5 Signs You’ve Become an Unwitting Participant in Someone’s BDSM Fantasy

It all seemed so innocent at first.

It all started when I had surgery to repair an umbilical hernia. The hernia had caused my cute little innie belly button to morph into an increasingly cartoonish outie over the last several years, and it was getting worse (I should point out that this was unrelated to my infected navel piercing). At my last physical, my doctor said it was time to get it fixed.

The surgery, which involved poking my bulging intestines back into place and tacking a piece of mesh on top to keep them there—not unlike patching up an old rag doll whose stuffing is falling out—was, to put it mildly, rough. “It’s one of the more painful procedures I do,” my surgeon said during my pre-op appointment, his tone disconcertingly cheerful. I, who have birthed two babies at home without pain medication and run the New York City marathon four times, scoffed when he said I’d need someone to accompany me home from the hospital and stay with me for a few days.

When I told my mother, who lives several states away, that I thought the hospital’s policy prohibiting me from being discharged on my own was not only ridiculous, but blatant discrimination against single people and an affront to my independence, she immediately offered to fly out and take care of me for a week. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask her—I wasn’t trying to hint—but when she said she’d be happy to do it, I surprised myself by bursting into tears. Even when you’re almost 50, sometimes you just need your mom.

By the time she left, I’d progressed from being unable to sit up or get out of bed unassisted to shuffling slowly around the block on my own, provided I could time my comings and goings with a neighbor who was also entering or exiting the building. (I never realized how heavy the lobby doors are before.) And that’s where this story really begins.

I’d met my neighbor—let’s call him Bruce—a few times in passing, but we didn’t really know each other outside of saying casual hellos at the corner bodega. He seemed to be dating another woman in our building—let’s call her Regina—who I’d chatted with a time or two, but who I also didn’t really know. Regina was quite a bit younger than Bruce, and to my eye, far out of his league, but who am I to judge? They looked cute enough together when I saw them holding hands on the street, all smiles.

One afternoon, a week or so after my mom had gone home, Bruce and I happened to be coming home at the same time. I’d overdone it that day and was practically doubled over, clutching my poor patched-up abdomen and wincing with every step. Bruce held the door for me and I thanked him, explaining that I was recovering from a recent, and brutal, surgery. 

Concerned, he asked if I needed anything, and told me to let him know if he could help out in any way. “Just text me,” he said. “I’m happy to be at your service. Anytime. Truly.” I thanked him, we exchanged numbers, and I promised that I’d be in touch next time I needed a Chewy package carried up to my apartment. Lifting a case of cat food and a box of kitty litter would probably be enough to give me another hernia. He also had cats; he understood.

Thus began a pattern of near-daily text volleys, which would kick off with Bruce telling me that he was going to the grocery store, and asking if I needed anything. Or he was doing laundry, and would I like him to throw in a load for me? I did not need anything from the grocery store, and I wasn’t about to let a man I barely knew wash my sheets for me, never mind anything else, but I always thanked him for offering. We’d end up chatting about the latest building drama or sending each other cat pictures. 

When my neighbor banged on my door at midnight, imploring me to call 911 because his roommate had hidden his phone and barricaded himself in the bathroom, I texted Bruce a heads up. I was glad to have a new friend in the building—someone to watch my back and gossip with. One night, I came home to find that Bruce had brought up my Chewy package without my having even asked. “No problem,” he said when I texted to thank him. “I saw it by the mailboxes. It was my pleasure.”

When I was marooned on my sofa, alone on Thanksgiving—my digestive system had not yet come back online, so a turkey dinner was out of the question and I’d turned down several invitations, the better to feel sorry for myself—Bruce messaged from upstate, where he and Regina had gone for the holiday. I was flying high on pain medication, and texted him a short dissertation on the merits of Lindsay Lohan’s new Christmas movie, which I was watching, versus Lacey Chabert’s latest, Hot Frosty.

“I feel like we should be friends,” Bruce texted. I laughed—weren’t we already friends?—and agreed. We were officially friends. Who says making friends as an adult is hard? I congratulated myself on being so good at it.

After Thanksgiving, I asked Bruce to come over and help me unbox and assemble the new robot litter box that had been sitting in my hallway for a couple of weeks. I was slowly healing, but I still wasn’t cleared to exercise, and I had zero core strength left. He took my trash and recycling down when we were done setting up the litter box. What a sweetheart! I told my mother that I’d made friends with a new neighbor who was helping me out during my convalescence; she was pleased and relieved.

The first red flag came when Bruce mentioned how hard it is to find a date on the apps when you’re a man with several cats. (I have three; he has more.) “But I thought you and Regina were together,” I said, confused.

“Oh, we are!” he answered. “We’re doing the poly thing.” My heart sank. Of course you are, I thought. “It’s all about clear, honest communication,” he explained. I nodded, mentally putting my guard up—but not so much that I stopped availing myself of his help now and then.

The next sign of trouble was the day of our building’s annual holiday party in the lobby. I was feeling better by then, and looking forward to dressing up in my festive best and mingling with my neighbors: Gertie, the firecracker 96-year-old who loves to play Scrabble, Hank, our extremely hot and slightly forbidding super (rumor has it he caught someone stealing bikes in the basement years ago and beat the shit out of them on the street as people looked on in awe), and even Robert, who ratted me out to Hank when I went up to the roof one night to look at the stars. (We are not allowed on the roof; I am not a big rule-follower.)

