#3 – My Safe Word Is “Mommy”

Imagine an apartment styled unapologetically queer—vibrant, playful, bursting with color, maybe even louder than the pride flag itself. Just as that flag defies the austere Russian tricolor, Den’s apartment burned defiantly against the bleak, muted winter weather. His home refused to play submissive to the life scripted for him: one woman, one path, one shade of grey destiny. Maybe that’s why he came here—after trying, and failing, to build the bland kind of happiness assigned to every Russian man.

As Den wrapped his arms around Sara in a warm hug, she leaned in and whispered in his ear, just loud enough for him to hear, “Nice faggot flat.”

"I’ll punish you for that," Den said with a grin, delivering a playful smack to her backside—right where her slightly woolen coat softened the blow and shielded it from the kids’ view.

Her 5-year-old son, Stan, lingered in the entryway, eyeing a giant photograph of New York City hanging behind Den on a vivid orange wall. His gaze darted nervously to the far end of the corridor, painted green and dominated by a large portrait of a half-turned woman whose eyes seemed to follow anyone who entered.

Den’s daughter, Sophie, stood nearby with a similar expression—wide-eyed, silent, and unsure of what to say.

“This is Sophie and Den,” Sara said, gesturing toward their hosts.

“And this is Sara and Stan,” Den echoed, looking at his daughter. “Sophie, why don’t you show Stan around? You two can play Monopoly, Pie Face, or whatever you like.”

Sara pulled a plastic bag from her backpack and handed it to Den.
“Here. My turn to feed you—I brought some Georgian cheese to fry.”

“Sounds like a great match for the red wine,” Den replied.

“Show me where I can wash my hands, my friend,” Sara asked. “I’m so hungry!”

“The door right behind you,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes. “Want help washing them?”

Sara smirked. “Trust me, a thirty-year-old woman can manage the bathroom on her own.”

The bathroom matched the rest of the apartment’s kitschy charm. The black-tiled floor was inlaid with red rectangles. White wall tiles were adorned with red flowers surrounded by black leaves. To the right of the sink sat a mini-jacuzzi; to the left, a toilet and bidet—suggesting how closely the apartment leaned into casual indulgence and the quiet allure of forbidden, hidden desires.

The sound of running water mingled with children's laughter, filling the combined living room and kitchen.

Meanwhile, Den placed the wine bottle on the kitchen table and started slicing the cheese.

“What are you doing?” Sara said, appearing behind him. “That was supposed to be my job.” She took the knife from his hands.

“You're not supposed to dominate,” Den teased.

“Hah, tell me about it—I just evaluated a new manager at the office today,” she replied.

“Was she any good?”

“Honestly, better than my boss. I’m seriously thinking about quitting. The constant micromanaging and surveillance is driving me insane. Add to that the unstable salary and the crushing responsibility…”

Sara dropped four slices of firm Georgian cheese into the hot, oiled pan. The last slice landed with a sizzle, sending a drop of oil onto her left thumb. The right corner of her lip curled upward toward Den.

“Why don’t you just tell him?” Den asked.

“I’ve tried. Every time we talk, he tells me to make independent decisions—like I’m already a boss—but I have no budget authority and only half the information I need.” She flipped the cheese slices. They turned from a soft ivory to a golden, sizzling brown.

Den rinsed the cherry tomatoes Sara had brought and sliced them gently, lining each half up in a neat row. He finished with a slow drizzle of balsamic glaze—rich, dark, and almost indecent in its softness.

“Maybe you two have some sexual tension, and that’s the real issue,” Den suggested.

Sara chuckled as she laid down the hot, ready-to-melt cheese slices, playfully pairing them with the tomatoes on the plate.

“He does act more attentive when I wear shorts or mention new sex toys we're adding to the shop.”

“Ever tried the Womanizer?” Den asked casually.

Sara raised an eyebrow, grinning as she carried the food to the dining table. “Too spicy a question for dinnertime, my friend. But no—what is it?”

“It’s a kind of suction-based clitoral stimulator. I’ve got one—my ex left it behind when we broke up,” Den explained, pouring glasses of red Merlot.

“Strange choice. I kept my Doc Johnson dildo from my ex-husband,” Sara said with mock seriousness.

“Kids, dinner’s ready!” Den called out.

"Stan, go wash your hands and face first," Sara said firmly.

“I already did,” Stan claimed, climbing onto a high chair.

“Please don’t lie to me,” she said firmly.

Stan got off the chair and started hitting Sara’s hip with his small, sharp fists.

"Ow—stop it, that hurts," she scolded. "If you want to eat with dirty hands, go ahead—but don’t complain when you get sick. It’ll be your own fault."

Pleased with the victory, Stan swallowed four pieces of cheese and left the table with Sophie.

“Thanks for dinner!” Sophie called out, hugging her dad before joining Stan in their ongoing Monopoly negotiations, manipulations, and other hallmarks of adult life.

The kids were playing just a few meters away on a large leather couch. Den and Sara lingered at the black, bar-counter-like table.

“That little angel-faced demon,” Sara said, exasperated. “He poured out all of my shampoo yesterday to make bubbles—and then said he used his! Liar alert detected! Den, has Sophie started lying yet?”

“She has,” Den said with a small, thoughtful smile. “I’m trying to appeal to her conscience. And set a good example.”

Sara laughed out loud.
“Oh wow. Conscience—that’s a big ask at their age…”

“That’s why,” Den said gently, “you promise to take them to the zoo—and then actually go… Speaking of the zoo, why’d you give up your last pet boyfriend?”

