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FOR THE first time in his life, Rowan Campbell has a savings account in the quadruple digits. He has a steady and fulfilling job as a paramedic, a small but clean one-bedroom apartment in Boston’s Back Bay, and a stable dose regimen of meds to keep his depression and PTSD in check.

He loves his life, finally.

He’s happy…

But.

He’s happy, but…

There’s something missing.

Some itch under his skin that he can’t quite scratch through work or hobbies or family gatherings or casual hookups.

It’s a random, ordinary Monday when Rowan finally discovers the something that’s missing in his life.

“CODE SIX-THREE, 241 West Harrington, nearby units please respond,” the tinny voice broadcasts over the ambulance radio.

Rowan shares a glance with his partner, Addison, who nods and picks up the receiver.

“Dispatch, this is Car 47, show us responding. ETA two minutes,” she says as she inputs the location in the GPS.

Rowan flips on the siren, feeling the thrill rush through him that still hasn’t dissipated in his two years as an EMT and three as a paramedic. He’s vaguely familiar with the area, but it never hurts to have the GPS on, especially when a minute or two spent circling around the block could mean life or death.

When they arrive, there’s a small crowd outside a whitewashed brick building. Above the crowd is an overhang with illuminated marquee lights circling a black sign that reads The Menagerie in a neat gold script like something out of a modernized 1930s movie.

They grab their gear and a stretcher from the back before signaling to the crowd to move out of the way. As the crowd parts, a petite blond woman in black business clothes and high heels flags them down.

“He’s in here,” she says, voice serious yet calm, very much unlike most people they deal with.

She ushers them through a heavy cherrywood door and into what looks like a lounge. The interior is dim—both the tiled floors and the walls are black—lit only by blue, purple, and warm white lights that seem to outline all the fixed objects in the room.

Even from the little Rowan can see as his eyes adjust to the dark, he can tell that the décor is chic and modern. It looks as though it would be better suited to the Financial District.

Rowan and Addison make their way up a flight of stairs and into a lounge that is similarly decorated to the one below. Despite the crowd outside, there are still a few people lingering around the edges of the room, huddled together in small groups, whispering to one another. Many of them are in partial states of undress, with robes hastily thrown around themselves.

Down a short corridor, they’re led into a small, sparsely decorated room. Rowan barely has time to register the variety of crops and ropes and leather toys mounted to the wall opposite the door when he sees a man on the floor, naked, skin pale, and eyes closed. A woman, also naked, is kneeling over him, fingertips pressed against the pulse point on his neck, eyebrows scrunched in concern.

“What happened?” Addison asks the woman, gently ushering her away from the man.

“We were—I was ch-choking him and… and he… he passed out! He never sa-safeworded, so I thought…. He seemed fine, and then he just… passed out,” she stammers.

Rowan kneels down next to the man and grabs his wrist to feel for his pulse. It’s weak, but there.

“Did he ever stop breathing after he passed out?” Rowan asks her.

“Yeah. Shit, yeah, he did. I was so fucking scared, but I did CPR on him for maybe a minute? Maybe less? I don’t know, it all happened so fast and—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Addison soothes. “You did good. He’s breathing now, okay?”

The woman nods, covering her breasts with her arms and shrinking in on herself as if only now realizing she is nude.

“Did he fall or hit his head when he passed out?” Rowan asks, doing a once-over to check for physical injuries.

“No. We were already on the floor, and he fell forward into me. I laid him down.”

“That’s good,” Rowan says. “Oxygen.”

Addison grabs the emergency oxygen cylinder from her kit and fits the mask over their patient’s face, then turns on the flow. The man’s eyelids flutter at the rush of oxygen. A promising sign, but he’s still not out of the woods. They’ll need to get him in the ambulance and to the nearest hospital to find out if there’s any lasting damage from the lack of oxygen.

“Has he had any alcohol or drugs tonight that you’re aware of?” Addison asks.

The woman shakes her head, then adds, “Well, we had a couple drinks before this, but I think he only had two glasses of whisky. No drugs, but I guess he could’ve taken something before we met. I don’t know.”

Rowan lifts his eyelids and shines a flashlight on his eyes to check his pupil response. Still intact—another good sign. It looks like he’s going to be okay, but they still need to get him to a doctor.

“They don’t allow it here,” the woman says, almost to herself. “Choking. But he said he’d done it before and knew how much… how much he could handle, and….”

“We’re gonna help him,” Rowan promises, setting up the stretcher next to the man and grasping his legs. “Move on three. One, two, three.”

They quickly shift the man onto the stretcher and cover him in a wool blanket from their kit before strapping him in.

“Do you want to come, ma’am?” Addison asks the woman as she and Rowan raise the stretcher.

She shakes her head. “I only met him a few hours ago. I don’t even know his real name….”

The thought of hurting someone—a stranger —and leaving them alone makes Rowan’s stomach churn, but he holds his tongue. Anything he wants to say to the woman wouldn’t do anyone any good and would just cost their patient valuable time.

They wheel the man out of the room, down the elevator that the hostess points out, and back through the club to load him into the ambulance. Rowan drives and radios the nearest hospital while Addison monitors the man’s vitals in the back. All things considered, the call could have gone much worse. They could be driving back without sirens on right now.

