by Margaret Elysia Garcia
His proposition arrived as a notification from a kink dating site she’d eagerly signed up for and then promptly forgot. His message came between a reminder for her annual colonoscopy, and an announcement that her insurance premium was increasing, along with several ads by her favorite shoe designer which she, of course, opened first.
Christopher was not a stranger to her—she’d met both him and his wife at a BDSM convention in Los Angeles back when Monica thought perhaps that was the secret ingredient of pleasure missing in her life. She’d purchased a flogger, a paddle, a how-to seminar, and some insane negligée that covered the bits but left cellulite and rolls exposed; it was too much for her to think, and after a month of immersion in the scene, it felt like homework. She went back to purchasing designer heels and boots instead.
At the time, Christopher and his wife had been looking for submissive women to come back to their “den” as they called it, and she found their whole world fascinating, if more as an observer than someone who might want to participate in a lifestyle.
They met for idle chit chat and a chance to scope each other out. Over martinis they talked about their vanilla everyday lives: her work and her retired husband. Their work and their four elementary school aged children. Her children were adults, and she offered them unsolicited advice about sex as parents.
She remembered telling them that their playtime would be vastly curtailed when the eldest, a girl, hit junior high. Junior high school girls can sniff out parental absurdities like no one else, and Monica was sure the girl would discover what her parents’ “office” was really for sooner or later. Christopher and his wife had laughed when she said that and shook their heads as if the possibility was ridiculous. Monica, mother of three, spoke to them of the time her middle child had confidently inquired during a full carpool of her girlfriends whether the rumor of parents licking each other’s privates was true. Monica recalled channeling all her concentration not to drive headlong into traffic to spare the carload and herself the truth of an answer.
“That’s quite the story,” Christopher had said.
“It’s not a just story,” Monica had said, “it’s what you’re in for when your kids hit junior high.” Christopher’s wife assured that their daughter was not the inquisitive type. Monica chuckled at their complete denial. All children eventually find their parents out for everything. Monica had walked in on her own mother beginning an affair with her best friend’s mother. She told Christopher and his wife this as well; the kids will always figure it out eventually. No parent’s poker face lasts forever.
She had a hunch she might hear from them or him again. They’d been flirty in that way a couple who’ve been with each other for decades of understanding and bored friendship can be. Excited, perhaps, at the possibility of a trio. She wasn’t upset or shocked to hear from them again, in fact, she had wondered what they were up to and whether their lives were withstanding the demands of parenting.
She poured her second cup of coffee, added a few things to her to do list, and opened his email, wondering if, yet again, they were looking for a submissive. She’d told them at the time she didn’t think it was her thing—especially to a white couple—the optics were too strong to ignore and the thought of a white man with a whip in his hand and her Latina hands in cuffs just made her stomach turn.
“I think you’re looking for a Hispanic woman,” she’d said to them while finishing her gin martini, “I’m Chicana.” She smiled cordially at both who looked back and forth to each other in complete confusion but dared not ask for an explanation. That’s what Internet searches are for; she refused to do their work for them.
She opened the email and read the following:
Dear Ms. Martinez,
I believe you and I last spoke when I was a Dom and at the time had not yet realized my full potential as a submissive myself. It might surprise you that I made the switch but in truth I should have realized it sooner. I have never been the dominant person in our household and well, several things have come to light over the last few months and I was wondering if I might be of service to you. As your butler and well, sex slave? If you’ll have me, that is. I have been thinking of this need of mine for quite some time—and of you very specifically. You possess all the beauty and rare qualities I’ve always desired in a woman: You are so incredibly intelligent and so well-endowed at the same time and ––
It wasn’t that Christopher’s message had cut off; it was the unoriginal line that got on her nerves. More than anything else a man could say, being amazed that somehow one’s breasts could be in double letters while having a highly functional brain was worth a throat punch. How could they not know to just shut their handsome little faces up? Any man who thought intelligence and beauty cannot reside in the same woman’s curves was probably a misogynist at heart and she wanted no part of that. Did he vote for the fall of our civilization too? It was that line that most men set before her as if it was some special gift. You aren’t like the others. But such admiration made her daydream about donning a pair of spiked heels and commanding Christopher—or any man who uttered something so insipid— to the ground so she could pick up her right heel and elegantly thrust it down into his eye socket.