Sara didn’t get the chance to reply— the kids were already back, pretending to be bored. Stan asked if they could watch Peter Pan on the projector. Likely, Sophie announced to him that they could use the home cinema. Den switched on the projector, the same one he mostly used for science lectures at his summer camp, and the giant screen unfolded on the light-yellow wall just to the right of the black piano.

The kids sat on the same couch to watch Peter Pan while finishing the chocolate bar that Sara had brought as a gift for Sophie.

Den and Sara grabbed a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses, then retreated to the bedroom where they could talk more intimately.

“May I smoke on the balcony, if you allow it?” Sara asked. Nothing pairs better with a full stomach than a cigarette.

“Only if you share one,” Den replied. “I’d like to catch the same feeling.”

Sara held a cigarette between her even white teeth as she flicked the lighter. For a moment, the flame lit up her oval face and the dark auburn hair that brushed her shoulders. She kissed the cigarette, her lips brushing it softly as she lit it, then offered it to Den. Without a word, she lit a second one for herself.

The frozen air crept onto the balcony, which opened from the violet-walled bedroom. Their slender cigarettes shrank with each drag, the glowing tips brighter than the lanterns in the silent courtyard. Tendrils of smoke were slipping from their cigarettes, drifting into the silence, intertwining in one last, lingering embrace.

“So... what about your ex-boyfriend?” Den broke the silence.

“He was a perpetual child. Like in that cartoon, Peter Pan. And I was Wendy—always the mother. I got tired of babysitting, so I left. Blocked him everywhere. He’s still up in the clouds. In some ways, he’s wise... but his irresponsibility, his inability to commit—it outweighed everything else. In that time, he tried to launch four different businesses and gave up on all of them. The only one he didn’t mess up was the one where I just helped—that’s still his main source of income. What about your ex-girlfriend? Are those her pink slippers at the door?”

“They were for her. I did everything she asked. Changed the apartment, signed custody of my daughter over to my wife, filed for divorce. I even proposed. And then she goes, ‘I don’t want this anymore.’ We tried staying on friendly terms, planned to reconnect in six months. But she cut it off completely. Said she wasn’t even ready to text on WhatsApp.”

“Do you believe men and women can be just friends?” Sara asked.

“Hard to say. I still regret one girl I was close friends with... until we slept together. And poof—no friendship, nothing.”

“Ha, classic,” Sara laughed. “All my guy friends think things are totally fine—no drama after sex, but the friendship always disappears.”

Time drifted thick and unrestrained, like slow sips of Merlot. They lit a third cigarette. The wine bottle was down to its last third.

“I’d love to find a real friend,” Sara sighed. “But I know exactly what I want, and that shrinks the odds to maybe two people in all of Moscow.”

“You’re forgetting universal human values,” Den said thoughtfully. “Almost everyone wants the same things—support, reliability, emotional closeness, honesty, hugs. People forgive a lot of flaws for those.”

“You’re very open. I like that. I don’t waste time on fake or closed-off people. Nothing to talk about with them anyway,” Sara said thoughtfully.

“Did you enjoy talking to the guy you slept with yesterday?” Den asked.

“It’s just sex. He’s super closed off. We only ever meet at hotels. Why didn’t you invite today your nymphomaniac Mia?”

“Her husband came back. Tonight, she’s a wife, not a wicked temptress,” Den smirked. “Besides, I planned this evening with you. And honestly? I’d rather have this deep talk than any wild sex.”

The cottonmouth from cigarettes begged for a drink, but the wine bottle was empty. Swaying slightly, Sara offered, “Want me to get us some water? This talk’s too hot.”

“I’ll lead you. You’re wobbling,” Den noted.

"Now that’s the kind of man I’d follow anywhere," Sara murmured, eyes glinting. "Especially if I’m the one wearing the collar."

“You’re playing with fire,” Den warned as they stepped back into the living room.

The projector showed Peter Pan dueling Captain Hook. Sara leaned in and whispered into Den’s ear, “Now that’s a hook I’d love to hang on.”

Both kids had fallen asleep on the couch in front of the screen. Stan slept with his head tilted back against the couch, mouth slightly open. Sophie leaned against a folded plaid blanket, her thick, long wavy hair covering most of its soft white surface. The darkness from the turned-off lights had gently coaxed their minds into dreams, perhaps of Neverland.

“Looks like you’re staying,” Den said. “No way I’m letting you walk out with a sleeping kid while you’re tipsy.”

“Fate, huh? Didn’t expect this outcome,” Sara smirked.

“Oh, you totally expected it,” Den teased.

They laid down sheets on the big couch, moved the sleeping kids gently to rest more comfortably, then turned off the projector.

“So, the couch is taken,” Sara said innocently. “Where do I sleep?”

“You’ll put on my T-shirt and sleep, warm in my arms,” Den replied.

“Sounds sexy.”

“Not tonight. You’re too drunk to decide if we’re going to ruin our friendship with drunk sex.”

“As you say, my Master,” Sara teased.

In the quiet bedroom, Sara curled up on her side, facing the edge of the bed—an easy escape route. Her cold feet tucked against Den’s warm legs. Her Brazilian-style lace panties pressed her neat curves against his stomach. His arms wrapped around her, over the T-shirt, resting against the gentle curve of her chest. Her cheek rested gently on his hand, which lay open on the pillow, strands of her hair brushing against Den’s face, carrying the rich, heady scent of henna and perfume.

The room was dark, except for a faint glow where a distant streetlamp cast its hue, leaving a violet sign on the bedroom wall.