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If they make it through all his sessions deep-diving into their mind, their past and psyche, their motivation for being in the community, the reason for their very existence, it seems, only then can they become members. But before they even make it to that round of eliminations, they first have to have a sponsor to vouch for them. Otherwise, they wouldn’t know about the club in the first place.
After all, it’s called Club Alias for a reason. For those who desire to keep their identity under wraps have nothing to fear, because with a membership fee the same cost as an extremely nice vehicle, there’s a certain class of people with highly respected jobs who make up the majority of the members. So besides the formalities of NDAs and other contracts signed as pinky promises not to tattle on each other, there’s a mutual unspoken and cherished agreement between those in our community.
What happens in the club, stays in the club.
And then there’s the agreement that is spoken and written.
If you recognize a fellow member outside the club, no, you don’t.
Unless there has been a conversation in writing and signed by one of the four owners, stating they have permission to approach and converse outside the club’s walls, your ass better pretend you’ve never seen them in your entire life.
Even if last night you had her hogtied and suspended while seeing just how many clothespins you could fit on each one of her tits in exchange for her stomping on your junk with her red pointed-toe stilettos once you cut her down.
“Nope. Never seen her before in my life.”
“Who? The divorce lawyer on all the billboards in town who’s known as a hard-ass and puts the fear of God in anyone who represents the spouse against him? Nooo, I definitely wasn’t changing his diaper fifteen hours ago while he sucked his thumb and called me Mommy.”
There are, however, the rare few like me, who just don’t give a shit if everyone knows them in and out of the club. I literally make a living off highly explicit romance novels—no fade-to-black here. If people were going to look at me funny after learning I’m a submissive, then they probably already do for writing “pornography.” So therefore, most of the time, I don’t even bother wearing a mask at Club Alias unless I just want to feel pretty and dress up. People just call me by my real name, instead of my alias, which wouldn’t be my nickname anymore anyway, since I’m divorced and unowned. That name was given to me by my former Dom, and when we split, he took the name with him.
And that may sound a little harsh or sad, but really, in my case at least, it’s not at all. That nickname signified what and who I was to him and him alone. It wouldn’t apply to me any longer, because I’m not that same person. I’m not even that same type of submissive. I would never be nor do the things I was and did for him with anyone else. It just wasn’t for me, and I couldn’t give him what he truly needed—not just wanted—in this life, so that name is happily not mine anymore. With no bitterness left in its wake.
“I wonder if people give themselves their own nickname,” I murmur to myself, something I do often when I’m alone to fill the silence. As overloaded as noises can make me feel with my serious case of auditory sensitivity, thanks to my ADHD—a symptom my meds don’t seem to help with whatsoever—I also can’t stand complete silence. Sometimes the absence of sounds seems to be just as loud as too many going on at once.
There’s a fine line for me, one I don’t realize I’ve been toeing until I’ve crossed over to either one of the sides. So most of the time, I wear my headphones, whether they’re turned on or not. Sometimes, just having them as a barrier between my sensitive ears and the world provides enough comfort to keep the panic at bay. And since the invention of earbuds, it’s so common now for people to wear them in public that I don’t get funny looks anymore. Although I still prefer my noise-canceling, over-the-ear headphones. They’re the only ones I can wear for hours at a time while I write, without them making my ears ache, like they do with the on-the-ear version and in-ear buds.
Speaking of, I grab my beige macrame bag that holds my headphones, laptop, glasses, spare chargers, notebook, and pens of different colors on my way out the door to meet Vi. I don’t have the slightest bit of hope of writing, but for what I have to discuss with her, it could lead to lots of rabbit holes of research to fall down in. And I’d much rather do that comfortably on my computer with my notebook to jot down reminders than trying to do everything on my cell, relying on copying and pasting links and shit into the notes app. I’m old school, and Mercury Retrograde has fucked me too many times to trust technology whole-heartedly.
