually.”

“Ah.” She curls a finger in an auburn strand of hair. Pen’s coloring was the first thing I noticed about her, back in the varsity circuit. How strikingly beautiful she was—generous, too. In competition, between dives, athletes usually avoid looking at each other. Not Pen, though. Always a kind smile. Never arrogant, even though she was always ahead in our age group, by leaps and bounds. The flag bearer at the Junior Olympics. She’d dive with pink, then blue hair. Friendship bracelets made by her fans. Nail art. I found her impossibly cool. I’ll never not be intimidated by her, at least a little bit.

“How did you discover it?”

“How did I discover . . . ?”

“That you were into it.”

A guy who looks remarkably like Dr. Rodriguez’s fascist TA, the one who docked one point off my orgo final for writing the wrong date, walks by. Bet he’d love an earful. “I always knew, to some degree. I mean, I wasn’t browsing eBay for deals on PVC masks in middle school, but once I became, um, aware of and interested in sex, I always had . . . fantasies. Ideas.” I shrug, and don’t add, It felt right. It feels right.

“I see.” Pen nods, thoughtful. “And how did you end up actually, you know, doing it?”

“My high school boyfriend and I dated for about three years.” I skip the part where we were neighbors, then seventh-grade best friends, then fell in love. I trusted him, and it was an easy conversation, as easy as everything else with Josh. Everything except for that phone call during freshman year. His subdued tone as he explained, It’s not just because of her . . . honestly, the distance is a lot. And maybe our personalities are too different for this to last? That one, it had been difficult. “I told him what I was interested in.”

“And he . . . was he interested, too?”

I workshop the perfect phrasing. “Not in the same things. That’s why I thought my experience might be relevant to you and Lukas.” Because Lukas Blomqvist is kinky. Lukas “Olympic gold medalist, swim-world darling, record-holding Scandinavian treasure” Blomqvist. What is life?

“And how did you approach the situation?”

“I told him what I thought might be hot. Josh did the same. We cross-referenced.” The resulting Venn diagram didn’t include much, but still.

“This is so Fifty Shades, Vandy.”

“Right?” Our eyes meet, and we share a smile at the improbability of all of this. But she seems much more at ease.

“Would you be able to explain what you like about letting someone else take charge?”

Would I? “It’s lots of things garbled together.” The ease of prenegotiating a social interaction. Having, for once, specific instructions. The stable quiet in the never-ending chaos of my brain. The satisfaction of doing something right, of being told as much. Disconnecting from the rest of the world and going with the flow. And yeah: I’m not sure why I’m wired like that, but pain and pleasure have always mixed up in my head, and it feels good when someone I trust pinches my nipples. It’s that simple, sometimes. “To me, it’s about freedom.”

She snorts. “The freedom of . . . having someone telling you what to do?”

“I know it sounds counterintuitive, but I’m usually overthinking something. Desperately trying to avoid screwing up and working myself up to a panic.” Am I taking up too much space? Boring you? Disappointing you? Would you rather be somewhere else, with someone else? “Overwhelmed by the burden of wondering whether I’m doing it right.”

“Doing what right?”

I laugh. “I’m not even sure. Sex, but also, more in general, being a human?” I shrug, because that’s the problem, isn’t it? There is no right or wrong way to exist. Real life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. Fortunately, sex can. My kind of sex. “If someone I feel safe with is directing me . . .”

“You like the structure.”

“That’s a good way of putting it.” I smile. “I can’t speak for Lukas, or people on the more . . . dominant end of it.” The word oscillates bizarrely between us. Truth is, I don’t feel totally comfortable doling out BDSM terms, either. Like any other community, I cradle an assortment of doubts on whether I have what it takes to truly belong. Labels have to be earned, and my pockets always seem too empty to pay up. “But clearly they get something out of it.”

“Clearly. Are you and your boyfriend still together?” Her gaze sharpens. “I feel like I know so little about you.”

What a coincidence. I, too, know very little about me. “We broke up.”

“And the guy you’re seeing now . . . ?”

“I’m not. Seeing anyone, that is.”

“But that’s not because of what you’re into?”

“Not really.” At least, not entirely. What I like to tell myself and whoever asks—Barb, mostly—is that I’m too busy and career driven to date. But my celibate phase has been going on so long, I’m not sure it’s voluntary anymore, and I’d rather not mention that after what happened with my dad, men can be unsettling to be around.

“I suspect I shouldn’t ask it like this, but I truly have no clue how to phrase it, so I’ll just . . . Did your ex hurt you? During sex, I mean.”

I nod. “Sometimes. A little.”

