Another thing my dad says is there are no good reasons to be late, only excuses. So I’m early for poker night as I exit the subway twenty minutes after leaving Better Days then walk a block over to a sleek stretch of Madison Avenue lined with pricy boutiques and chichi cafés.
I spot Camden walking toward me. Like me, she’s carrying a canvas bag. She’s in charge of snacks tonight. I’m responsible for liquor, and my tote holds a boxed sauvignon because boxed wine is more fun. Also, wine openers suck.
I cross the street and stop to give her a hug. When I let go, I reach into my bag for another bag—a purple one—then hand it to her.
She arches a brow in question but takes the bag with avid eyes. “What’s this?”
“Only the very thing you asked for,” I say with a grin.
Opening the purple sack, she gasps. “You didn’t.”
I shrug, pleased. “I did.”
She paws at the paint-it-on vegan leather pants, the faded black tee with the cut-up neckline, and the studded wristband—the rocker chick outfit she wanted for karaoke. “Seriously. You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“I know. But it was so very you.” I don’t make a ton of money, but I like to spend my extra on my friends, and, well, on my OCD therapist, Shira.
“Then I will wear the fuck out of this,” Camden declares with a smoky purr, then squeezes my shoulder. “Now, gimme all the details,” she says as we continue to our mutual destination.
“I told you everything yesterday,” I remind her. We turn onto Harlow’s picturesque block, walking under a canopy of honey locust trees. “Or was it so good you want a repeat?”
I know I do.
She rolls her eyes. “Hello. Your request.”
“Oh, right,” I say, embarrassed. Maybe I’m a little overeager to repeat the juicy details of the hottest sexual encounter of my life. Not that there are many contenders, but still. “Scarlett said yes. I can fill in for her again in two weeks. Well, twelve days, but who’s counting?”
Camden’s eyes flash victory signs. “And now, Masquerade All The Way: The Sequel is officially greenlit,” she says, clearly amused as we pass a brick brownstone that looks like it belongs on the set of a rom-com flick. “It’s longer, dirtier, and full throttle.”
“You should write movie trailers.”
“And you should play chess with those moves you pulled off to make part two happen. I swear, you’re always thinking.”
More like overthinking. “Except chess is boring.”
“But your sex life isn’t,” she says.
“Potential sex life,” I correct.
She grabs my elbow, stopping me on the pristine sidewalk—pristine by New York standards—before we reach Harlow’s building. “Is he…the one?”
Camden knows me better than anyone—she doesn’t mean the one in a love-story type of way. Still, the idea of the one is difficult for me to embrace. If there’s one person for you, then there’s one person who can hurt you the most. One person you can lose.
But the one for a first time in the bedroom? “Hell yes,” I say, feeling so damn certain.
Her eyes light up. “Are you going to tell him it’ll be your first time riding a D?”
Even though I’m twenty-five, I’m not precious about my virginity. I wanted to sleep with my college boyfriend, Brandon. Planned to, in fact. But he played the cruelest mind games in a sick ruse to get me into bed on his timetable, not mine. I didn’t let him win, but his twisted tricks shut me down. For a few years after college, I was wholly uninterested in having sex or participating in the games people play to get it.
But I did think about sex. Sometimes too much. To the point where I’d be in a work meeting, and out of nowhere, I’d imagine having sex with the people my boss and I were talking to. My thoughts were out of control and distressing because I didn’t want to be thinking about those people in a sexual way and I didn’t understand why I was. It was like an uncomfortable dream you fight to wake up from.
I tried counting to make them stop. I tried repeating innocuous words to distract my brain from them. I tried ignoring them harder.
Finally, I confessed them to Google. And the answer was one of those lightbulb-on moments.
You have OCD and it’s manifesting as intrusive thoughts.
I finally went to therapy, and it’s been for the best. Shira’s helped me with much better strategies and techniques, than my counting compulsion. She’s also helped me to see that my other fears—like balconies, rooftops, and subway platforms—come from the same place.
I used to think I was a freak for having these awful thoughts touch down in my brain. I used to think I was a freak, too, for craving a little domination in bed, a little playacting.
Shira’s helped me see that there’s nothing wrong with the desire to pretend I’m someone else during sex.
And that my intrusive sex thoughts aren’t the same as my true desires.
I’ve separated them now. I can tell the difference between uncomfortable thoughts and exciting fantasies.
And I’ve finally found a man whose fantasies seem to match mine.
But if I’m going to see my phantom again, I suppose it’s best to start with a base level of honesty—something Brandon never gave me.
Resolute, I nod to Camden, answering her question. “Yes, I’ll tell him, but not in a big-deal type of way.”
“A take-me-or-leave-me way,” she says, understanding completely. Before I can reply, the click of shoes grows louder behind us, and a familiar voice calls out, “You better have good snacks.”
I turn around. Layla walks toward us wearing a short-sleeve pin-up blouse that tells me she had a makeup event this afternoon.
“As if I’d bring anything less than the best,” Camden says as the keeper of the snacks.
I’ve known Layla for a couple of years and Camden for my whole life. I adore them both, but there are different levels of access.
So when Layla reaches us and asks brightly, “How was your weekend?” Camden takes the question, telling a story about a song request she got last night at the lounge where she’s bartending and moonlighting as a torch singer. She chats more about it while we head inside Harlow’s building. On the way up to her place, I try to decide how much I’ll say when the poker questions inevitably turn to everyone’s weekend.
Including mine.
Really though, how much is there to share anyway? I don’t even know that man’s name. But I want to.
“Oh my god, fuck you,” Layla says, slumping deeper onto Harlow’s orange couch as she points at me. “I can never beat you.”
Harlow nods sympathetically. “No one can, sweetie.”
“But you should keep trying,” I deadpan as I scoop up the chips from the table, thanks to a fantastic bluff on a pair of twos. Layla folded with a pair of kings. Bummer for her.
She shoots lasers at me with her bright blue eyes. “I’ve been trying for months. Since we started playing. And I swear I thought you had a full house or something. I was telling Nick and Finn just hours ago that you have the best poker face.”
Camden’s brow knits as she dips a hand into the bag of chocolate-covered orange slices. “Who’s Finn?”