The Experiment Pt. 05

This is the last part of my story. I want to thank you for indulging my catharsis, and hope you at least enjoyed it as well.

Part 5

They say that chronic pain can actually rewire the brain, that it reroutes neural pathways as the brain tries to adapt to the incessant sensation. My brain, however, has not been able to adapt to the pain of my broken heart. The heart I broke all on my own, all in a moment of petty jealousy.

I spend most of my Saturday languishing in bed. My tears have dried and my anger has fizzled into this hatred of myself. Hatred for the part of me that became the green monster, for listening to those insecurities and destroying what had hardly even begun. Worst of all is I think I have done this on purpose. Something in me cowers away from the deep end of my feelings, it flits on the surface looking for pleasure when I'm dying for more. Starved of the life-saving element I need most.

Sex is one thing, love is another. I know I want sex, I want bodily fulfillment. Then I knew I wanted to have sex with Damian, and only him. Which therefore means I only want to be with him; i.e. monogamy, commitment, living together. Consolidating lives, marriage. Why wouldn't I want that? Don't I want that?

Supposedly, unexpected results occur when you don't truly ask the right question of the study. If you asked why is the sky blue, only to be answered by the statement that the earth orbits the sun, you clearly got sidelined. And that is what I've done. I began an experiment that addressed what I thought was the problem, only to realize I was pursuing the solution to something else. Except my solution became a new problem that I don't really want to face.

The world is oblivious to my sulking that lasts through the rest of the weekend and into my workweek. My pride won't let me text Damian, it can hardly stand to glance at his name in the Contacts of my phone. There are fleeting moments where the green monster tries to muster up some indignity that he has not contacted me, but it won't hold. I know I was wrong and it cuts deeper than any wound I could self-inflict.

As each day passes, the more I wallow. On Wednesday, my supervisor introduces the lab to a new employee: a man close to my age, fairly attractive, sociable. After the obligatory handshake and name drop, he hovers around my work station, trying to keep a conversation going until I make an excuse to walk away. My senior coworker sees me skulk away and she gives me a sympathetic look; she knows I'm missing my motorcycle rider. I leave work thinking perhaps I should try to capitalize on the new coworker's interest, to accept that my experiment is over and try to forget Damian. But every night my sleep is fractured and filled with dreams of him. Dreams where I am forgiven and he returns to my bed, alternating with nightmares where I futilely beg him to come back.

The next day, my new male coworker is pleasantly friendly and I'm cordial in return. But I don't feel anything that resembles attraction or desire, and I won't pretend. If the experiment taught me anything, it proved that feelings cannot be imitated. I can fake an orgasm all I like, but I can't fake desire for someone.

Later that night around 10:00 pm, I get a call from an unknown number. I don't answer it, assuming it's probably spam, and they leave a voicemail. I listen to the message: ten seconds of silence until the very end. Just before the caller disconnects there is the sound of something clicking or snapping. Like the sound of a lighter flicking perhaps, or some other small item that snaps closed. I listen a few more times, certain my mind is playing tricks on me when I think I can hear the slightest exhale of someone's breath, just before the snapping sound. My mind even imagines that the snap sounds like the little gold pocket watch that Damian wore, the one he'd snap closed at the end of our sessions. Except, I can't justify why he would call from an unknown number, and why wouldn't he say anything. It's false hope grasping at phantom straws.

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Friday returns with a crushing reminder that it has been seven days since I last saw him. Seven days since he angrily held me, his fingers threatening to sink into my flesh, to find my weak and hungry spaces and fill them with his rage. Part of me wishes he had done just that, to take out his rightful anger by hurting me. But that's not who he is. I have underestimated him, underestimated what he felt. I can still recall the wounded look in his eyes before he stormed out of my building, and I can't fathom how to face him again. Not that it matters when he hasn't contacted me and I don't expect he will. A silent punishment for my penitence.

I go home from work and ignore the glittering blue helmet as I hang up my jacket inside my hall closet, tucked up on the shelf like a pair of shoes I won't wear but can't dare return. To distract from my miserable Friday evening, I scroll through an uncaring internet full of nothing, a voyeur in the virtual lives of my superficial friends. I have nothing to share and nothing to say about myself other than my pitiful state of unhappiness.