This image in her imagination, of course, made her smile.
And she smiled as she thought of his offer—both the reality and fantasy of it. Nowadays she did not have a lover—there was her husband, platonic as age had changed their bodies, sure, and her bestie she supposed if she wanted to go there, but they were her pals. Touching other human beings, be it cuddling or more, seemed so suffocatingly heated. She rarely even picked the cat up anymore lest the warmth of it set her off for a cold shower or a stint in her bra next to the air-conditioner. Everything and everyone radiated too much heat and needed too much from her. She spent her evenings by the open screen door in the fewest clothes possible and sweat the nights away. The thought of another body touching her beyond a peck on the cheek seemed too oppressive. But what of Christopher? His about-face was intriguing. What had happened to his wife?
She recalled that he was excessively fair skinned—almost translucent—with those beautiful blue-eyed-devil eyes and that dirty blonde hair just beginning to gray. He was easy on her own eyes; tall and almost witty enough to hold up his end of the conversation. How rare it was for an American man to achieve that these days. If it wasn’t so rare, she’d have probably pressed delete and been done with the idea of Christopher traveling through the ether to her inbox and by extension to her very skin.
Instead, she found herself writing him back and hitting send before she could stop herself.
They could meet, she told him, for dinner only for now, to discuss his proposition further. She would leave it for him to find a suitable restaurant, but he should be aware that she would not eat at chains restaurants nor places with large screen TVs or loud pop music. He would be expected to pay for the evening, of course, and to search out a possible location for her to try him out although that would be attended to later. He’d be expected to take care of any hotel rooms as well.
He wrote back too quickly, too eagerly. But she was flattered, if not turned on at such attention. They agreed to meet on Thursday for an early dinner.
In the three days that followed—and entirely against her better judgement—messages shot back and forth across the expanse of the Internet on a wide array of subjects. She also gave him what she called “the application.” It was a single front-and-back-page questionnaire asking him any number of things like what his favorite novel was and why; first or second Darrin in Bewitched and why. Position on the use of AI. Why were the Zoot Suit Riots misnamed? What was the importance of August 29, 1971? Who had he voted for in the last election? She demanded he send her a jpeg of his favorite artwork and a link to his favorite piece of classical music.
She screened like that. She had no answer key; she was looking for a simpatico human who could be creative with his answers. She meant the questionnaire to be exhausting. She meant for him to give up so she could go back to work and not be wondering about messages every time her computer made a ding sound.
He sent it back within a day with detailed responses, as if he had no day job nor children or wife to attend to. She plopped it into a word doc to check—3000 words. He either really wanted this or was super dedicated or both.
Ms. Martinez, I do hope my responses are to your liking. I cannot wait to worship you. See you tomorrow! –Christopher, your humble servant.
Well, damn it, she thought. Everything aligned. He wasn’t stupid. He was reasonably handsome. And he was oh so willing to do all sorts of things that Monica could not fathom. He’d mentioned, for instance, that he desired her to sit on his face. She read that and laughed to herself wondering if she could squat down without falling over. How do you explain that when the ambulance gets called?
On the kinkworld site where most people’s profiles were without clothing, she cruised through Christopher’s profile again. He was discreet and did not post nudes but there was one photo that outlined the package leaving next to nothing to the imagination. Her page also did not contain nudes. She still wondered about the appeal of disembodied cocks that were so prevalent on the site and in her inbox. Why did men think that was the best foot to put forward?
Her misgivings subsided. She warmed to the notion that perhaps this was exactly what had been missing from her benign suburban life. She called her bestie Guillermo to go out for a drink to discuss.
“Sure. Let me just get the kids settled and I’ll meet you at the Irish,” he said. She made her husband dinner and let him know she was out for the evening.
