to the right. Straight ahead, through the main room, was an entryway into the kitchen. And to the left, the living room was painted a cozy shade of sage green. A stacked stone fireplace took up almost the entire far left wall, and the centralized camel-colored suede-like couch was an inviting overstuffed marshmallow surrounded by contemporary espresso furniture, satin-nickel light fixtures, and an eclectic collection of original paintings and pen-and-ink sketches of the Eiffel Tower.
No, seriously. Who the fuck lives here??
It was too sparsely decorated to be his parents’ house. This place looked like an Ashley Furniture showroom, and there were exactly zero family photos or personal mementos anywhere. No, this was definitely somebody’s first home, and I wanted it to be mine!
When I finally choked back my envious rage and complimented Ken on the decor, he simply said, “Thanks. My dad helped me with the crown molding.”
Aha! “Oh, does he live here, too?”
“No, but my sister rents a room from me. She agreed to pay me extra if I gave her the master bedroom and a spot in the garage.”
So, a woman does live here. That explains all the Eiffel Towers pictures. “Did she help you decorate?”
“No. I did all the painting and decorating. She just moved in a few months ago.”
“Really? You did all this yourself? It’s beautiful! Where did these paintings come from?”
“Oh, I got those in Paris. There are these street artists on every corner there who just draw and paint the Eiffel Tower all day long. Their work is amazing, and it’s really cheap.”
So, not only was he hot and smart and employed and fit, but he also owned his own home and had decorated it personally with paintings from Paris. It was as if he had known I was coming. My reverie was quickly shattered when I realized that, if I were to move in one day, Ken and I would probably be sharing a twin-sized bed in one of the tiny secondary bedrooms since his asshole sister had gone and snatched up the master.
Trying to feel out the sleeping arrangements, I probed, “I can’t believe you own your own home, and you don’t even sleep in the master bedroom.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I just had the bonus room finished, so I sleep in there.”
And there it was. Boom. Basement, bonus room, or garage. I fucking knew it!
Just as I was beginning to get a handle on Ken’s living situation, a tiny Asian girl emerged from the kitchen—for real. She looked like she was around my age, maybe younger, and was no more than five feet tall. When she noticed that Ken had company, she sheepishly averted her eyes and scurried up the stairs.
Okay, seriously, who the fuck lives here??
Noticing my horror, Ken explained, “That’s Robin. She works at the theater and needed a place to stay, so I’m renting out one of the other bedrooms to her.”
This motherfucker was savvy. He probably had these bitches paying his whole mortgage for him AND doing his housework. Ken was a boss!
And here he was, letting me call the shots and fling him around like a rag doll. It didn’t make sense. Why would someone who exercised so much control over every aspect of his life surrender all that power so willingly? It wasn’t even necessary. I was just a twenty-year-old college girl who worked at Macy’s and lived with her parents. Ken, on the other hand, was a twenty-three-year-old man who owned multiple neckties and a house big enough to board a small army of female indentured servants.
Clearly, Ken didn’t answer to anyone, yet when we were together, it was as if the man had been born without an opinion. Radio stations, restaurants, wherever we went, whatever we did, he deferred to me. Why?
Oh my God.
Ken wants me to hurt him.
It was the only explanation. Ken was some kind of masochist. He’d sized up my fiery, headstrong bad-girl vibe, heard about all the piercings, and thought maybe I’d be down to pour searing hot wax all over his balls.
Now, don’t get me wrong, Journal. I was no stranger to S and M, and maaaaybe I did have a closet full of pleather and bondage accessories, but wasn’t it I who was always being handcuffed to things? I mean, I was no dominatrix.
Or was I?
From the moment, I’d laid eyes on Mark McKen that night at Jason’s “Big Game” party, I’d had the overwhelming urge to tie him up and whip him a little.
And I was