Bruce told me he wouldn’t be able to make it, and had a request: If I saw Regina there, would I mind not mentioning that he’d been doing things for me? Oh boy, I thought. Here we go. I agreed, but said we needed to have a talk next time we saw each other. The morning after the party, when he texted with his usual inquiry—”Anything I can do for you?”—I asked him to meet me for a walk.

Maybe by now, you’ve guessed what was going on. Maybe you’re not as slow as I am; Bruce is into BDSM, and his kink is being a submissive, or “sub.” Hence the frequent inquiries as to whether I needed a load of laundry done, or wanted him to get me anything from the store, or anything else. And though he and Regina are indeed “doing the poly thing,” they have a rule: no one in the building. Given his kink, Bruce bringing my kitty litter up from the mailboxes and taking my recycling to the basement could be seen as a breach of their agreement.

I said I needed to give our friendship some thought, in light of this new information, and Bruce said he understood. I’d only been home for a few minutes when I got a text: “Want me to make you a lunch smoothie? I have spinach, bananas, berries, peaches, and oat milk.” 

Who could say no to that? I ask you! A better woman than I. “I would pay $20 at Erewhon for this smoothie,” I texted Bruce, after he’d delivered it to me and retreated to his own apartment. I felt a little guilty, but told myself that I hadn’t really done anything wrong. It wasn’t like we were having sex! Not even close! Sometimes, a smoothie is just a smoothie. He told me he’d make me one whenever I wanted.

“As long as smoothie-making doesn’t violate your ‘no one in the building’ rule,” I texted him.

“Well, I mean, I still want to be your secret submissive, if you’d have me,” he answered. Shit.

“I don’t want to do anything that would hurt anyone,” I replied. And it was true—I didn’t. I liked Regina, and thought she deserved better than this sneaky sub. The smoothie was so good, though. And I wasn’t strong enough to haul my Chewy packages upstairs myself yet. What was I going to do?

To be clear, although I myself do not identify as a member of the BDSM community, I am not unfamiliar with the world of kink. My most successful relationship born of a dating app is with a man known as “Nipple Lover” on Feeld; as advertised, he loves nipples. I told him about my predicament, explaining about the smoothies and the chores, the open relationship, and the no-one-in-the-building rule. Nipple Lover was amused, and also bewildered.

Nipple Lover: I understand this world less and less as time goes on. For me that’s just called being someone’s friend. I wish it gave me some kind of sexual feeling. What a fucking blessing that would be!

Me: Right???

Nipple Lover: I’m trying to imagine if my kink was “let’s be friends.” I feel like I’d have solved Einstein’s equations by now with all the extra energy I’d have.

When a man who calls himself “Nipple Lover” and services nipples all over the five boroughs cannot sympathize with your kink, you need to examine your life, is all I can say.

And here is where I confess that I am not blameless in this scenario: I did take advantage of Bruce’s services after I’d become aware of what was going on—just once, but still. I knew what I was doing, and I did it anyway. What can I say? It was the holiday season, and I needed help.

The day of a friend’s big party, I was crunched for time. I was bringing gingerbread cookies; I’d made the dough the night before and still needed to roll the chilled dough into balls, dip them in sugar, and bake them. Looking at the clock, I realized I’d never be able to make the cookies, shower, do my hair and makeup, and get to the party on time. I texted Bruce. “Are you busy, or could I borrow you for an hour?” 

Fifteen minutes later, he was at my door. I showed him what to do and hopped in the shower. By the time I was ready to go, Bruce had not only baked all the dough, he’d washed the dishes and wiped down the counters. He said I looked like a goddess, told me to have fun, and went merrily on his way. This is great, I thought. I’m not doing anything wrong! Bruce is happy, I’m happy, and what Regina doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

At the party, I got a lot of mileage out of regaling people with the story of my secret building sub. “How does this stuff happen to you?” someone laughed. I shrugged, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that I had, indeed, done something wrong, and that I should not be making a funny anecdote out of it.

A few days later—days during which I heard nothing from Bruce—this feeling was confirmed when I ran into Regina in the laundry room and she met my cheerful greeting with a look cold enough to freeze the friendly smile right off my face. We loaded the machines in awkward silence. As she left, she tossed a frosty, “Have a good one,” over her shoulder at me.

I texted Bruce the next day. “Hey, friend.” Weren’t we friends, after all?

His reply came quickly. “Hey there, mama. What’s up?”

“I caught a chilly vibe from Regina in the laundry room yesterday,” I said. “Wondered if anything happened.” 

Indeed, something had. Apparently, Bruce told Regina that if they didn’t have the building rule, I would be “the only person I’d want something with,” and she “took it as more than it was.” He told me he was “super sorry about that.” I thanked him for explaining, saying it was good to know I hadn’t been imagining things. I didn’t say that I didn’t think Regina had taken it as more than it was, at all—that in fact, Regina seemed to have taken it for exactly what it was: He’d broken their rule, and I’d aided and abetted him.

And that, dear reader, is the end of the story. I haven’t heard from Bruce since, and somehow, we’ve managed to avoid running into each other since the whole debacle. (It’s a big building, thank goodness.) Not wanting to rub salt in any wounds (or maybe, being a big chicken), I haven’t approached Regina to try to explain, or smooth things over. Best to let it lie, I figure.

If you’re waiting for the five signs you’ve become an unwitting participant in someone’s BDSM fantasy, I’m sorry to tell you that there are no five signs. That’s right—you’ve been baited and switched, just as I was baited and switched when I thought I was making a nice, normal new friend in my building. Now, who wants to make me a smoothie after I retrieve my Chewy package from the lobby?

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