“Tell Guillermo I said hello,” Jeff said and went back to his crossword puzzle.
Guillermo met up with her at their usual bar. She brought him up to speed.
“You that bored, mi’ja?” He asked as she finished the tale, and he sent their waitress off for a second round of double whiskeys. “What’s Jeff say?”
“To do what I want,” she said, “and before you ask what Jeff wants, this is what Jeff wants. He loves a tale of adventure, but he doesn’t want the adventure himself.”
“Well, what do you want?” asked Guillermo.
“To not be bored. To feel a little adrenaline rush. You know, some reminder that we’re still alive?”
“Fair enough.” Guillermo shrugged. It wasn’t as if he had any better answers. They stayed until the karaoke started.
They used to participate in karaoke at that bar for decades, but the millennials and Gen Zs didn’t appreciate their relentless picks of new wave and punk songs. Monica sometimes felt like they failed at parenting the younger generations. Even her own kids had complained of having to stand at punk shows and were afraid of the pit—which was never a proper pit anymore anyhow. Was this what it was to be a dinosaur? To be stagnant and sinking into tar pits while watching your own culture erase you? Guillermo and Monica hugged in the parking lot.
“Tell your misses I said hello,” Monica said, “we should do a dinner—the four of us—sometime soon.”
“End of the semester, she promises,” said Guillermo as he shrugged. His wife said the same thing every semester; he only got time with her in the summer months.
Monica took a deep breath while nuzzled in his neck and squeezed Guillermo against her. He always smelled like home after a rain. Comforting and never sexy. He kissed her on the forehead.
She drove home to Orange County through a weird LA fog and a threat of rain that never came. Thoughts flashed in front of her like migraine tracers. Passages from Day of the Locusts came to her. She was no indignant Midwesterner gunning for violence, but like all southern Californians, she’d rubberneck other people’s disasters. It was always perfect out here until it wasn’t.
On the drive home she thought of the suppleness of Christopher’s lips and what they might feel like on hers. She thought of colonization of centuries and the politics of being with a man like that.
He was clearly taking up residency in her head and she didn’t like that. But then she thought of him worshipping her on bended knee. Payback for centuries of oppression, to be the one holding the whip for a change. Then she thought of all her male Mexican cousins that refused to go to therapy and all their sisters who did go and she found herself craving a bowl of posole. None of it made sense. She parked in front of their craftsman house in the oldest area of Anaheim, the Colonies, but stayed in her car long after she turned it off. The orange tree was going crazy again and the wind had pulled apart the palms, so frond debris and oranges obstacled the path to her door. She let herself in and kissed Jeff goodnight; he lay on the leather couch in the front room having read himself to sleep and murmured half asleep as she led him upstairs to bed.
In the morning, she heard from Christopher three times. The first was for the logistics of the evening. He sent the address of the French restaurant where they were to meet and a description of what he’d be wearing and the time of the reservation. She put a stew in the crockpot for Jeff and wrote a post-it note reminder to him that she’d be out and placed it on the kitchen counter.
Christopher’s second email detailed in a 10-page single spaced treatise with his ideas on BDSM and where he was in his head about it all and how he felt they were made for each other and the mutual benefits it had for both them and their spouses. That seemed like a bit of a stretch to Monica. He wrote again of how amazing it was that she had such great breasts and such an intelligent mind at the same time and how crazy it was to him that she was also Latina—as if he had hit some imaginary trifecta. She was his unicorn. As she finished reading it, the doorbell rang. He’d sent her an Amazon package with a leather whip inside it. So that’s why he had wanted her mailing address in the earlier email. Would she consider using the whip on him that evening? If not at a hotel, then a few quick thrashes next to his car before he went home? He implored her to think about it. She wrote back that she would take it under consideration.
“Yes, ma’am.” He wrote back.
