Ocean Of Need

1 Poetry, Praise & Domination

August

Do you remember how we found this room? At the very same time as meeting? Me at that poetry reading, in a circle of people, and your voice, low and gravelly, saying, 'Can I be your biggest fan?'

I smiled and moved towards my friends, not knowing what to say, or what your game was. Leaving you there without reply, just a smile.

But you were watching me, you told me so later. You wanted to wind my blonde pony tail around your hand, and use it as a leash to pull me away from the crowd of people, so you could tear off my faded black sun-dress, and kiss every part of me.

Towards the end of the night, when I was standing alone, you came to me, and said, 'I want to collaborate with you. I have this idea for a piece of art, inspired by your words about honey.'

I smiled, told you I was an artist too, back in London, where I used to make sculptures. 'Do you have a studio?' I asked.

San Francisco was so far from my London home, and my friends, and my art studio, and my Daddy Dom, and all the parties. I was feeling a little lost. Did you see that? Could you tell?

'I wish I had a studio,' you laughed. 'But I just do this part time.'

It was at that moment that Freya appeared. My seventy-two, year old, wild-woman mentor from New York City. I didn't know back then that there was so much more to Freya, or that she was a scarier criminal than any criminal I've ever met.

'I have a room I don't use,' she said, as my mouth fell open. 'You and Amber could both work there on your projects.'

'Oh, Freya we just met. We don't know each other,' I said, looking at you. 'I don't even know his name.'

'Macallan,' you said, and held out your hand.

'Amber,' I said.

Your hand was warm and dry, and made my own look tiny. It was all I could do to not lean into you and take a deep breath. Suck in the perfume of your dominance, swallow it down.

'Amber,' you said, and I noticed your eyes were the colour of the ocean as they sparkled at me.

And then Freya did that thing she always does, of getting hold of everyone's phones and rapidly tapping in numbers. This time she added an address.

'I'll give the key to Amber,' she told you. 'She can get one cut for you to have. You arrange with her when to pick it up. She needs to be around artists, you see. She needs that for her work.'

And then she wandered off with a passing waiter, who was carrying a tray of cocktails. Hooked her arm into his free one, batting her lashes and helping herself to a high ball glass as he stared at her enraptured.

That's how we came to have the room. Do you remember? It wasn't so long ago. Just sixteen weeks. Sixteen weeks to break a heart. That's all it took.