“And you were okay with it?”

“Absolutely. Everything was pre-agreed. We constantly checked in with each other and had a safe word.”

“Oh my god, so Fifty Shades. Did it ever make you feel . . . ?”

“Feel what?”

“Like you’re flushing seventy years of feminism down the toilet?” Her face scrunches in a guilty grimace, but it’s nothing I haven’t asked myself.

“For me, choosing to be sexually submissive has little to do with gender equality. And I’m not giving up my rights. Josh always stopped when I asked him to—and the other way around.” I shrug again. “I understand how vulnerable it can be, discussing this stuff. For you. For Lukas, even. Plus, kinky people sometimes get this bad rap, like we’re intrinsically aggressive or predatory—”

“I know you aren’t,” she hurries out, palms wide open. “I’m not a prude, I swear. I don’t think Luk is twisted or disturbed for wanting this.”

My relief is genuine. “Good.”

“It’s more that I am not into it.”

“That is absolutely your prerogative.” I scratch the back of my neck, where I forgot to put on lotion before diving. Hello, chlorine rash, my old friend. “And if you told Lukas that you’re not interested in exploring those sexual dynamics and he’s insisting on it, that’s a huge red flag that—”

“That’s the thing, he’s not. We tried. Because it was . . . well, it was obvious that he wanted it. So I offered.” She wraps her hand around her untouched iced latte, but doesn’t take a sip. “I just hate it. Being told what to do. Asking for permission. I already have Coach Sima’s incessant commentary about my diving techniques buzzing in my ear—I don’t want to hear ‘You’re doing this or that so well, Pen’ while we’re fucking.” She rolls her eyes. “Such paternalistic bullshit. No offense.”

This is, perhaps, the least relatable thing anyone has ever said to me. “None taken. Did you tell him you didn’t enjoy it?”

“Yup. And he immediately stopped. Never brought it up again. He still wants it, though. I know he does.”

This conversation is taking a turn that’s less Kink 101, more GQ sex advice column. I might be out of my depth. “So he made the conscious decision to put his relationship with you and your well-being before his sexual preferences, which is commendable—”

“It’s stupid.” The word is a sibilant, frustrated hiss. She leans closer, her eyes once again that liquid green. “I love him. I really do. But . . .” A bob in her throat. Her posture straightens. “I want other things, too. I want to go to a party and flirt freely. I want to be hit on without feeling like I’m betraying someone. I want to have fun.” A deep breath. “I want to sleep with other people. See what that’s like.”

It all sounds as fun as shaving my armpits with a can opener. But Pen is not me. Pen is outgoing and funny. Pen has work-life balance. Pen knows what to do, and when to do it. Everyone likes Pen. “How does Lukas feel about this? Is he angry? Or jealous?”

She rolls her eyes. “Luk’s too self-assured to feel anything as lowly as that.”

Wouldn’t know what that’s like. “What about you? Would you be jealous if he were to sleep with other people?”

“Not really. Lukas and I have history. We love each other. Honestly, even if we break up, I suspect that we’ll find each other in the future. We’re kind of meant to be.”

Where do these people get their bottomless reservoirs of confidence? From a pot at the end of a rainbow? “Meant to be . . . except for the ‘meh’ sex?”

“It’s not—the sex is good.” For the first time in this very flush-worthy conversation, Pen flushes. “Luk is—he’s very single-minded. It’s more that—” Her phone buzzes, shaking the entire table. Pen glances at it once, mid-sentence, distracted. Then again, lingering. “Fuck.”

“Everything okay?”

“My International Trade study group. I forgot we’re meeting.” She leaps out of her chair and quickly gathers her stuff. Inhales her iced latte in record-eclipsing time and tosses the cup in the recycling bin. “I’m sorry. This is so rude, unloading on you for twenty minutes and—”

“No problem at all. Do your thing.”

“Okay. Shit, I have to run all the way to Jackie’s place.”

Her voice fades as she dashes out of the café, and I’m left alone, contemplating the sheer weirdness of the afternoon, the sheer idiocy of putting myself in this situation, the sheer impenetrability of the relationship between Penelope Ross and Lukas Blomqvist.

Then Pen runs back inside and stops by my chair. “Hey, Vandy?”

I glance up. “Did you forget something?”

“I just wanted to say . . .” Her grin broadens. It helps me realize how strained her earlier smiles have been. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. For being cool and not judgy. I’m glad you’re all healed and back on the team.”

I barely manage a nod, and then she’s sprinting out, leaving me to wonder if anyone else ever uttered the word cool in relation to me.