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I went into the nearest bathroom and fucking cried.

Wish I could tell you that I spent the whole fortnight visiting my mother. Telling her what’s going on. Getting hugs and jokes and some cookies from the local bakery. To be fair, there was a stellar shop on the corner of the street my mom’s townhouse was on. But I only got to visit it twice, because I stayed with her for four days. I was going to spend the whole trip there, but she largely ignored me and the neuroses of her housekeeper sent me screaming into the German strasse.

So, I took my chances doing a bit of traveling. Berlin. Stockholm. London. I avoided Paris like the plague, even though I’ve usually enjoyed trips there, because of the baggage associated with the City of Romance… and because Ira is fluent in French, I’ve discovered during our relationship. While on the one hand, I didn’t get to talk to people much outside of hotel hospitality, I did get a clean, shiny new environment to think about what it is I want from my life.

Being thousands of miles away from the one you love has all sorts of fucked up consequences on you. For one, well, you’re away from the one you love. You swear that you can feel their heart beating in bed with you… an ocean away. You think you hear their voice calling you from the bedroom when you’re in the shower. And you want to strangle every person calling a woman Kathleen, Kat, or heaven forbid, Katie.

On the other, having that distance allows you to stand back and take a hard look at your life choices.

They say you can’t help who you fall in love with. No matter your preferences, who you actively go looking for, or the kind of people you surround yourself with, you’re probably falling in love with the last person you expected.

Until a few months ago, I always assumed I would either marry a “normal” person, or a bedroom-sub. I don’t want a lifestyle Dom/sub relationship, on either end. I had fun during my stint with Ira wearing the collar almost 24/7, but that’s not for me in the long run. I can’t give up that kind of control for so long.

And that brings me here, standing in my apartment on Sunday night after returning to America. I saw Ira tonight. At Midnight. I went there with some of my old friends, all Dommes. It was fun being around my usual brethren again. I was reminded of the thrills, the fun, and the passion we could instill in one another, especially when some subs stopped by and entertained us with their witty tongues and promises of pleasure. Eve and I were the only ones who didn’t go home with one of them. Most were men and not Eve’s cup of tea, and I’m not sure if I’m still seeing Ira. It felt like cheating.

After seeing her? After hearing her call me her darling? I now wonder if it was wrong to ignore all the texts she sent me when I first left that restaurant.

I’m sure she’s thought of me as much as I’ve thought of her. I think of her as I pour myself an Old Fashioned, the drink I had when we made that bet. I think of her as I feed Sinéad, petting her soft fur and thanking God she’s over her kitten-diarrhea phase. I even think of Ira as I wash off my heavy makeup and let down my hair.

There were two things I walked away from Europe with. The first is that I absolutely, in at least some life-altering capacity, love Ira Mathison. I love our banter, how she challenges me, how she makes me laugh at the most unexpected times. Her taste in movies is suspect, but it’s not about watching the movie itself. It’s about curling up in her hold, kissing her cheek, and reveling in her smart, masculine-but-soft cologne.

Thinking about those little things tells me again, as I get into the tub, that I love the asshole. I want more moments like those. I want to make love to her. I even want to… dare I say it… submit to her at times.

Ira has transformed me into the switch I never knew I could be. That much is true.

You know what else I want? Of course you know what I want. You’ve probably been yelling, no, screaming at me for weeks now. “Kathleen!” you’re yelling right now, getting ready to reach through whatever you’re reading this on. “Don’t you see? The only way you could be happy with anyone, and not just Ira, is if you get to show them who’s boss sometimes!”

That’s right. It’s not enough to spank a woman here and there for her titillation. I can’t live off her knowing I’m a Domme, let alone one who is exclusive to her and can’t take out her controlling frustrations on someone else. Listening to my Domme friends, watching them interact with submissives, reminded me of how much I used to enjoy that.

My mind keeps going back to Ira. While she was training me, I was content to indulge in only my forbidden fantasies. Well, now I want to indulge in the public ones. Push her down. Tie her hands behind her back so she can’t get grabby. Take her to the edge and back. Ride her fucking face, feeling her tongue all over my pussy as I inform that insubordinate asshole that I am the woman who commands her heart and loins.

That is the source of my frustration. My heartache.

Ira Mathison will never submit to me. I know it like I know I love her.

And now I’ve gotta go back to work. I have to look her in the eye, overcome my feelings for her, and tell her why we would never work.

I’m probably going to have to move after the ball next weekend. Fuck the museum. My dad can do it. I… won’t last another day around Ira. Even though I have to. For now.

Life, right?

I check myself in the bathroom mirror one last time before going out into the ballroom.

Blue dress I bought at The Blue Peacock? Check. Diamond clasps in my hair? Check. Minimum makeup with a smack of pink lipstick? Check.

Oh, don’t forget your clutch on the bathroom sink, Kathleen!

I’m not the only woman in here. The restroom in the main hall of the renovated Ace is stuffed with well-to-do women checking their hair and makeup, looking for panty lines beneath their dresses, and gabbing about their dates. While I see a lot of women from my social circles here, I also see some new faces. Rube-type girls trying to blend in with their lower-class dresses and heels that break with too much ease. Their language isn’t that great, either.

I assume most of them are escorts, paid for by men who need a date for the evening. The way they gather around one end of the sink and mutter about Johns… ahahaha.

There is one woman who pops up beside me, however, who is neither an escort nor high society. She’s both.

“I was hoping I would see you here.” June, dressed in a sexy black number, black pumps, and with hair as big as her tall body, appears with a smile in the mirror. “I had heard you jetted out of the country.”

My lipstick almost falls into the sink. “You…”

“Am both working and having fun.” She winks. “My patron brought me as a date. Sorry. I’m unavailable tonight.”