I felt Ophelia’s eyes on me. “Plus, they have AC.”
With my shirt sticking to my pits and a waterfall of sweat under my boobs, that should’ve closed the deal for me. Instead, I said, “Maybe next time.”
“Well, if you’re staying in all night, earn your keep.” Ophelia pointed to a jar of paint that’d been sitting in the corner for a week. “The walls are fucked up. You can start repainting them.”
“Shouldn’t the landlord do that?”
“This place is rent controlled, baby. The landlord doesn’t doshit.”
“I’ll touch it up,” I said. “Cross my heart.”
But when Ophelia left, it felt hard to get off the couch, let alone paint. I forced myself to go through the motions—I taped down the corners and covered the floor in newspaper. Spud watched me from his spot in front of the rotating fan. Ophelia’s dog—a well-fed tan French bulldog—was melted like a clock in a Dali painting, his tongue lolling out onto the floor. The apartment was old, and our long living room wall had splintered in places, the paint cracking. Ophelia had picked a watered down coral pink and I managed to apply the first layer before I found myself lying on my back on the floor side-by-side with Spud, the fan fluttering my hair and cooling the sweat stains on my shirt.
Half high from paint fumes, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Club. Ophelia was there. My old friends were there. Right now. Playing. Without me. The FOMO was eating me up inside. I was delirious enough to think that maybe,maybe, they’d forgotten all about how I’d betrayed them the night of Ophelia’s party.
I picked up my phone, found the Seekers Club app, and hit “download.” My heart was racing as the app slowly came back to life on my phone. The logo of crisscrossed keys illuminated and I clicked it. I logged into my old account and, to my surprise, it let me back in.
My membership hadn’t been revoked, after all.
I turned on the Seekers’ App and found myself staring face-to-face with a woman I didn’t recognize. My profile picture was me in my Shawn-era. Soft face. Submissive. Ready to please.
Just the sight of this version of me made my stomach twist.
My profile still read: Claimed by @heyitsshawn.
But the link didn’t go anywhere. His profile was gone, removed from the app.
Meanwhile, I had to live with the ghost-of-Dove-past.
The more I stared at the image of my old self, the grief inside of me melted into a hot, flaming rage.
Fuck him. Fuck Shawn. Fuck every dominant who ever thought he owned me. Fuck all men. Arrogant, entitled, soul-crushing fucking men?—
In a rage, I deleted my old pictures; the pictures ofShawn-erame—skin with no tattoos, bleached blonde hair, and a thin black collar with the little pink heart around my throat in every photo. I propped myself against the wall and turned the camera to selfie mode. My own face frowned back at me. I had a restingbaby dollface—rounded cheeks, small nose, and big, pouty lips. If I were an extra in a movie, they’d probably name my characterSomeone’s Little Sister Who Tried Weed for the First Time and Coughed So Badly, She Needed an Inhaler.Basically, I didn’t have a face that inspired thealphalook I was going for.
My dark, auburn hair had finally grown out enough to graze my shoulders, so I tossed it around until it was nice and wild. I had a septum piercing that I could tuck under my nose when I was at work, but I popped it down now so it hugged the curve of my nose. I scrunched my expression, stuck out my tongue, and—no, dumb, what was this, Myspace? I snapped another picture. Then another. I tried about twenty different facial expressions until I landed on what Ophelia called my “fuck me” eyes—the low-lidded, fatigued rock star stare. I made sure to get my colorful array of floral arm tattoos in view. When I reviewed the picture, I was surprised by how powerful it made me feel. There. That was the face of a woman who controlled her body and didn’t give a shit what other people thought about her. I uploaded the picture and changed my status from “claimed” to “seeking.”
But there was one more change I had to make.
I’d labeled myself as a “submissive.” I flicked through the options. “Switch” meant I could be either submissive or dominant. “Masochistic” marked me as someone who enjoyed receiving pain—no thank you, I’d gotten enough of that with Shawn. “Sadist” meant that I enjoyed giving pain.
I needed to change my life. In a big way.
No more Misses-Nice-Doormat-Dove.
Maybe itwouldbe therapeutic to make a grown man crawl to me.
Middle-aged men got Corvettes when they went through a crisis. I didn’t want a car. I wanted some arrogant, cheeky, selfish boy to break for me. I wanted to make a grown man cry. I wanted him to crawl to me on his hands and knees and beg for my mercy—and then I wanted to deny him.
I wanted to make a man feel as small and helpless as Shawn had made me feel.
I changed my identity to “Dominant/Domme”and hit “save.”
Minutes later, I got a message.DoriNYC.
DoriNYC:
how are you?
