Page 9 of Mine

Music was technically my secondary job. My primary source of income was creating custom leather goods and sex furniture. I’d been doing it for a few years now, and enjoyed everything about it. I liked working with my hands. I liked making client’s erotic fantasies some true.

Anytime I told someone what I built, they always got a glazed look of surprise on their face. Jack, Tyler, and Eric liked to give me shit about it, though they were certainly jealous.

I’d always been good with my hands. I’d always been creative, too. Working with hard wood, the kind that came from trees, was second nature to me.

It was how I ended up joining the kink community to begin with.

My mentor was a fifty-seven-year-old lesbian Dominatrix named Nancy. She’d been in the BDSM community for over two decades and had shown me immense kindness. Truly, I wouldn’t have been who I was today without her and her wife, Beth.

Seven years ago, I met her outside a sex club, and she’d kept me from doing something stupid with a stranger. At the time, I had no money. I’d run from my father the year before but never found a place to live. Somehow, I made it work, working odd jobs here and there. A man offered me a hundred bucks to let him fuck me, and that had seemed like a lot of money then. It would have been enough to keep me fed for the month if I was smart with it.

I’d been lucky, though.

Nancy intervened, and it’d been a whirlwind from there. I ended up going home with her and sleeping in her guest bedroom for two days straight. She and Beth kept me fed without asking any questions.

It was the first time I’d ever slept under a roof and felt safe.

Beth was a professional woodworker. Nancy was a professional Dominatrix. They’d given me a home, a job, and sent me to therapy. They’d been patient with me while I figured out how to navigate being an adult.

If Nancy ever found out I’d called a random woman agood girlin the middle of a coffee shop, she’d disown me.

Well, she probably wouldn’t—but she’d give me an icy stare down that would make me piss myself.

I sighed and put my guitar down.

Maybe this weekend I’d finish gutting the house of my father’s belongings. His bedroom and office were all that was left, but even touching the doorknob made my heart feel like it was going to burst out of my chest.

Really, I just wanted to light everything on fire and watch it all burn to ash.

Despite the desire to rot in bed, I reached for my phone and opened up Instagram. One of my videos went viral last week, and the comments never failed to make me laugh.

Men, in general, were an insecure bunch of fuckwads. Most of the comments were positive, until it landed on the wrong side of the algorithm. Then videos of me playing my songs were flooded with comments from right-wing idiots trying to hurl insults at me.

They weren’t good at it, though. I wasn’t really sure what the goal was, but the last thing that would actually fuck me up was a comment from someone who couldn’t tell the difference betweentheir,there, andthey’re.

Also, they were just helping my videos get to more people.That was the kicker of it all.

I scrolled for a bit, thinking about what I’d post next. I had a song I was working on, but the riff wasn’t exactly where I wanted it yet. It was torturing me.

A text message flashed across the top of the screen from Beth and I sighed.

We have two St. Andrew's crosses to build today and a spanking bench. Stop playing with your little band and get your ass to the workshop.

I snorted.

Yes, ma’am

Pick me up some of that bubble tea too. The one with the balls. And don’t tell Nancy. I’m supposed to be off sugar

I rolled my eyes.

I’m not supposed to encourage you being a brat

Respect your elders

I barked out a laugh and sat up. Beth was right, unfortunately.

I had sex furniture to build, songs to write, and money to make. Wallowing in my dead father’s house didn’t fit into that picture.

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