The Audition(12)
“You should take better care of yourself, lapochka,” he says, pulling back. “How long are you going to be gone for?”
“An hour, maybe? I just can’t play anymore.”
I thought I’d get a stormy reaction from him at that, but he nods again in understanding. “Do you have your phone with you?” He gives me his phone number, and makes me give him mine.
“I have almost no battery left,” I tell him, and he frowns.
“It’s the same model as mine. Use my charger and plug it back in when you get back home.”
When I get back home. Though there is hidden longing in my heart, this isn’t home. Home is New York. Home is my messy condo, with its detritus of empty pizza boxes and old take out containers. Home is a coffee table littered with empty bottles of beer, and with ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, since most of my friends insist on smoking inside.
Home isn’t this clean, bright house, warmed by the smell of cooking, with this delectable man who frowns down on me in concern.
“Okay,” I say, and head down the road.
***
I’m not ready yet to face my feelings for Nikolai. Things feel different in the gathering dusk, in the clear crisp air of oncoming spring. Whatever I felt in the dungeon is real, I know that. But I also know I’m capable of seeing warmth in Nikolai’s eyes where there might be none.
Pandora’s Box. Am I supposed to feel hope? That seems like such a luxury to me.
Instead, I think about Juilliard, though my feelings for Nikolai have wound through that as well. I want to reproach myself for being a fool. He hasn’t touched me. He hasn’t looked at me with lust. I’m a project, a broken doll, waiting to be fixed.
That’s not precisely true, the more logical part of me points out. Nikolai has also devoted his entire Saturday to me. He’s cooked meals for me, and fed me. Yes, he had a leash in his hands, but that’s somewhat my fault for suggesting it snidely.
Nikolai isn’t a saint, I know, but neither am I. If he’s using me for sex, then I’m using him as well to get into Juilliard. But his kindness is an unanticipated bonus. He didn’t have to be nice to me. He didn’t have to wrap a scarf around my neck, kissing me gently as he told me to take care of myself. He didn’t need to make me feel cherished.
It feels good to be outside and to clear my head. The last six years seem to be a fog that swift applications of a riding crop have dissipated. That’s unduly dramatic – and I’d already started the process of rescuing myself this January. But there’s no doubt that the last two days have helped.
This afternoon, after my orgasm with the dildo, I heard it in my playing. It was softer. More feeling came through. Part of it was that I was sated from my orgasm. But you don’t need a lot to seize on, when you are looking for a lifeline, and god help me, I’m looking for one. Nikolai, with his crop and his insistence on my nakedness, with his leash and with his ruler, has offered me a helping hand, and I’m determined to seize it and start climbing.
***
“Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner?” he asks me. I beam at him. Another favourite treat from my teen years, and once again, he’s remembered.
“Is this a reward because you were happy with the way I played?” I tease him. I don’t know where the teasing comes from, but I’m assuming it springs from the hope I felt on my walk.
He grins. “Happy is overselling it a little,” he remarks dryly. “But it is an improvement. Evidently, repeated applications of the crop are good for you.”
I wink at him. “Evidently,” I agree.
We sit on two ends of the pleasantly-worn leather couch, and we watch a movie about a blind ninja monk. It’s Japanese with English subtitles. I want to snuggle in next to Nikolai, but I stay where I am. I’m trying to summon up courage to approach him.
On my walk, I told myself that I was doing all of this for Juilliard. And I am, but it’s more complicated than that. I have feelings for Nikolai.
He was the first guy I fell in love with, so many years ago. The first guy I wanted with aching desperation but I couldn’t have. But there’s a world of difference between the unrequited crush of a sixteen year old, and the very adult longing I have right now.
Yet one thing has stayed the same. I’m terrified of approaching him and I’m terrified of rejection. If I didn’t care for him, I could have been as forward as I wanted. I could have asked for what I wanted. But because he matters, I am paralyzed, unable to move.
Stop being such a pussy, I scold myself. The worst he can do is say no. You won’t know unless you ask.