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But as I make my way down the list, I come across a certain number of activities that pique my interest. I mark those with a 4 or 5.
I linger on one in particular, something called “sensory deprivation.” I quickly google what it involves and decide I’ll rate it a 3, meaning it’s something I’m curious about but haven’t yet tried. I imagine myself being blindfolded and restrained, my senses heightened as my partner explores my body in new and unexpected ways. The thought causes goosebumps to rise all along my flesh, and before I know it, I find myself circling some more of those activities as a 4, indicating that I’m definitely keen to try it.
My initial intimidation fades away. I realise that this isn’t about being a sexual expert or having all the answers. It’s about exploration and pushing boundaries, about discovering new things about myself and my partner. And with each new activity I circle or scribble notes next to, I feel a sense of excitement building inside of me.
I keep sipping my scotch, adding extra notes and comments to each section. I don’t think it’s necessarily needed, but my hand seems to have a mind of its own and I can’t stop scrawling away.
When I get to the subheading ‘Anal preferences’ I draw a heavy cross through the entire list and scrawl ‘HELL NO’ in the margin.
Then I do the same with the section ‘Wax Play’.
I read through the list of punishments, quickly crossing out the ones I don’t like, adding yet more comments, and then I’m looking at the final section.
Pain.
My stomach swirls.
My alcohol-fuelled bravery fades.
I don’t want to touch this section. I don’t want to read about it. I want to take the whole list, rip it in half, and throw it away.
I take a deep breath, my hands trembling as I pick up my pen.
I read through the list that depicts way more ways of inflicting pain than I ever thought were possible. I’m not keen on a lot of the activities solely because of the level of pain involved, or the fact that they just plain seem weird. I’ll definitely need to do some research on a few, like ‘Fire play’, ‘Nipple clamps’, and ‘Fisting’ – though that last one makes me pale.
There are some, however, that have my blood pumping. The ones that involve impact play, the ones where my body or limbs are restrained. Those I rate high. I make a note of the ones I want to experience right away, and the ones that I just want to check out.
I finish my scotch and set the list aside, feeling more empowered and adventurous than ever before.
I’ve filled out the sections I want to with a clear – okay, a clearish – and honest mind, and I have to admit, I feel pretty good about it. I push the papers to one side and curl up on the bed, my mind a little fuzzy after all the booze I’ve consumed.
I start to feel a sense of excitement building in my chest. The questions were explicit, pushing me to consider things I’ve never even thought about before. But with each answer I gave, a sense of excitement grew inside of me. It’s exhilarating, like I’m making one big, sexy, sex-tacular decision, all by myself.
I find one final sheet of paper on the floor. It must have fallen out of the folder. It’s labelled section six – relationships, and it makes me pause. I can’t imagine why a sex club would be seeking about what I look for in a boyfriend, rather than a sexual partner, but I decide, for the hell of it, to go through it anyway and give some answers about what I’m looking for in a partner. I spend a while making notes about the kind of person I’d be open to sleeping with, someone I really clicked with. And then I spend another hour or so on what I am ‘really looking for in a relationship’.
It’s strange, my answers are completely different depending on the situation. In section six, my ideal boyfriend is funny, smart, kind, and creative. He has a fit, muscular body, but he’s not overly obsessed with it. He has a great job and is financially stable, but he doesn’t spend his time making more money than he spends. I make notes in the margin with phrases like ‘acting out tv shows’, ‘overly competitive games’, ‘sexist jokes’, and ‘drinks every night.’
In the section where I list what I’m looking for in a relationship, there are more references to an active, balanced lifestyle, an appreciation for travelling, the outdoors, and food. My perfect partner is also adventurous, open-minded, and sex positive.
This is much harder than writing a list of likes and dislikes. I fret about the potential future, but I’m comforted by the thought that I’m merely setting down a list of preferences, rather than an actual ‘list of requirements’.
It’s actually quite fun, and I’m soon scribbling away, imagining a whole new man that I could possibly date, sleep with, and enjoy spending time with.
When I’m done, I push the sheets of paper aside and climb under my blanket, my head spinning. I’m elated, and I feel like I’ve made some real progress. I’ve exposed myself in a way I never thought I could, and I feel stronger for having done it.
Why not set a few goals for myself? Why not aim to incorporate the things I like into my own sex life and see where it takes me? I could even use a few of these ‘requirements’ to guide me in my search for Mr. Right. Maybe some of these activities will become part of my own sexual repertoire. Maybe I’ll never need to date anyone again. Maybe I’ll be so happy and fulfilled that I’ll never have a need for a partner—at least not in the traditional sense.
Or maybe I’ve drank too much and I just need a nap.
Yeah, that sounds like a bloody good idea actually.
WINT
The house is silent when I return, telling the others that I’d see them at the club later because I wanted to check on Candy and feed her before work. Not a lie, but I also wanted to see the answers to her questionnaire and go through it myself before she scenes.
Normally I’d have more time to get to know our staff and our members before they dive in, but thanks to bloody intel taking all damn day, I only have a couple of hours to spare before I bring Candy to the club.
I’ll be staying tonight to watch, but I’m yet to come up with a good reason why, other than because I’m curious to see how she gets on. Desperate in fact.