As the hours progress, my fingers itch to go somewhere I shouldn't go. But I can't help myself. I eventually sneak onto the website for the Dungeon, knowing it won't help, knowing it will only tempt me to be pathetic. For a moment, I consider starting this experiment over. Maybe I should try this with another Dom. My body didn't respond to Eric's feeble attempts because I'd already had lackluster results with him. Maybe a new Dom would be able to stimulate me?

Sure, Siena. That sounds like a great idea. A great fucking way to get even more screwed up.

I shake my head and bleakly laugh at myself. No, another Dom isn't going to fix this. Nobody else can replace Damian. I know this, my body knows this. I could watch volumes of porn and nothing would get me off faster than the memories of what he did to me. How he did things to me... From this moment forward, anytime I touch myself, I'll remember how his fingers made me feel. I'll remember how he grinned when he knew I was dying to come, how he teased me with every kiss and caress.

Sleep comes agonizingly to reinforce my heartache when I dream of him again. We are standing in his room of pain, I'm naked and still bound in ropes that he is slowly untying. Round and round his hands unbind me, graceful strokes across my skin. His fingers uncoil the constrictive pleasure that I don't want escape from, a bondage that holds regardless of the restraints. The last measure of rope falls to the ground and he pauses. Just as before, he curls one hand around my hip, simply holding me. I feel him lean in, I feel his lips brush against mine. And suddenly, he disappears.

I wake up just as devastated as I was the day he ran off after our kiss. The memory is so potent, a sweet drink of his affection swiftly swallowed up by the grief of his rejection. But the memory reminds me of another powerful feeling that sustained me even back then. He kissed me. He wanted me. Until that fateful session, there were no other words between us, no confession of what I felt other than the agreement that I trusted him to punish my body. To give me something that no one else could because he knew I could find pleasure inside myself.

Shuddering, I take a breath and squeeze my eyes shut. I refuse to cry anymore when I remember that he kissed me first. Somewhere, that truth remains. Even after I destroyed what we had.

Eventually I crawl out of bed and shuffle around my apartment doing chores. I finally throw out the last of his wilting flowers, a rugged pair of carnations. I was amazed by how long they lasted, as long as I refilled their water daily. The rest of my apartment is haunted by memories of him wherever I look: his handsome ghost cooking in my kitchen, grinning at me from my dining table, teasing me as I stand at my kitchen sink.

I remember how my mother wanted to sell our house after my brother died, and my dad argued against the impracticality of it and the cost of moving. I sort of understood why it bothered her, but today I fully grasp the painful echoes of a person who once existed so vibrantly in your life.

As I'm berating my emotional insecurity and the inability to control myself, I continue to think of my mother. I think of how many times she lectured me about being responsible and taking care of myself. Things like keeping track of your bank account and paying your bills. She never told me that I needed to keep track of the people I cared about, that I needed to tend to what they required.

In a strange and masochistic mood, I call her. I rarely call my mom, so I know this will spark some surprise. She answers right away, asking what's wrong. We don't typically just chat, so this is a fair assumption. I tell her I'm fine, just checking in to reassure her I didn't drown in the bay. It's kind of a mean joke, a way to tell her that she could also call me to check in. But that's not how my mom is.

We talk about my job and how biotechnology is a great field to be in. I ask her about her job and she is busy "in a good way" at her law firm. I ask about my dad and she brusquely says he is" busy as usual". I know they are not in a good place and haven't been for many years, but they pretend and it makes me sad. She goes back to me and asks if I need anything, do I need another bus pass or anything for my apartment. I say no, I'm good. My mother pauses and asks how I'm doing.

It's a loaded question that I debate answering honestly. To bridge my silence, she says she knows it's hard when you get done with college. The end of one phase and beginning another. I take a deep breath, and I tell her I met someone. I'm sort of dating someone. He's from Armenia, he works two jobs. I really like him. Alot.

