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Look, I enjoy a show where a Mistress pleasurably tortures her sub on stage as much as the next person, but that’s a show. I’ve never harbored any fantasies about a woman doing to me what I do to other women. Partly because we Dommes are so… well, look at Kathleen.

We have a lot to prove.

“I do say that, don’t I?” my mother says. “Like I’m always saying you should get tested.”

Oh, God, here we go again. She doesn’t mean health clinic tested. I stay on top of that just fine. She means something else. “It’s not a priority. Still.”

“All I’m saying is that the research I read insinuates a high correlation between neurodivergency and identifying as non-binary.”

“And I’m saying that it doesn’t matter to me right now.” My mom’s been on this since I officially came out as non-binary and she read everything on it that she could. Suddenly, she started seeing connections I’m not convinced are there. I know I don’t have ADHD(unlike someone else I know, who could probably use a diagnosis, Kathleen),and there’s nothing affecting my day-to-day life right now. But that’s my mother in a nutshell. She only wants what’s best for me, and growing up lower class has her always setting her sights on the doctor visits and neurological testing she couldn’t dream of having as a kid. At any given moment, my mom is convinced that everyone she knows has OCD, narcissism, or autism. Including me.

“I spoke to your father yesterday and he says that you will be working on that presentation starting tomorrow.” She quickly changes the subject. “Putting aside everything else to secure the buy?”

“Dad will be watching over the holdings while I focus on this, yes.” Normally my father and I split up the responsibilities of the company, with my mother filling in where necessary. Yet as the only child it falls on me if I don’t want to see my family’s company go to hell when my parents are no longer here. It’s stressful, but I manage. Especially when I have such delightful ways to unwind at the end of the week.

“And I suppose Kathleen will be working with you.”

“Why would she?” I don’t need Kathleen to do anything. Well, besides show up with the right materials this time.

“I asked her to.”

I drop the pawn I’m holding in my hand. It rolls off the table and lands at my feet, but I’m delayed in bending down to pick it up. My mother never misses a thing.

“We’re counting on you two to make this happen. The Anderssens are eager to sell, but it means nothing if we don’t play by their arbitrary rules.” My mother shrugs nonchalantly, but I know not to mess with her. “If we’re going to get that hotel promptly, then we need to wow the council. If you two are on the same page all the way, it will happen.” With finality, she slams her bishop into a space. “Checkmate.”

I sigh. Third time in a row my mom’s beaten me at this stupid game. I’m usually not this careless. I’m preoccupied.

My mother stands, picking up her empty glass of iced tea to take back to the kitchen. She has a maid, but the woman spends more time texting than cleaning because my mom does so much on her own. “Try to get along with her for more than a few minutes to make this happen, dear. Focus on being professional.”

Easy for her to say. She’s not fantasizing about this woman while having sex with others.

She catches something on my countenance. Damn me and my shitty poker face. “By the way, whatever happened to that lovely girl you were seeing? The actress?”

“Stephanie May.” I put the pieces back into their starting positions. “Not sure it’s going to work out.” Not after what I did.

“Ah.” My mother continues to stand, her impeccable dress stiff against her body. She is a woman of clean lines. “Too bad. She was lovely.”

“You never even met her.”

“Honey, I read the papers.”

Is she trying to tell me something? I don’t read the papers. I barely read the internet. I keep abreast on business matters, stock prices, etc., but that’s about it. Otherwise, I count on my assistants to do the grunt work and pass on the important stuff to me. So as my mother puts her glass in the dishwasher and heads to the bathroom, I stop by the dining table and pick up these precious papers of hers.

This was the pivotal difference between my mother and father, and what makes them a formidable team even after their divorce. My father is all numbers and schmoozing people he already knows. My mother is all about schmoozing people she doesn’t know yet. She ropes them in, and my father keeps them attached. It’s not odd that my mother is obsessed with the local tabloids. They tell her who the up-and-comers are so she can keep an eye on them.

I should have known. Right there on Page 6 is my face and Stephanie’s in separate pictures, side-by-side. “Hollywood Sweetheart Dating Rich Billionaire ‘Playboy?’” I admit we’re a handsome couple. Her high cheekbones, blond tresses, and bright eyes go well with my darker everything. Especially in this picture. I look good.

“Rumor continues to fly that Ira Mathison only uses women for her amusement. An indiscriminate playboy (or girl, depending on the day,) she has a great mind for business but a closed-off heart to love. But who cares? She’s young and enjoying what the world has to offer.” For some reason, my eyes are drawn to this excerpt. “And the world offers a gaggle of beautiful girls, like Stephanie May, who was seen dining with Mathison on the 16th. We could say this is young love in bloom, but knowing Mathison’s track record, it’s more likely another fling on the road to 30.”

On the road to thirty? Excuse them. I just turned twenty-nine! And why are they using nothing but female pronouns? My publicist has made it clear that I prefer genderless terms when the media is afoot. People? They can use whichever set they think suits me best, as long as it’s done with respect. My dad, for example, is never going to refer to me as she or her if it means pretending I’m the son he never had, and I’m fine with it. The media, though? Fuck ‘em! Work for it, you bastards!

I fold up the paper and drop it on the table. Why do I care what a tabloid is saying about me? My business associates don’t care. Half of them are on that page with me, cheating on spouses or getting caught in another lie. As long as we’re still good enough for business, it doesn’t matter. As well it shouldn’t…

On the front page, staring back at me is an article about that library Kathleen helped a while ago. Her picture is superimposed over the children’s section, where a librarian is reading a story to a bunch of kids and some of their guardians.

“Thanks to Ms. Allen’s skills, Foster Library now has a completely updated technology section that allows community members to search for jobs, take online classes, and apply for necessary permits. The new community wing invites local groups to reserve time for efforts, such as a quilting group, a French language consultation, and remedial writing classes.”

I step away from the table. My brain flickers between the image of Kathleen everyone has: the world-crushing businesswoman who also takes her time to help out those less fortunate. Next year she’ll probably be in a soup kitchen singlehandedly overhauling their methods to make them more efficient. Or maybe she’ll be arranging Secret Santa projects for the kids.