Vanilla

3

I want to see you tonight.

Not may I, or I wish, but I want. I hadn’t been expecting the message, though as far as surprises went, it was definitely a pleasant one. With my phone tucked into the front pocket of my purse while I shopped for a quick cart of junk food for my nephew’s sleepover, I’d missed the message when it came in twenty minutes before. I thumbed a reply as I waited in line to check out.

I can’t tonight.

To my additional surprise, JohnSmith is Typing appeared at the top of the app. That meant Esteban had read and was replying immediately, which wasn’t usual for a weekend. In the beginning, we had connected late at night in those dark hours between midnight and three, when smart people were asleep. Most of our conversations now happened during the workweek between two and four in the afternoon.

I really want to see you.

Before I could type an answer, my phone rang. Even more surprised now, because Esteban never called me without asking me first for permission, I thumbed the screen to answer. “What’s wrong?”

The woman in front of me gave me a curious glance. I lowered my voice. “Are you okay?”

“I want to see you,” he told me, which was not the answer to my question. “Can we meet tonight?”

“I have...” I hesitated. Esteban and I didn’t talk about our lives, not in great detail. We talked about our jobs. We talked about sex. The rest of it, by unspoken agreement, was covered in vagueness and clouds. I had my reasons for keeping it that way and had always assumed Esteban did, too. “Plans. I can’t change them. I’m sorry. If I’d known sooner—”

“I didn’t know I would be able to see you tonight.” He sounded disappointed.

We’d never had a last-minute sort of relationship, even before we’d settled into our regular monthly dates. This sudden urgency from him made me wary. “Sorry. I didn’t know you’d want to.”

“I miss you.”

I glanced at the woman in front of me in line, who was clearly eavesdropping. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. You just feel very far away.” His voice deepened for a moment, his impeccable English overlaid by that delicious accent that was as much about the spaces between his words as it was the way he pronounced them. Esteban sighed. “I need to see you.”

Before Esteban, there’d been other men. More than I wanted to think about, not because I was ashamed but because most of them had not been worth the effort. When you lose something you love before you’re ready to give it up, you look for it wherever else you can find it, and I’d looked for what I wanted in a lot of places before Esteban’s sweetly respectful message had showed up in my inbox at OnHisKnees.com.

I’m starving, he’d told me when we’d been talking for a few weeks. I’d asked him what he was looking for, why he was on the site. What he wanted. I’m hungry all the time for something I can’t seem to find.

I understood what he meant. About hunger. About how you could glut yourself on something and yet still be empty.

I couldn’t stop myself from liking Esteban. He was sweet and smart and funny; he made me laugh and challenged me mentally as well as gave me delicious orgasms. It wasn’t something we talked about, the tenuous emotional connection between us that wasn’t supposed to be there because what we had was meant to be only physical.

“I’m right here.” I cradled the phone against my shoulder as I put my items on the conveyer belt. I’d kept my voice low, cautious of giving the people around me a free show. “I’m at the store now, though. I have to go. Can you call me in about an hour? I’ll have some time to talk to you then.”

He sighed. “An hour until I get to bathe in the melody of your voice? Okay.”

I disconnected, bemused at his urgency. Flattered, a little. The melody of my voice? It was over the top and silly, but warmed me anyway.

I dropped off my groceries at home and got back in my car to head for the synagogue just as my phone rang again. I let the call ring through to my car speakers so I could drive while we talked.

“Are you driving?” Esteban asked. “I hear noise.”

“Yep, I’m in the car.”

“Drive to me,” he said. “Meet me!”

I didn’t answer immediately. It wasn’t like him to be so demanding, and though desire is an aphrodisiac, this game had never been about Esteban telling me what to do. I wasn’t about to start playing it that way now.

“Hush,” I said sharply. “I told you, I can’t. I have plans.”

I’d heard that same soft intake of breath often enough to know his reaction. It was my tone of voice. The idea of my disapproval and of facing the consequences of it. He’d be hard as a rock right about now.

Damn, I loved that.

“I’m sorry,” Esteban said, instantly apologetic.

I softened. “Hush, I said. I’m happy you want to see me. And normally, I’d love to see you tonight. But I can’t, as I said.”

“You have a date?”

“It’s not your concern,” I said, harsher than I wanted to be, but proving a point. “I told you I have plans. That’s enough for you to know.”

“Would he do for you the things I will?”

