47—THEN
She was still seeing Colton. He had been intimidated by their first night together, but not so much that he didn’t want to try again. Over time, Livia got used to other positions. But she found that nothing was better than turning the tables, taking control the way she had that first night. At a minimum, to come, she had to be on top. And as much as Colton wanted it, oral sex was out of the question. She didn’t enjoy the vulnerability of having it done to her, and even the thought of doing it for Colton was a sickening flashback straight to the deck of the ship at night, the smell of curry and diesel fuel, the scratchy Astroturf under her knees . . . all of it.
On balance, though, she felt good about the relationship. She was secretly proud that she could have any kind of sex at all, after what had been done to her. And that she could actually enjoy it was practically a miracle. She thought she’d just see how it went and not think too much about it.
By spring semester, though, their romance had cooled. Part of it seemed like jealousy on Colton’s part: he hadn’t done well enough in events like the Grand Slams and the Pan Ams to qualify for the Olympics, while Livia’s wins in those events kept her in the running. But part of it was Livia’s own growing dissatisfaction with the relationship. After the rush of that first night, the sex, even when physically adequate, just wasn’t overall as fulfilling. Knowing what to expect in bed, having a routine, seemed to . . . well, if not ruin it for her, then at least diminish the experience.
She started dating other guys. But whatever it was she needed, she found it wasn’t something she could satisfy just with other students, and she started going farther afield, taking new risks. She had bought a used Ninja, like Rick’s, and she would ride it out to some of San Jose’s seedier bars, the ones far from the SJSU campus, the kinds where students knew they weren’t welcome. She was pretty, she knew that, and a lot of men fetishized Asian women. Inevitably, some tatted-up day laborer or construction worker would sidle up next to her at the bar and ask if he could buy her a drink. These were rough men, bigger than most of the students she knew. They worked with their hands, they weren’t masters of the universe and weren’t going to be, and they didn’t like hearing no from a woman. Especially after they’d bought her a drink. And taken her to a motel, or back to an apartment, which in their minds entailed a certain quid pro quo. Many of them fought back when she flipped them off her and straddled them, giving in only when they realized they were still going to get laid, just not quite the way they’d expected. Mostly they seemed to treat it as a crazy new experience, like something they’d see in a porn movie, though maybe not one they would have thought to rent themselves. She’d give them a fake name and number afterward and never see them again.
One night, she let a guy who called himself Park buy her a drink, even though she wasn’t sure about his vibe. On the one hand, he seemed normal enough. He was pretty solid-looking, but clean and well groomed, not tatted up or anything like that. She’d learned that past a certain point, most guys at least tried to be persuasive, and many let their attempts at “persuasion” get a little too aggressive. But that tended to be more of a heat-of-the-moment phenomenon. It wasn’t a kink for them; it wasn’t a conscious plan; they’d just gotten so tantalizingly close to what they craved, they couldn’t stand to have it taken away. She told herself this guy might be like that, and that would be fine. At any rate, he didn’t have the predator feel she recognized. Still, there was something . . . missing about him, a kind of weird blankness in his eyes or affect she couldn’t place. Whatever it was that was off, she decided to ignore it.
It was almost a very costly mistake.