Fahrenheit

by Alex Rosa

  I twirl his card between the fingertips of both of my index fingers, giving him my own head-to-toe glance.

  “Do you do this often? Stroll into this place and ask for sex?”

  Saying the word sex out loud is terrifying, but also empowering, because that’s what this shop is about, and that’s what it means when a place like Fahrenheit is brought up. I may not know what the hell I’m doing, but I refuse to let these lines get blurred in the process. Let’s not confuse the context. I’m agreeing to have sex with Nathan, and I just met him.

  He’s much taller than I am, so when he leans forward, he’s almost looming over my frame. However, his presence seems to encase me, pulling me in, in one swift move.

  I try to remember that this is about research, and gaining an understanding of what the world of sex clubs and fetishes are about. However, when I stare at someone like Nathan, I start to forget my reasons for standing here. Having his full attention feels almost like a gift. I like the way he looks at me, even if I don’t know him, and while I want to know more about Fahrenheit, a part of me wonders what dark secrets this guy has, too. Regardless, one thing proves true right now: Whoever he is, Nathan Sanders wants to fuck me, and I can’t imagine a better person to be my guide.

  It’s in the name of science, I tell myself.

  My natural inclination to be responsible and compassionate feels bad for being deceptive. However, I remember that when a place like Fahrenheit is involved, people don’t care about why you want to fuck them, they just care about the fact you want to. No need to trouble oneself about the details. I mean, he pretty much invited me for sex before knowing my name.

  “Call me when you’re sure,” he blurts out, catching me off guard and pulling me out of my analyzation.

  “When I’m sure?” I repeat. I thought we decided that I was.

  “I want you to think on it. Curiosity killed the cat, ya know? Just think about it tonight, call me tomorrow when you’re sure, and we’ll go from there. If you know what Fahrenheit is, then you know that it’s not a light decision.”

  My brows pull together.

  “I look forward to the call, Lauren.”

  “Sure thing, Nate,” I chide, enunciating the T sharply, finding it funny that although he gave me the option to reconsider, he already seems sure about the outcome.

  His beautiful mouth does that twitchy thing again with his eyebrow.

  “Pleasure meeting you,” he says, his voice deeper and more mysterious.

  “Pleasure was all mine,” I reply. I watch him stroll out of the shop, seemingly empty-handled, but I’m sure he gained ownership of my curiosity while I am holding the key to his next adventure.

  I walk up the stairs to my second-floor apartment, still in awe of the evening. A little smitten, definitely confused, and maybe excited. It’s hard to pinpoint which emotion takes precedence. A part of me should be nervous or scared, but I’m not there yet.

  Hell, with a business card like I received, the guy could be Patrick Bateman from American Psycho for all I know. I shrug off the thought. Not that I know how to tell the sociopathic serial killer type, but my gut says Nathan Sanders is no Patrick Bateman.

  I’m being naive¸ aren’t I?

  I considered on my drive here that I should be more cautious, but I’m so sick of that mentality. For once, things feel different—bizarre, but different, which I like.

  When my black chucks hit the top step, I realize I’m smiling, but that’s only because when I see what’s coming out of my front door, that smile dissolves into flat disapproval.

  “Bye, Garrett. It was really great seeing you,” a leggy blonde coos as she walks out of my apartment. I think her name is Amy, but I can barely keep track of the women my best friend beds. I might’ve met her last night. It’s hard to remember since they all blur together in a swirl of blondes and brunettes.

  The girl turns around, sees me standing here, and smiles, but her eyes go wide with embarrassment.

  “Hi, Lauren.”

  My eye twitches. She knows who I am.

  “Hey, youuu,” I reply. I even lift my hand up and point at her as if I’m Chandler from Friends, and I’m just as awkward.

  She shimmies past me, holding her heels in one hand, and that’s when I notice her hair a bit bedheaded and that she is still wearing the party dress from the night before. I could never forget the horrific green sequins that blinded me when I met her.

  Yes, I’m sure her name is Amy. She must’ve come home with him last night, but then to stay all day for sexing? What a slutty marathon.

  Pushing through the front door I’m greeted to Garrett Summers with a grin that he’s had since college, and has since perfected. I wish I could hate it, but it’s so hard. I let out a laugh, rolling my eyes.

  “Do you ever come up for air?”