She thought about it randomly throughout the rest of her day but could come to no conclusion as to whether it might be enjoyable to have a submissive traveling to see her. Running errands in the early afternoon, she happened to look down at the cupholder between the seats of her car and the ancient change and tweezers she kept there. But what was this? She moved around the coins with her nails and rubbed one coin with her fingertips. It was not a coin but a St. Christopher medal that had been living there for quite some time. It was sticky with beverage stains. Safe travels, she thought.
Christopher’s third epistle to her finally raised an eyebrow. It was brief as a text and appeared on the run. He might be a tad late, he wrote. He would be dropping his daughter off at bible study on his way, but his wife had agreed to pick the girl up so they could spend plenty of time together. And several spaces below that message he signed “XXX – ha ha! Christopher.”
Fucking Orange County weirdos.
She went home to change. The day had gotten away from her as most days did. She chose pearls around her neck to cover the worst of her wrinkles, three quarter length sleeves to cover the creped skin that was beginning to mark her arms, and black to thin her.
She parked behind the French restaurant and got out of her car, smoothing her tight skirt that showed off the ass she still had even if other things on her body were not at the same elevations as they used to be. The winds were picking up again and she looked east to Saddleback Mountain wondering when the winds would have their sacrifice and subside. She felt as if someone was staring at her and turned to see a line cook taking a drag off a cigarette in the back doorway of the kitchen. The man nodded to her in acknowledgment and looked her up and down but did not speak. He grinned though, and that sent a bit of a thrill through her. She walked towards him.
“Have a lovely evening, Señora,” said the handsome line cook. She thought of her long-standing crush on Anthony Bourdain. She couldn’t remember if she’d fed the cat before she left. She stood still in front of the man, then walked up to him and pulled the cigarette out of his hand and flicked it onto the red painted curb. He looked at her then the cigarette on the ground. She placed her hand on his cheek and slid it behind his ear, then down his neck. She pulled him into her and kissed him on his unexpecting lips; they were dry and his brown skin smelled musky and slightly of garlic. She felt for a moment like she returned to junior high. When was the last time she kissed someone so impulsively? They parted. She pulled him back to her and he let her. Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her jacket. She took the line cook’s hand and moved it up to her breast. Her permission surprised him and made him instantly hard, and he pushed against her so she could feel what she’d done to him. She thrust her tongue into his mouth again and tasted the ash of his. She thought of all the ways this could go. Of being fucked up against the back wall of the restaurant. Of what such a strong tongue was capable of.
“Gracias. I will have a lovely evening. You too.” She took out a pen and wrote her number on his wrist like she’d seen in the movies. That thrilled her too. She kissed his wrist. Her phone buzzed in her jacket again. The line cook bent down to pick up his cigarette; he nodded at his wrist.
Her phone buzzed again, and she took it out and blocked the number.
She backed out of the parking space and waved at the line cook. He waved back at her slightly, re-lighting his cigarette, and raised his chin at her. At his acknowledgement, she felt butterflies in her stomach, a sensation she’d forgotten existed. The monarchs that she thought were extinct were making their way back from Mexico once more. Yes, this was the feeling she had long been missing. An elation. The excitement of finally finding a lover who understood. It could be the beginning of something truly wild. The elation, the youth of those butterflies in her belly! Oh, the excitement! Yes. This was exactly what she wanted, what she needed.
Even if she did give him the wrong number.
Margaret Elysia Garcia
Margaret Elysia Garcia is the author of poetry collections Iconistas! (Lit Kit Collective, 2025), the daughterland poems (El Martillo Press, 2023), and Burn Scars (LKC, 2022). She is the author of the short story collections Graft (Tolsun Books, 2022), and the forthcoming Chicana Noir Stories (El Martillo Press, October 2025), and the co-editor of the anthology Red Flag Warning: Mutual Aid and Community in California’s Fire Country (AK Press, June 2025).
Roger Camp
Roger Camp is the author of three photography books including the award winning Butterflies in Flight (Thames & Hudson, 2002). His documentary photography has been awarded the prestigious Leica Medal of Excellence. His work has appeared in numerous journals including The New England Review, American Chordata and the New York Quarterly. He is represented by the Robin Rice Gallery, NY.