My mother is stunned, a repeated stuttering of "oh, that's great". I never really dated in high school. I went to prom with a female friend. I was going out and having sex, but my parents were clueless that their straight-A student was growing up.

I ask if it would be ok to bring him up for a visit. We could come up for lunch next weekend, and they could meet him. Of course, my mom gushes. She would love to meet him. She has some clients that are from Armenia. I should ask him what he likes because she will either make her cedar-plank salmon or my dad can grill steaks. I tell her I'll ask him, and let her know before we come up. She says it will be great to see me, and I think she means it. She sounds happy for a change. Happy for me.

When I end the call, I feel like crying again. I don't know why the hell I have just done this when my supposed boyfriend probably hates my guts and is never going to speak to me again. But I think I'm calling my own bluff. I am making myself accountable for a change. If I make a social plan with my mother, I know I have to keep it. So I need to make something else work. I need to fix what I broke.

I end my moping chores and eat a bowl of cereal. Then I began an exhaustive web search for Armenian restaurants in the greater Seattle area. I come up with three possibilities. One turns out to be a Russian deli, then a second place is located closer to downtown. The photos show a staid brick building with its trendy industrial interior, but it doesn't seem right.

Then I come to the third restaurant; it's in a strip mall on the south end of town, closer to the lower income suburbs. It has raving reviews. I'm scrolling for minutes before I even find anything less than 5 stars. Someone who claims the waiter was hitting on them and being inappropriate. Damian's brother, I bet. The photos online show homey looking food piled on plates; most with exotic names I can't pronounce.

Then I see a photo that someone posted in the reviews- a shot of the restaurant with a group of people standing in the parking lot in front of it. The photo is older, a faded copy of a non-digital print. In the center of the group is a short woman with curly brown hair, standing beside a tall balding man. They are surrounded by children of various ages: a pretty teen girl with a forced smile who doesn't want to pose next to a small girl with strawberry blonde hair. Next to them is a tall, stocky teen boy who has the dark curly hair of the older woman. Then there are a pair of adolescent boys who stand arm-in-arm, grinning. They are being held back by their sibling's arms who know they will run off unless forced to pose for the photo. One boy is a little taller and lanky, with a goofy smile. The other shorter boy has a round face and a sweet smile, his blue eyes focused directly on the camera. I am almost brought to tears to see this version of my Damian.

Now, I am determined. I take a shower and order an Uber. I pick out a dress in a dark purple that's almost black in dim lighting. It has a shorter hem in the front that comes to my knees and a longer mermaid hem in the back. Its clingy jersey material shows my curves, but is easily made more matronly when I layer a long black sweater over it. I put on make-up and sheer stockings, I wear heels. High heels that will make me hate my feet in a few hours.

For the finishing touch I decide to braid my hair. A more intricate fishtail braid where I pull all my hair off to one side so the braid will hang over my shoulder. Taking a final look at myself, I feel this is a tasteful attractiveness, something I usually exhibit with my straight dark hair and wholesome demeanor. No one would know from looking at me that I have fallen in love with a man who whips me and spanks me. That beneath my exterior is something far more deviant than just the prim and proper lab tech. Something that Damian helped me discover, something he sees in me that fully expresses who I am. There's a swift pain in my gut at this realization, to understand he gave me this. I devised the experiment, but he helped me solve it.

The sad brunette in the mirror smiles at me, we take a deep breath so we won't ruin our make-up. I don't know if any of this will change a thing, but I want to be pretty for him one last time. I want him to remember me as something other than a rain-soaked lunatic.

When the Uber drops me off, my nerve begins to fail me. The restaurant looks just as pictured, a long, low building painted a dark burgundy with fake shutters around the windows. Large planter boxes below the windows hold blooming flowers that might be fake based on their bright primary colors. I stand frozen, just gazing at it, but the setting sun reminds me that time is fleeting. I decide to settle my nerves by taking a walk around the block, circling the parking lot of the long strip mall. It's a mixture of small stores: a hair salon, nail salon, a liquor store. There's a divey looking video poker bar at the far end of the mall, a place for me to drown my sorrows in later if I need it.

