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But now I stay out of my need to fill time not spent at the hospital.
Because if I don’t fill at least some of that time, it will be spent submersed in the other me, the real me. And I’m afraid if I’m allowed to linger too long in that mindset, I won’t be able to keep the two people inside me separate any longer. I won’t be able to stand living this double life anymore. It’ll be self-sabotage, and I’ll make my own life implode by being greedy, wanting to just be who I truly am all the time, when that’s impossible. And it would be selfish of me to take away the doctor the people of this town needs in that ER just because I want to live openly as a Dom.
If only our culture was portrayed the way it can be—loving, healing, therapeutic, the greatest pleasure that can ever be felt by a human, both body and soul—instead of the dirty and taboo way it’s shown in mainstream media and porn for shock value.
Maybe then, when a vanilla mom bringing her child in for their broken arm somehow finds out the doctor lives an alternate lifestyle, her first thought, her immediate worry, wouldn’t be that they might be a pedophile.
Maybe then, if someone in a blissfully happy marriage that happens to consist of more than just two people, or consists of something other than a cis man and woman, other people’s minds wouldn’t instantly picture them in their bed. They’d meet their spouse or spouses or significant others and picture them the same way they do any other “normal” marriage—maybe sitting at their dinner table, or what their wedding might’ve been like, or what their kids might look like by combining their features.
If only more people had a brain like mine, with its touch of “mental illness.” Then they’d be able to see reality without the haze of societal norms skewing their vision.
My phone lights up with another notification, pulling me out of my bitter thoughts. This time, it’s an email, but as I pick up the cell, I can’t ignore the orange icon below it on the screen. The what-if is enough to make me read the message preview instead of swiping it away without a second glance.
You’ve received a ?? from someone within
2 miles of your current location.
“Two miles? Jesus,” I murmur, my heart speeding up with both worry it might be someone I know and the enticing possibility it could be someone I don’t. I check my settings to see if my location got switched from the zip code I put in that’s thirty miles away. Nope, it’s still set, but there’s fine print beneath it that says it lets me know the exact distance someone is by using my actual location, yet it won’t tell the other person. Their end only shows the location you manually set if that’s what you chose as your privacy.
“If it’s someone you know, you can always say you thought this was just another Tinder,” I say, even though I’m totally lying to myself. I had to choose what I was interested in from a multiple choice list. Obviously, my picks of kink, bdsm, foreplay, singles, and submissives would give me away.
But I can’t stand the suspense any longer though, so I open up the app and click on the full message.
You’ve received a ?? from someone within
2 miles of your current location.
Swipe through profiles and choose either (-) or ?? to see if you match up!
But don’t worry. They won’t be notified if you did not choose to ?? them too.
Happy swiping!
I’ve thumbed through this app so many times with no change in profiles that I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to spot any new addition, especially since it shows how far away they are. Which reminds me….
I go into my search settings and switch the parameters to include people within a few miles, and then I move back to the home screen to start swiping. It’s the same ole profiles I saw before I switched up my settings to show only people out of town. A swinger couple looking for a third or another couple. The same couple, but instead of it saying Male, it’s a different profile with Female chosen. Different profiles women set up that are more for directing men to their OnlyFans accounts than to actually meet people to date.
Swipe. No.
Swipe. No.
Swipe. No.
Swipe. No.
I sigh as I just start swiping quickly without waiting to choose either the minus button or the heart.
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swi—
Wait.
I blink, my brow furrowing. Surely my mind is playing tricks on me.
I swipe again, but in the opposite direction, bringing back the profile that certainly doesn’t actually exist. It’s a figment of my imagination.
Seriously.
There’s no fucking way.
But there is. She’s right there, smiling back at me from the screen. When I can pull my eyes away from her face, then away from her body that’s hardly recognizable in the green-leaf-covered mini dress—since the last time I saw it, it was covered in filthy black leggings and a hoodie that had seen better days—I look down at her username.
