SILK DRESSES, OLD SCARS… and casual sex
I stumble back from another disorienting Saturday night, the kind where you wake up genuinely grateful you did. The evening was a blur of too many Cosmos and one charming guy named Henry, whose skin smelled like Dior Sauvage and who gave off strong I want to sleep with you energy.
And that’s when I start to wonder: is casual sex still a right… or, in Gotham, has it become a calculated risk, with a survival rate?
In a city where turning the corner might get you killed, the bed of a stranger becomes either a grave… or a cradle of protection from the world outside.
And let’s be honest: here, danger doesn’t discriminate. You could fall into the arms of a sex-addicted maniac, or a nymphomaniac with a taste for bondage and taxidermy.
In doubt, I sacrifice myself, for research purposes, obviously, and end up tangled in the sheets with Mister Henry. Sheets that, fittingly, smell of odd fantasies.
He’s a political activist. Forty something. A fellow journalist who fills columns ranting about how Batman is a fascist and the enemy of democracy. God… maybe being tied up and sodomized would’ve been more fun.
Between one moan and the next… between his gasps of "Justice belongs to the people, not just one tyrant!"…I survive. Unfortunately.
Henry Fontana, 43, Journalist and Activist, Gotham Gazette: "I don’t do casual sex that often. I don’t just go with anyone. I like interesting women... the ones who can hold a conversation."
(Which doesn’t matter, because he does all the talking)
Cecilia Burleigh, 23, Architecture Student, AUG: "Casual sex scares me. I mean, it excites me too, the idea of sleeping with someone who only wants you for that, but also terrifies me. My friends have all ended up in… weird situations."
Lydia Child, 23, Architecture Student, AUG (Cecilia’s friend): "I had a friend-with-benefits thing. Then he fell in love with me, and that was the end of it. With strangers though? One guy once took me to his basement and said he had a kidnapping fetish. He was supposed to be the one kidnapped..."
Dr. Ralph Farnham, 36, Physician at Blackgate: "I have sex every day... sometimes I don’t even pay attention to the face."
Silver St. Cloud: "For me, casual sex is the only kind I have with men. That’s how they should be taken, on top, or when you’re bent over. If there are feelings involved, taking it from behind stops being pleasure and starts being pain."
As I write this all down, I feel a strange sense of contradiction bubbling up.
I’ve spent years working the streets, met more men than I care to count, and now that it's not work but pleasure, I’m… afraid?
Tonight, the Wayne Foundation is hosting one of those classic “charity” events, where the only charity is the open bar. For my friends and me, it’s Christmas in heels: silk gowns, bad botox, and unlimited Pinot Grigio. Silver is, of course, front and center, clipboard in hand, like the prom queen she never stopped being.
But this year’s invite includes a chilling clause: "Guests are requested to attend with a companion.”
Translated from Gothamesque: if you're single, stay home.
Apparently, Gotham’s elite isn’t ready for “single empowerment.”
Sunday morning. The only mass I attend religiously is brunch at Vesper’s. Her apartment is peak minimalist-chic: cream-colored walls, nude female art, and black fig candles that scream expensive.
Silver dives into the scrambled eggs. "They only write that for show" she says between sips of mimosa, in that voice that sounds like she knows everything and judges nothing. "You don’t have to bring a man."
"Well, I’m tired of the formality" I reply. "Why assume I need a plus-one just to walk through the door? This isn’t a gala, it’s a secret society initiation."
Barbara, naturally sarcastic, chimes in with a smirk: "It’s all a ploy. They’re scouting who’s got the genes for fashionable heirs."
I burst out laughing. So hard I spill coffee on my new blouse. Goodbye, vintage Armani-from-a-street-market.
"Bianca!" Vesper gasps, like I’ve just cursed in church. "I actually think it’s cute" she continues, dreamy-eyed. "Assuming everyone has a ‘someone’... it’s kind of romantic."
Silver looks at her like she just suggested reviving the corset. "Honey, half the women those men bring are escorts picked up between Crime Alley and Park Row." She glances at me."And no offense to the escorts. But there’s nothing romantic going on here."
"I met a lawyer the other day" Vesper says, all conspiratorial. "His name is Harvey."
Barbara raises an eyebrow. "Harvey Dent? He’s fifteen years older than you and has double the personalities."
"So what?" Vesper replies. "He invited me to the gala. He’s sweet."
"Again with the dynasty concept..." I mutter, dabbing coffee off my blouse, wondering if baking soda can fix regret.
The day I decide to write about casual sex, I realize that in Gotham, it’s not just a fear, it’s a taboo. At least for the upper crust, who still want you fake, married, and smiling.
For the gala, I choose a white satin dress and my trusty Afghan jacket. I feel like Penny Lane in a sea of fake James Bonds and bleached-blonde Vesper Lynds.
Cosmo number three. My girls are scattered across the social jungle, probably flirting with predators in tailored tuxedos. I look around. Silver’s right: the escorts are everywhere. And yes, I recognize a few. Gotham is a handkerchief, small, sparkly, and full of gunpowder.
"So drinking’s a vice now?" A voice behind me. Male, familiar..I turn around. It’s him, the guy I ran into the other day.
"I wasn’t drunk" I say, which isn’t a total lie. "I was... dazed. Nothing’s a vice if you do it with awareness."
He laughs. Dangerous smile. This time, in a black suit that looks guilty on purpose. "So you’re Bianca. The girl who writes about sex. Didn’t recognize you last time." He smirks. "Read your article. The one about vigilantes. It's funny."
"You think vigilantes are funny?"
"You should be complimenting my looks, not making me feel like a stand-up clown."
He laughs again. He has a cut on his lip, and that smile,it’s honest. Like it’s the first one in years. "Making someone laugh is a gift. Clowns don’t have it. They just piss me off."
I smile back. It’s somewhere between hard and soft. But only his eyes seem soft. The rest? It’s all armor. He doesn’t smell like Dior or Versace. He smells like tobacco and masculinity, heavy, gritty, real.
"I’m Jason, by the way. Jason Todd" he says, not warmly, but definitely with intent.
"And I’m Bianca Bradshaw. But you already knew that. You look out of place." (It’s the classic line we all say at these parties.)
"I’m family. But still out of place. You? You seem comfortable."
"Comfortable, but not family." I answer honestly. I’ve adapted here, but this world? It’s not like where i came from.
"What are you writing about now?" he asks, bold as ever.
"Casual sex. And how dangerous it is. You know, for a woman, the idea of wanting to sleep with someone but being terrified he’s a psycho..."
He sips his bourbon. "Gotham’s dangerous for everyone."
And there it is,the awkward pause. I’m probably being too shallow. I am charismatic, but I say stupid things. And for once, I don’t know why I’m second-guessing myself. Jason’s interesting. He could be another test subject for my article. But he’s not easy. Getting under his covers seems harder than getting in his head.
Another guy calls out to him, slightly shorter, friendlier, but with those same Gotham-tough eyes.
And just like that… Jason disappears.
Maybe unlike other women, I'm not afraid of casual sex, I'm afraid of feelings. Whether they are positive or not. I'm afraid of when I'm not the one putting the cards on the table, but there's someone else who mixes them.
In Gotham is more dangerous casual sex or having feelings for someone?
I hope you like this episode, let me know <3 In the next ones I'll try to delve into the other girls too!! I really enjoy writing, I hope you also read.