By the time I've circled back around to the restaurant, I feel my heart starting to pound. It's funny that such a cozy, homey looking place inspires such anxiety. Because he's in there. Wherever he is, the building or place that contains him is instantly changed for me. Something magical and terrifying all at once.

A large family with noisy children in tow walks in before I do, holding open the swinging double doors for me. I'm immediately hit by the smell of delicious food; the warm scent of garlic and spices. Inside, the dim interior is wood paneled with stained glass lamps hanging from the ceiling, each wall lined with high-backed booths. It is everything that a quaint, kitsch family-style restaurant should be.

The rambunctious family is seated first, and now I'm forced to stand at the wooden podium for the host or hostess. I stand there for a bit, watching families digging into their food, admonishing misbehaving children. There are three servers who are bustling around: two girls and one man. The girls are both Latina, but the man is white, tall, brown hair. Attractive. He's making jokes, garnering nervous giggles from women of all ages, a masculine pat to the shoulder of a male patron. He is most assuredly the charming sibling of legend.

One of the girls has spotted me and gives me an apologetic nod to say she knows I've been waiting, but Damian's brother sweeps in after giving me a split-second glance that nearly twists his body around in comical redirection.

"I am most sorry to keep you waiting," he gushes with the same smooth accent as his brother but in a slightly lower octave. "Table for two?"

"One, actually," I correct him, watching his expression of surprise that quickly sees the opportunity I've given him.

"Oh, my mistake," he apologizes unconvincingly as he grabs a single menu. "Please, follow me."

He bows his head and turns on his heel in a showy way, swinging his long limbs. We travel past the busy wall of booths, and turn a corner, ending in a narrow row of small tables placed in what feels like the bar area. He seats me at the farthest table, near the window.

"How is this, Miss?"

"Fine," I answer as I go to pull out the chair, only to have him take over.

When his chivalrous move is done and I've scooted into the table, he hands off the menu with another showy extension of his long arm dipping down. There is something dance-like in his movements that both brothers share.

"May I get you something to drink?"

I want the anxiety relief of alcohol, but not the truth serum effect it could have.

"A coke?"

He bows at the waist, and quickly dashes off. He is back in no less than three minutes and delivers my coke with a cherry floating on the top. I thank him for the unexpected addition to my beverage and he smiles with a grin that is similar to his brother's, so similar it hits me in the chest and to his credit, the brother quickly takes notice.

"Is something wrong, Miss?"

I wish he'd quit calling me miss, but I'm afraid if I tell him my name he'll take it as a come-on.

"No, I'm just a little tired," I quickly lie.

"Of course. Will there be another joining you later this evening?" he politely asks despite the gleam in his hopeful eyes.

I grimly chuckle. "No, just me."

He picks up on my melancholy and adjusts himself in a split second. "I understand," he says with more genuine effect than I expected. "Well, my name is Artem and I am very glad you are with us this evening. I shall try to keep the peace around you, and leave you undisturbed."

Artem isn't as polished as his little brother, but he's giving quite the performance. He proceeds to rattle off the specials and soups, everything sounding exotic and delicious. I wait till he's done, realizing I barely even looked at the menu.

"What do you recommend?" I ask.

He's pleased to be asked for his opinion and proudly boasts that the eggplant chicken is very popular.

I consider this, and think of a better question.

"What is the chef's favorite?"

He's even more pleased to be asked this specific opinion.

"Our chef is my mother, and she makes a spectacular Keshkegh. It's like a stew, very flavorful."

"That does sound good," I muse, then push for more. "Does anyone else cook besides your mother?"

He tilts his head with this question, immediately picking up that my question has an unusual origin. I can see him studying me, a smile that may have already figured out why I came there alone.

"Yes, we just happen to have another chef this evening. My brother."

He says it with just enough pause and emphasis that I know I've overplayed my hand. I try to keep my face blank and carry on my charade.

"What does he like?"

Now, I have impressed him. The crooked grin tries to compose itself, letting the canary pretend not to see the waiting cat they are discussing.

Artem tilts his eyes up, pretending to think on this question.