I didn’t answer right away, turning over my own reaction in my head before letting it take control. Other men had tried to bully me into giving them what they wanted, whether it was a blow job or an endearment. I had to remind myself that Esteban was not other men and had proven it time and again.

When I tied him up, I was responsible for making sure he didn’t get hurt beyond his limits. I was in charge of his body. I was also in charge, in some ways, of his heart.

“It’s not a date, Esteban.” His laugh sounded relieved, and I cut him off before he could speak. I believed I understood why he was acting this way, but that didn’t change our dynamic. “But if it were, it would not be your business.”

“I’m sorry. I should not have asked,” he said after a moment. Did I hear a tremble in his voice?

“What’s wrong, honey?” I relented. I was alone in the car, but my voice still dipped low. I imagined him, eyes closed, on his knees, leaning to press his cheek into my palm. Esteban’s hair is soft and light as dandelion fluff, and his golden skin is always warm. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

Another soft huff of indrawn breath. “I miss you, that’s all. Wanted to see you. I know it’s not our time, but I could make it work.”

I looked up to see the synagogue doors opening, people coming into the parking lot. William would be out in a few minutes. I made an offer assuming Esteban would say no. “I have to go. I can’t see you tonight, but I could meet you for coffee tomorrow morning...”

“Yes. Yes, I would like that very much. I just want to see you.”

Something was going on with him, for sure. “Nine-thirty, Morningstar Mocha. You know it?”

“Yes. Thank you, miss.”

It was odd to hear him call me that outside of a hotel room, but it still sent a shiver all through me. “I have to keep my boy happy, don’t I?”

The instant the words were out of my mouth, a chill swept over me. Then heat, creeping up my throat and into my face. Have to keep my girl happy, don’t I? George had often said that, and in the end he’d done anything but.

Not noticing my sudden silence, Esteban laughed and sounded more like his usual self when he replied. “Your boy is desperate for your touch, that’s all.”

“There won’t be much touching in the coffee shop.”

“It will be enough,” he said.

I spotted another small surge of people exiting the synagogue, but my nephew was not among them. “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I disconnected, searching for signs of William. When the doors closed and he still hadn’t appeared, I got out of the car to go in and find him. I’d forgotten about the Saturday kiddush luncheon in the rec hall. Following the murmur of voices and the smell of toasted bagels, I spotted William talking to the rabbi at a table with plates of egg salad and tuna in front of them. William was nodding. The rabbi looked serious but then laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” I said, too aware of my jeans and tank top and the fact I hadn’t covered my head, though in this Conservative synagogue women weren’t required to unless reading the Torah. I was glad I’d shrugged into a cardigan so at least my arms weren’t bare. “Hi, Rabbi.”

“I forgot you were coming,” William said.

“Sit. Have some lunch.” The rabbi gestured toward the buffet table still set with platters of food, though the custodian was starting to put it away. “We have plenty.”

I’d only grabbed an apple on my way out the door this morning, so the thought of a bagel smeared with cream cheese and lox was tempting. Still, I didn’t want to linger. I hadn’t been to services in forever, so scarfing down a free lunch seemed inappropriate. And I didn’t want to fend off any awkward questions about when I would be attending.

I shook my head. “I’m good, thanks.”

“William tells me you’re going to be reading Torah at his Bar Mitzvah,” the rabbi said as William scraped his plate clean of the last bites of egg salad.

I nodded and tried to look excited. “Yep.”

“That’s great,” the rabbi said enthusiastically. “We always need more people who can read Torah.”

That was my cue to beat it out of there before he started hinting around about minyans or Friday night services or anything else. “Nice to see you, Rabbi. William, we have to get going.”

In the car, William snorted soft laughter until I asked him what was so funny. “You acted like he was gonna chase you around with a tallith until you read Torah for him.”

I laughed, too. “Shut up.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go to services,” he said after another minute. “It’s so boring.”

I couldn’t really argue with him about that, not without being a total hypocrite. “A few more months, kiddo, and you’ll be all done.”

“Mom says she expects me to go to Hebrew High and get confirmed, that the Bar Mitzvah isn’t the end of my Jewish education.” William scowled.

“Your mom might change her mind, you never know. What does your dad say?”

William rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t say anything.”

Evan hadn’t gone on to any further kind of Jewish education after his Bar Mitzvah, and he’d muddled through that, leaving me to take charge of most of the service we’d shared. If he went to services at all now, it was only because of William. Susan, however, had always been a little more observant.

