1.
There had been a few times she stopped dating one guy and started up with another, and the joke of it was how little difference it made. Like everybody on the planet, she had a certain type she dug more than others, and like everybody her relationships tended to repeat the same tiresome patterns. Really shouldn't take us by surprise when this keeps happening. Cheeseburgers are cheeseburgers—you can get them umpteen kajillion different places, but it doesn't much matter. They ain't gonna taste all that different, are they? A little bit, sure, but only a little. Not like if you made yourself go for a taco or Chinese instead.
You stick too close to a certain parameters when you hook up with guys, you're gonna get pretty much the same exact deal over and over again, the good and the not-so-good. Same perks, same problems. Makes perfect sense, doesn't it? Either you accept that fact and you roll with it, and you stick with what you've got going, or if you really want something new, you gotta change your guidelines.
Finally she was trying that. Really making a push into new territory. Last half dozen dudes she hooked up with were all the same type guy—same look, same lifestyle, same attitude. Slick sharp cleancut big money business guys. The type she's always considered her favorite type, and maybe it still was, at least physically, or surface-wise. (She herself, after all, is the matching female equivalent; these are the guys that populate her slice of the world day by day, and have since she got done with university.) The way they dress, the way they present themselves. The way they go after things. Hot stuff, at least if you're part of that high finance culture, and she was, it was in her blood. But that type guy, like every other type, had certain standard specific failings. Like they're built into the design. That's fine, of course, and that's fair—nobody's perfect. None of these guys were particularly terrible or mean to her. They did some things wrong, but those things that they messed up were never major things. It was just that those stupid little things were always the exact same things. They all made the exact same little irritating mistakes, and she let it drive her crazy. She kept trading each fucker in for a fresh model every couple months, one after another, hoping the latest replacement would magically be better than his predecessors. And wow, duh, they never were. They all treated her the exact fucking same, in the good ways and in the bad ways. Why the fuck wouldn't they, when she kept picking herself the same exact type again and again? It was retarded on a fundamental level. If you're sick and tired of cheeseburgers, don't buy yourself another cheeseburger expecting a dramatic fresh flavor—pick something else.
She isn't the only idiot that does this. Let's face it, male or female, it's a drastic failing of the species. We think of ourselves as thinking creatures—that's exaggerated. We think we've got this amazing capacity to learn stuff and better our lives. And we can, or we could, except only sometimes. Only if we wake up and put the effort in and when do we? The answer is, hardly fucking ever.
2.
Now she's dating an actor, of all things. Seems pretty talented, not that she's any great judge of artistic stuff. She's watched him in two different plays, both of which he wrote and directed himself. They were both interesting but also real weird and a little confusing, the way he made them end. He teaches a whole bunch of theatre classes at the local college. The teaching is how he feeds himself, certainly not his acting or his writing or his directing. Guy brings in less in one week than she makes in a single day. She's trying real hard not to hold that against him. Guys that live like he does need to be measured on a different scale.
He's got a striking look to him and he's got a powerful, magnetic presence. He's the first burly guy she's ever tried dating, not actually fat but built hefty, and you certainly wouldn't call him clean-cut or well-groomed, if you're the sort of person that cares about that. Which normally she is. This guy's got crazy shaggy hair sticking out all over the place, and a stubble. It suits him, though. He looks decent like that, instead of just grubby and gross like most other guys do when they don't bother shaving enough.
His name is Martin, and here's the real kicker: the guy never seems to want to have sex with her, in a regular fashion. Not to say he doesn't fuck her—but almost every time so far, being the kind of creative-minded personality that he is, he's tried to make a big crazy production number out of it. Getting straight down to business has no appeal for him. He needs to turn it into a game, to get turned on.
