Then she sent me a link to an app.
The app was called: The Seekers’ Club.
The icon was the image of two keys crisscrossed together. When I opened it, it asked me to set up a profile.
I punched in my name, my pronouns, and then it asked:
What are you Seeking?
WhatwasI seeking for? It gave options. Was I looking for a dominant? A submissive? A sadist? A mentor? A friend?
One of the options gave me a strange, unexpected knot in my throat.
Community, it said.
I hadn’t felt part of a community in…ever, maybe. My parents divorced when I was six. They split the twins; dad took my brother across the country to California while I stayed with my mom in Massachusetts, where she had her sculpting studio and taught art classes to during the week. My brother became a stranger with my eyes. My father hated me because I’d “chosen the wrong parent,” even though I’d been too young to realize I was making a choice when I reached up in the court room and took my mother’s outreached hand.
These little, split-second decisions we make. They haunt us.
I pickedCommunityand kept going. The app wanted a profile image. I uploaded a selfie from the nose down, so I wouldn’t be easily recognized.
Profile complete, I was now able to scroll throughotherpeople’s profiles. I was floored to see how many different kinky people existed in New York City alone. All types, too—one called himself a “floor mat.” Another was a “puppy seeking a master.” And, of course, profile after profile of 20-something hot doms, seeking a “good girl.”
My mouth went dry. It felt like I’d struck gold.
You could “match” with certain people by hitting the “match” button under their profile. I didn’t dare. I let myself be a voyeur, just watching from the sidelines for now.
When Friday rolled around, I got dressed and met at the location Ophelia had mentioned—a spot in Harlem, a couple blocks from where the subway let out. I checked my phone repeatedly. I felt like a lunatic, waiting for a stranger in front of a bodega.
A fall chill was crisp in the air and I was shivering in a tight dress and kitten heels. The bodega’s “open” sign flickered behind me and a couple of guys hung around the ice box, drinking and chatting with each other.
I checked the time on my phone. It was a little past seven. I could leave. Pretend I never came here. I could?—
I heard a shriek, and then the shout: “You made it!” I glanced up to see Ophelia bounding towards me. She closed the distance between us quickly and squeezed me tight like we were old friends. She was wearing a loose sweater and a short skirt, and when she hugged me, I got a heavy whiff of her flowery perfume.
She pulled back and gripped my arms. “Ready? You look ready.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “So ready.”
She laced her fingers in mine and took me down the street. We walked down the block and came to a stop in front of a nondescript brownstone apartment. Ophelia climbed the steps and pulled out her phone, motioning for me to do the same.
“Check your app,” she told me.
I pulled up the Seekers’ Club app. She directed me to press the key button on the bottom righthand corner.
Four numbers popped up. 4-9-8-8.
There was a keypad on the door, and she punched the numbers in. “It changes every week,” she told me. “Security, or whatever. Hey—what should I call you? A lot of us have scene names. So, for example—” she put her hand on herchest. “I’m Ruby, but inside, they know me as Ophelia. Because I’m—I don’t know—tragic and dramatic, I guess.”
My brain raced as I tried to quickly come up with a scene name. A pigeon fluttered by us, pecking at something at the ground. Pigeon? No, that wasn’t sexy, what about…?
“Dove,” I said.
Ruby/Ophelia grinned. “Dove it is.”
A light on the keypad turned green and the door clicked open, granting us access. Inside, we stepped through a short foyer, passing underneath a hanging lantern, where the apartment opened up to a living space. It was decorated in dark, rich wood and velvet furniture. Soft, thumping music came from a hidden sound system. The low lighting gave the space a cozy, hypnotizing vibe.
There were a couple people hanging out already. They looked up at us curiously when we entered. A leggy blonde popped up from a leather seat and came over to us. She was in her early-twenties would be my guess, but it was hard to get a read on her age since her fashion was schoolgirl chic. She wore pigtails in her hair and an array of pins on her sleeve—one that said “she/her,” a pin of the trans pride flag, and an adorable pin of a rat with a slice of pizza in its mouth.
