I liked the name Eliza immediately. It seemed to suit me better than Elizabeth ever did. And it absolutely seemed to suit New York. Eliza Bennet. That’s me.

“I’ll have the Black Lotus,” Lena said to the bartender after scanning the menu for less than a few seconds. She knows what she likes to drink, what cocktails suited her, got her the perfect kind of tipsy. I didn’t have that in my arsenal yet. I had no idea what to order.

“Surprise me,” I told the bartender, leaning in confidently so it came off as flirting and not as stressed indecision. “I trust your taste.” I locked eyes with him like I was supposed to and smiled. Then looked away bashfully, like I was hiding a blush.

“I’ve got the perfect thing,” he said, walking away.

This was the kind of guy I’d been taking home since I moved to New York City—a bearded beatnik who wanted nothing more than to eat me out and then fuck me while I clawed at his tattooed chest. This guy seemed like he’d choke me if I asked for it. And he wouldn’t be bothered by the fact that my apartment consisted of a mattress on the floor, three cooking pots, a Thanksgiving-scented candle, and a computer charger. He’d call it art.

I found them easy to find and easy to get rid of. An unemotional need-based desire-filler. Ever since that night, that was all I wanted sex to be. Detached. Fun. On my terms.

“You continue to surprise me, Eliza,” Lena said when we got our drinks back and Handlebar Mustache had written his number on my napkin.

“I want to see what that mustache can do,” I told her, slipping the napkin into my bra. I wouldn’t call him later, but I wanted Lena thinking I would.

“Until you’ve had a woman between your legs, you’ll never know how good it can really get,” she said, taking a sip. I’d argue that true pleasure came with a ball gag and a couple slaps across the face, but this seemed like a hill she was willing to die on, so I’d let it rest. She dated around, I saw that on her Instagram—pictures of her kissing a guy, naked on vacation with a woman. I liked that about her. Sex was just sex. It didn’t carry any baggage. No matter how much I tried to rid myself of mine, it was always there, lumbering over my back.

“Oh. My. God.” Lena put her drink down on the bar and looked past me to the back, where leather booths lined the narrow walls. “I went to college with those guys. That’s—oh shit...” She stood up and snagged her drink and purse in one motion. “We have to say hi. These guys are better flirts than the bartender anyway.”