Tequila Sodas & Leather
By: Jamier Boatman-Harrell
Tags: Short Story, Dating, Short Fiction, Love

I wasn’t sure if my psychiatrist said it was two Xanax or three for my anxiety. The former seems like it would just be enough to pillow the feeling of death while seemingly feigning to the world that I’m “chill.”

But three? Well, that seems to be the standard intake for a rapper trying to silence the deafening memories of the dead homies. My homies are all alive (I did lose my grandmother once when I was four).

Shit. I’ve been in Sierra’s bathroom for too long peering into her Mid Century vanity. The bathroom is a sacred space; its aura settles the spirit. But sitting the faux-mysticism aside, the $350 Diptyque was just doing its attended olfactory job. Now, call me an asshole, but for someone who professionally practices in the dark, deep kinks of domming, her taste level was luxuriously delicate and intentionally bubbly.

Fuck it, I’m taking three of these guys.

I’m not sure if it’s an ethical violation that my psychiatrist is my best friend, Laurence. So, just about any pill I need can be callously written out on a script. And don’t make any cursory judgements, like: “Is his mental health deteriorating?” Well, considering I’m a millennial living in a post colonial world, that’s a given it is. Or is it capitalism?

About three weeks ago is when it all began. In a fit of what could be described as desperation fueled by a cocktail of horniness and loneliness, I joined FetLife. And by no means am I what you call a “sex” person. See, the outermost limits of my sexual proclivities boomerang from missionary back to a lazy sideways thrusting. And my ex has denoted my performance as the proverbial personification “of a finance bro in a Patagonia vest.” Basically, it’s uninspired and boring.

No one wants to be deemed as boring in their 20s; I mean, I am, but that’s not for anyone else to decide.

So, I said fuck it. Making a profile on Fetlife wasn’t as vexing to navigate as traditional dating apps seem to create. It was a bit more liberating to be in a sex-positive community. Dating sites create inconsistencies in our self-esteem; to no avail, we try to perfectly curate a self that is in part novel but, as well, generally accessible. I didn’t feel any of that.

There was no time to fret if a photo of myself exuded, “This guy is good at sex,” as there was a guy whose profile pic was him in a red unicorn costume, claiming one was “trans-species.” There was a place for everyone. Water sports. Araki. Cuckolding. Findom. I clicked them all: It was an act of kinky malfeasance.

She wasn’t the first of my interactions on the platform but most def was the most appealing. It was Sierra’s looks who I instantly became infatuated with: that dark hair, scrambled mix of Celtic tattoos, making her look like a Nordic goddess; and that dubious smile — perfectly wrapping together her physical appearance. Her photos exhibited an extreme sense of confidence in herself. It’d made you lust after her spirit rather than her body. I didn’t want her: I wanted to feel as good in my skin the way she felt in hers. And maybe through some osmosis-like occurrence, her confidence would seemingly diffuse across my neurotic membrane.

Don’t get me wrong, she was gorgeous, and aside from piquing my manic pixie dream girl fantasies, she was in essence everything I was searching for in a partner. I liked her, she liked me. And in that like, she slipped in that she happened to make her living through sex work. And I was, and am, still cool with it; it’s a job at the end of the day.

I digress; so we talked for days, not even about sex, just about everything — redendering every topic down into its infinitesimally small constituents. But due to my inability to process social situations, Sierra couldn’t take my social ineptness any longer and ended up asking me out.

Now, to say the date wasn’t the most perfect moment of my life would be an understatement — also seemingly validating the banality of my own existence. An intense attraction was mutually felt by both of us. And to think, transitioning from texting to the real world without a buffer would seem to be quite daunting, but, again, we found endless topics to talk about. 6 PM turned into midnight, and we both didn’t want the night to end there. She wanted more of me and I wanted more of her, so it was by no surprise that we ended up back at her apartment making out on her green leather barker.

So, that’s why I ended up in her bathroom. I was on the edge of an anxiety attack because in the other room she was amped up and ready to have sex. And I usually wouldn’t balk at any instance of being able to have intercourse, but I know what Sierra’s “into” and I know what I’m “into,” and they were far from the same thing. She likes to be whipped, and I’ve cried every time I watched What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.