This stuff is brand new for her. She's never gone down these kinds of roads, and wasn't sure she'd be into it. Her sex life up 'til now has always been pretty cut-and-dried. She wouldn't say it's been dull—just that she knows exactly what she likes. She's not the sort of girl that gets clumsy or shy in the sack, stiffening up or fumbling awkwardly around. She's also not the sort of girl that just likes to lay back with her legs spread and leave everything up to the guy, like she's testing him, saying "Show me what you can do, prove your worth." That's not her deal. At some point pretty early on in her love life, she put some work into this and figured out a good solid technical program for herself that gives her exactly what she needs when she needs it, and so ever since she's always stuck to that. A pretty simple series of steps. She's always been a take-charge kind of girl, with her partners. When she gets with a guy, though she's not the kind of woman that always has to be on top the whole time, she does insist on setting the pace and calling all the shots on position-changes and intensity-level and the rest of it, stage by stage. Guys that wanna get with her and wanna make her happy learn they gotta follow her instructions, and when they follow her program with no fuss or foolishness, they find it concludes just as good for them as it does for her. 'Cause she took that factor into account when she designed it.
First time they did it—and in fact the only time they've had ordinary sex in a standard fashion, with no theatrical silliness beforehand—Martin called it a gymnastics routine, afterward. While they were fucking, he kept calling her coach, the whole time, whenever she told him what she wanted. "Yes, coach. Sure thing, coach. Right away, coach." She ended up slapping his face. He just laughed that off. "Don't get me wrong, it's a great routine, as a piece of athletics. Ten out of ten, gold medal. Just next time, how 'bout we try making it less sports-oriented?"
He turned it into a dare. And childish as it was, that approach got under her skin and she ended up accepting his challenge.
This is why today she's tied up naked on his bed, with duct tape over her mouth. Because today, the game is Spies. They're playing Spies.
She's an agent that's just had her cover blown, and now she's captured and is about to be interrogated. Martin, whenever he finally comes back into the room, will obviously be acting as her enemy, and interrogator.
He's left her waiting alone like this for quite a while. She's not sure how long exactly. Can't see any clocks. Time is tough to judge. Feels like hours, like ages. Might have only been five or ten minutes.
She knows he left the apartment. Heard him go out and lock the door and tromp down the steps. Heard him start his car and drive off. She really is all alone in here. How much longer is he going to leave her like this, stewing?
What if he doesn't come back 'til tomorrow morning? Jesus, she'll be so pissed. He better not take it that far. Won't be the first time he's let one of the games get carried away. Well, in fairness she's just as guilty of that, when things have got really cooking.
And it's a clever ploy, fucking off like that and leaving her to dangle in silent fuming solitude. She can feel it doing what it's meant to do. Which is drive her nuts. Her heart is racing and she wants to scream.
This is the first time she's let him tie her up. It is in fact the first time she's ever been tied up in her entire life. Very funny feeling, especially since she doesn't have any clothes on. There's much more to it than you might think. It's not just the obvious sensation of not being able to move. Feeling exposed and helpless and embarrassed and so forth. All of that's going on, sure, but there's much more. An extreme heightening of perception and awareness. An electrified feeling, thrumming throughout her body. And yet there's also a lazy heaviness that's settled over her. Like's she been drugged or hypnotized. Even if someone cut her ropes right this second, she would still find it very hard to move. But there's no sense of numbness in her limbs, or a foggy mind, completely the reverse. She feels as wide awake as it's possible to be. It's an otherworldly state of absolute contradiction.
It's thrilling. It's hot.
And then finally Martin returns. She hears his car park, and hears him come up the stairs outside and let himself in the front door. Somehow it still manages to be startling when the bedroom door bangs open a few seconds later, and he strides in and looms over her. Not smiling.
His expression is angry-looking. Fierce. But he's gentle and careful when he peels the tape off her mouth, so he doesn't hurt her.
"Agent Miller," he says, "I need your password."
3.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies. Tries to sound defiant and contemptuous. She's never had much talent for acting, and early on, tends to overdo her roles. Also has a tendency to get the giggles, the harder Martin tries to keep things feeling serious and real. Still, her line comes out sounding pretty good. Pretty convincing this time. She's getting better at this.