But even with the close call, Rowan can’t help but think about that wall of toys and equipment. About the darkness of the club and the low, bassy music. About the tingling under his skin and the goose bumps on the back of his neck.

IT SHOULD be a red flag that the first time Rowan hears about the Menagerie is due to a near-life-threatening emergency, but it isn’t. His nerves are eased knowing that the man they’d had to bring to the hospital had acted outside of the club’s rules, and that even though that was the case, the management made sure he was taken care of.

He barely makes it the full day on Tuesday before he’s typing the menagerie boston into Google, eyes glued to his laptop screen like he might miss something in the millisecond it takes the page to load.

The first link seems to be what he’s looking for. He clicks through to a simple splash screen asking if he’s over eighteen. He clicks on “I am 18+” and is brought to a modern, elegant-looking website with a black background and white-and-gold text and an image of a sultry-looking woman’s eyes partially covered in a black mask. A golden script reading The Menagerie lies directly in the center of the homepage, and underneath: Boston’s Most Exclusive BDSM Dungeon no sexual acts in the bathrooms or locker rooms; no outside food or beverages. And some that aren’t— No scenes exceeding 4 hours; no bloodplay or cutting; no breath play. Rowan thinks back to the man they’d helped who had broken this exact rule. He shakes his head. He’s done it a few times with partners and gotten off to it more times than he can count, but he never lost sight of how dangerous it can be if you don’t know what you’re doing.

Members will receive two recorded strikes for breaking minor rules before membership is terminated. Membership may be terminated immediately depending on the severity of the rule(s) broken (i.e., if the safety of other members is compromised). Termination of membership is permanent.

Jesus. It’s pretty harsh, but Rowan knows that BDSM is all about trust and safety, and that members likely wouldn’t be able to fully enjoy themselves if they knew other members were breaking rules left and right with no consequences.

Before he can open the application, his “You’re gonna be late” alarm beeps loudly on his phone.

“Shit,” he curses, hastily closes his email app, and jumps up to finish getting ready for work.

BY THE time his lunch break hits, Rowan is itching to open the application. He pulls it up on his phone, zooming in to read the small text. The top portion is all standard name and contact info type stuff, but the bottom half and the second page are far more detailed, most of the questions having several lines to type in longer answers.

Rowan mentally thinks through his answers to the nearly two-dozen questions as he reads through the rest of the application. It’s… thorough. Intense, even. His application to be an EMT wasn’t this long, and the one to become a paramedic a couple of years later, even shorter.

And it doesn’t say anywhere what they’re looking for in this application. Rowan assumes it’s a way of making sure only those who are into this lifestyle join and that they won’t damage the club’s reputation, but he can’t be sure. He could email Clover and ask, but he figures he’ll just fill it out and send it off. If he’s rejected for whatever reason, he’ll ask then.

He can’t fill out the pdf on his phone, so he plans on doing it first thing when he gets home in a few hours. But he can call his primary care physician’s office—because he has one of those now, no longer needing to rely on the underfunded clinics of the South End—and schedule an STI test.

The call is brief, efficient, and Rowan has an appointment for Thursday—tomorrow—before work. He was clean the last time he got tested a few months ago and has used condoms with the sporadic hookups he’s had since then, but it never hurts to be sure. And besides, the club requires it.

He finishes his lunch quickly, eager to get through the rest of the day.

HAVING ALREADY thought about his answers to the longer questions on the application, he fills it out in record time as soon as he gets home.

Why are you interested in joining The Menagerie?

Because I want a safe place to re-explore my sexual interests.

Do you have any experience with BDSM? If yes, for how long?

Yes, with past partners. About 5 to 6 years.

Would you describe yourself as submissive, dominant, or verse?

Dominant.

What are your interests in BDSM? Check all that apply.

Rope bondage, leather bondage, toys, collaring, edging, flogging/impact play, rough sex, group sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism.

Are there any areas of BDSM that you are interested in trying?

Roleplay, shibari, sensation play, maybe others.

How important are safewords to you?

Extremely.

Do you have any interest in attending special workshops (alone/in a group) to learn new techniques?

Yes, both.

It takes barely more than fifteen minutes to answer all the questions, and he emails the application back to Clover with a note that he has an STI test scheduled for the morning.

That night he dreams of leather and strawberries.

IN THE morning, he once again awakes to an email from the club.

Dear Rowan,

We are pleased to invite you to become a member at The Menagerie! We feel your interests and experience will make for an exciting addition to our club. Please let us know when you are available for an in-person meeting at the club to complete your membership and fill out remaining paperwork. It should take no more than 30 minutes, though you are free to stay after if you would like.

Best,

Clover Monroe

Membership Coordinator

The Menagerie

Rowan can hear his blood rushing in his ears. Like before, the fast response surprises him—more so after having to review his application. But even if it had taken them weeks to respond, it wouldn’t have mattered.

He double-checks the club’s hours and sends a final email to Clover, fingers shaking with excitement.

Hi Clover,

Great! I can come in this Saturday at 7pm. Does that work?

Rowan C.

When he receives an affirmative reply barely fifteen minutes later, his heart races. Finally, he has something to look forward to.

He’s in.