Eventually, I left the bathroom and began my trek down the corridor back to her. The only hope was that my prolonged stint in the bathroom would’ve been grating enough to kill the mood. But at the entrance of the living room I paused.

Scanning the room, it was hard for your eyes not to gravitate towards her, she beckons every ounce of you. Her legs were tucked up on the couch: her bare feet overlapping onto each other. Portraying somewhat of a modest mood, her pleated skirt gently wrapped her legs. She was finishing off the tequila sodas she made for us. I asked for a little bit of bitters in mine, for my small boy stomach can’t handle the harshness of tequila. Though it seems she may have been trying to further loosen up because she finished off mine, too.

The mason jar in her hand was slammed down on the table with a bit of control. Immediately, she pulled off her sweater, revealing a thin white tank top. Her arms alone were tantalizing enough for me. Triceps protruded out from the sides of her arm, revealing she fashioned herself as a gym goer. My eyes walked their way up to her face observing how strength and softness existed in harmony from her forearms to the shoulders. Several moments of stillness passed: aware of my presence, Sierra looked up and saw me waiting at the threshold. A quick smile and a head nod my way had let me know I should join her. I would have rather not moved, but my feet acted independently from me. Every step towards her meant I was closer to my sexual demise.

I sat on the couch and she slid her way towards me, wrapping her legs over mine; even through my pants I could tell they were soft. Silence fell between us, and I tried everything in my power to divert her gaze. But fuck, that smile: a moon-shaped half crescent beamed into the room and demanded my attention. It would have made sense to seize that moment and be the “man” my younger brother likes to precociously flaunt to me in our weekly catch ups, but I was caught between being spontaneous and asking for permission. Yeah, I wanted to kiss her, but I didn’t know if I’d be overstepping my boundaries.

Sierra had other plans as she slinked her body towards mine; her mouth meeting my ear, she uttered what had taken me so long. Uncontrollably, I lied, and the worst possible lie at that: I told her I was taking a shit.

She laughed and roughly pulled my hair back, cocking my head back into the couch, and began making out with me. For the life of me, I didn’t have the heart to let her know she was hurting my head. However, to a man who hasn’t felt the lips, nor the touch, of a lover, in quite some time I may add, I was not going to be my own saboteur. So, I sat there, hands at my side, trying to focus on the rhythm of her mouth, being sure to think about being there in the moment and not using too much tongue. Occasionally, I’d slip out, caught up in thinking about what her home life was like — which made me think that I should call my mom more. Then, I’d snap back and remember I was kissing someone.

A few minutes passed. She pulled away from me and laughed again, which was seemingly demoralizing and a slightly new feeling: a turn on? But I was reassured, as she asked why I wasn’t touching her. Honestly, I had not considered that as an option. I was just happy to be there. Another laugh slipped through: it was veiled with a bit of eagerness. Sierra removed herself from atop me and seamlessly grabbed my hand in the process. I didn’t ask questions: I just followed her.

We walked through the corridor, inevitably headed towards an anticipated dalliance. The candle wafted from the bathroom though this time it was even a bit more calming, but it was probably the Xanax. And again, maybe it was Xanax, but that silent retreat back to her room felt like it took an eternity.

Making our way towards the entrance of her bedroom, Sierra stood to the side, slowly forcing the door open. She motioned me into the room and I stepped into a world of near darkness. Moonlight sauntered into the room, only to be spit up into slivers of light via the distressed curtain that partially sheathed the window above her bed. Its white light danced across the floor bouncing up to outline the only partially viewable relic. I gathered it to be a dominatrix contraption, or in layman’s terms, a giant X. I instantly felt scared but my body wasn’t able to respond in its usual manner. Instead, I turned back and told her: “I was waiting for this.” I wasn’t.

Again her laugh had hit me, it was unusually piercing this time, foreboding almost. Walking up behind me, Sierra grabbed my hair and pulled it back, and even though the Xanax was hitting, I was in pain, but I wasn’t going to let her know. A quick kiss hit my cheek then my shirt was hoisted over my head and pants were down. I wish I hadn’t worn black dress socks with my Stan Smiths. Sierra walked me into what I would later learn as an X-cross. My body was positioned so that I was abreast to her face, as she slowly backed me into the apparatus. It felt less sexual, more medieval, even insidious.