I shrugged. “Well, kid, it’s been my experience that moms are the ones who get to decide stuff like that. So I’d say talk to your mom about it. You never know. She might listen.”

“Did yours listen to you?”

It sounded like a legitimate question, especially since I had to remind myself that to William, my mother was “grandma” and therefore, an entirely different entity. “Not usually.”

He laughed. I did, too. I turned on the radio, and we both started rocking out to the Metallica song that came on.

It was a good day, but most of the ones I’d ever spent with that kid were.

4

Batting cages, junk food for dinner, an inappropriate movie I knew his mother would not have let him watch. That’s how Auntie rolled. William had tried to convince me to let him stay up late watching old episodes of The X-Files from my DVD set—we were up to season four, and the kid was justifiably hooked. I made him go to bed, instead. Eight in the morning would come early, and I’d promised to get him to religious school on time. I wasn’t totally irresponsible.

I didn’t really need a three-bedroom town house since it was just me, but I’d bought it as an investment with an eye to having a room for William’s visits. My nephew was likely the only child I would ever have. I liked that he felt as at home in my house as he did in his own. I checked on him about midnight and found him with the bed lamp still on, highlighting the paperback novel he’d been reading. He was sprawled on top of the sheets the way he’d always slept. When he was little I’d tuck him back under the covers and kiss his forehead, but now that he’d outgrown me by a few inches, he was too big for me to move around. I marked his spot in the book and put it on the nightstand and turned off the light then closed the bedroom door behind me.

Eight in the morning was still going to come early for me, too, but sleep ran away from me as fast as that annoying little fuck the Gingerbread Man from the story William had loved so much when he was a toddler. In my bed, I tried to read, but I’d finished the book I’d been working on for the past week so I stared up at the ceiling, instead.

I counted backward from one hundred, but that didn’t work. I did it again. Still nothing.

I could’ve been with Esteban tonight, I thought unwillingly. Not resentfully—I loved spending time with William. But now, here, the idea of an unexpected night with my lover was definitely something I regretted not being able to take advantage of.

Idly, I pulled my phone from the charging dock and brought up my email account. I scrolled through a bunch of junk, deleting offers for “Hot! Live! Girls!” and penis enlargement and weight-loss pills. I also deleted a bunch of auto messages from Connex telling me I had notifications without bothering to open the Connex app. I did read several messages from OnHisKnees.com, though I didn’t answer them. All of them were from men offering me homage, calling me Mistress or My Lady though I’d never met them, promising to worship and serve me in whatever way I wanted to use them. I hadn’t updated my profile in a year other than to add that I was no longer looking for a boy to play with, but the messages still came in on a regular basis. Invariably, they curled my lip. All those promises stunk of desperation, not submission. Those men might claim they wanted to serve, but it almost always meant they wanted someone to fulfill their fantasies of a vinyl-clad woman—always beautiful, always a little cruel—who would never actually demand something of them they didn’t want to give. She would maybe tie them up or tease and deny them for a while, but would always still let them come. Probably all over her tits or face. Whatever humiliations she offered would be really, when you got right down to it, orchestrated by him. For him. They had no idea who I was, what I wanted or even how to give it to me.

To me, that was not submission.

The question could sometimes be what was submission, but I guess like the old quote about pornography, I knew it when I saw it. Or felt it, rather. It was never something as simple as a guy getting on his knees, it was always far more complex than that. What had worked for me with one guy didn’t with another, and I couldn’t ever be certain why. Only that some men gave it to me and other men didn’t, and sometimes their compliance was a deal breaker...but sometimes it wasn’t.

And I didn’t see a damn thing wrong with that.

The longer I’d been a part of the kink scene, the more people I’d met who seemed to think that somehow being kinky meant being rigid and strict and incapable of flexibility. Well, just because I loved steak didn’t mean I also didn’t want a salad now and again. Hell, I liked a steak salad with fries on top of it, and I liked my sex the same way. Sweetly variable and sometimes surprising. If I preferred to be in charge that didn’t have to mean I’d been scorned as a kid and was bent on destroying all men or that I couldn’t appreciate being bent over a chair now and again, either.

I liked what I liked and didn’t need to explain it to anyone, even myself.

I’d never been a big fan of dating sites, but OnHisKnees.com was technically more like a Connex site than Match.com. You could join forums and have discussions and discover local munches, post pictures and blog-type entries and private message the other members. Still, it was also a place to meet partners, even if you had to wade through an ocean of crap to find a few decent prospects.