Each strap was attentively placed around each of my limbs. Sierra leaned forward and rested her cheek upon mine tenderly. But unbeknownst to me, she was reaching behind me to unhinge a lever on the back which allowed her to spin me upside down and lock me in place. The blood immediately rushed towards my head. I felt this nubivagant drifting.

She backed away from me and walked towards her closet. I heard rummaging through its contents, and I wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for. There was a bit of mental gymnastics undergone because I convinced she was going to ball and gag me as if I were some scrawnier Ving Rhames. I was sure she was gonna try and peg me just like in those videos I’ve accidentally stumbled into. And I would’ve been more open minded, but there was no prior conversation had.

My running mind was cooed as she walked out carrying what looked like a pair of long leather heels and an assortment of fabric. Coming back to me, she let me know I was in for her surprise. I could tell she was drunk. Not because she slurred her words when she spoke, but it became more noticeable when she left her room, as she aggressively, almost with intent, knocked into her dresser. An assortment of opened face oils and lotions fell over and began spilling onto the floor, but it wasn’t enough to phase her drunkenness.

Upside down in the apparatus, I began to really feel the effects of those bars. Three were def too much. I was becoming light headed, and the opportunity for intercourse was becoming an afterthought compared to wanting to rest. But I tried to focus and shake the stupor off. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes when Sierra came back and swung the door open. She stood at the door’s threshold ready to pounce on me.

It was a fit from the bottom up. Those leather stiletto boots ran up her thighs acting as a complement to her lingerie, a leather one-piece. And in her left hand she held a flog of some sort. In the moment, most would instantly think of sex, but in my high ass state, my mind fixated on one thought: if she left the clothes she was wearing on the bathroom floor, wouldn’t her roommate be angry with the mess?

Anticipation had reached its peak; Sierra took a calculated step into the room. The weight of her heels became obviously apparent as she moved forward, scraping the ground with her shoes. A connection was made between the stiletto and floor, yet it was not solid. The skincare products, once on the dresser she knocked into, dripped onto the floor into a slick patch. Now, any sober person would’ve been able to at the least brace and catch themselves before they fell to the ground, but we were about six tequila sodas in.

I watched in slow motion from the X-cross as she fell to the ground. First body then her head to the floor. And without a sound, she was out cold. Normally, horror would follow as I was strapped upside down in a stranger’s apartment. But, for some reason, my body felt it was time to rest. I could feel the blood rushing more and more to my head, pushing up against the cavities of my forehead. Every time my eyes would blink I slowly began to fade until I was in nothingness.

Consciousness returned as a flash of lights perforated my closed eyes. A gloved EMT — who was in training — kneeled over me to guide me back to the physical plane. However, I’m not sure if death from inversion was more jarring or the fact that my first responder was flippantly asking: “Bro, you good?” I couldn’t dignify a response as I tried to ground myself in the spinning room. Clarity eventually befell me, and I was left even more bewildered considering I was in Sierra’s bedroom but was back in the common area.

Sierra laid next to me on a scoop stretcher: her head wrapped in bloody gauss — still dressed in her lingerie. Even in that fragile, static state, she still looked as powerful as when she was standing in the doorway. Two men hoisted her up with little effort. The only afterimage left of her was her knee high stiletto boots that flopped over each other. As I followed her out the door, I noticed her roommate sitting in the same position as Sierra was on the couch, yet she was diverting my gaze. I’d come to find out that she arrived home after an excruciatingly long date to find her roommate and a rando on the verge of death, prompting her to ankle pull deadweight into the living room. It made sense why my ass felt raw.

I sat for about thirteen minutes, clothed in my Uniqlo briefs, in that living room making sure my vitals were cleared for me to go. To be honest, I wanted my hands washed of the situation, yet, at the same time, I was relieved I’d escaped facing my sexual anxieties. As the trainee finished his litany of tests, he leaned close to me, making sure the roommate couldn’t hear us and coyly jeered: “Y’all into some freaky stuff.”