  He closes the door behind me, ruffling his messy head of dirty blond hair, then scratching at his sculpted-from-marble stomach, which is only concealed by a paper-thin white undershirt.

  Unfortunately, we’ve never dated. Nope. Somehow, we managed to friend zone too many back-and-forth times throughout our college years, even among some forbidden moments.

  Actually, whether I want to admit it, he’s friend-zoned me hard in the past year. I try my best to think of him as a gay best friend, meaning my dude friend I don’t have sex with. However, his penchant for half-naked journeys to our shared bathroom, and his nonchalant attitude of talking to me while he’s in the shower, naked behind a thin shower curtain, while I get ready in the morning, makes it hard to remember.

  However, he’s so far from gay, even if a part of L.A. wishes he wasn’t. His skill in wooing women is as much impressive as it is sickening. His weekly women make it clear that I’m not in the cards. I’ve had to find clever ways to hide my misplaced jealousy, because whether it’s the fact his sex life is so active or that other women get to have him, the fact remains that I don’t.

  It’s obvious now I’d never be his type.

  Platonic has fared well with us, and he’s still my best friend. So, maybe it’s a good thing we’ve never let sex ruin that. I tell him everything, and he’s cutthroat with me when it comes to life and telling the truth. Which I need, and I’d never want to lose.

  “She stayed long.”

  “She’s nice,” he replies, following me into the kitchen.

  My brows pull together as I open the fridge, looking for an alcoholic beverage to calm the simmer going on low in my gut since leaving F-Street.

  “Nice? Is that your weird, anti-commitment way of saying you like her more than the others?”

  He shrugs, grabbing the unopened beer from my hands. “Thanks, Lo. And the answer is, kind of.”

  The man-whore turns around on his heels and plops on our navy, canvas couch, and all I can think about is that odd navy business card in my pocket. Not that I’ve stopped thinking of Nathan Sanders. Nope.

  “How did the sex club hunt go? Catch anything … like an STD?” He erupts in snorts and rampant laughter, slapping his knee a few times.

  I squint, unimpressed. I grab the last beer, and make my way to my best friend, still keeling over in congratulatory laughter.

  “So, was that supposed to be funny?” I flick his ear hard before I sit on the other side of the couch.

  “Ow.” He winces. “Of course it was. I’m hilarious.”

  “You’re a cameraman. You’re dry at best. You wouldn’t know hilarious if it nailed you in the face, or your lens. You point, you shoot, and that’s it. There’s no humor among the mundane.”

  His chortles stop, his stare flatlining. “Oh, because being a copy editor reeks of funny?”

  “Ha ha,” I add with a wrinkle of my nose. Even I can’t argue that my world lacks a little humor, other than the fact that maybe the articles I’m editing could potentially contain the subject matter, “Penises: Fact or Fiction?”

  “You’re home earlier than I thought,” he says.

  “Oh, was I not supposed to
see your last sexscapade leave?”

  He laughs, his smile peaking on his high cheekbones. “Maybe. I thought you might be fumbling through the night of sex shops, stumbling from one flogger to the next.”

  “What’s a flogger?” I ask, sipping my beer.

  His grin grows mocking, and it ignites mine, though my cheeks are surely pink.

  “Of course you don’t know what that is,” he says. “Your lack of sex should be proof, and your choice in men. Brian was such a drag.” He pauses, as if hit with an epiphany, and I already know it’ll be at my expense. I brace myself with another eye roll. “Actually, are you home early because you’re overwhelmed? Was the amount of genres in porn a little too terrifying for you? I guess I should’ve warned you.”

  “You’re being such an ass tonight.” I laugh, feeling quite smug about how my night went. Why does everyone think I can’t do this? I’ll show them. “Ye of little faith. I’ll have you know this little sex kitten.” I lift my hand up, clawing the air with a wink. “Rawr. Scored an invite to a place called Fahrenheit.”

  He sputters his beer everywhere, some of it landing on me.

  “Jesus Christ, Garrett!” I wipe away the drops of beer from my face and arms.

  He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fahrenheit?” he repeats.

  “You know what Fahrenheit is? Are you that much of a sexual deviant?”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “No, I’m not. I’ve just heard about it. People kinda whisper about it. I mean, it’s a membership-only thing. Like, ya know, Club 33 at Disneyland? No one knows how you get the membership or where it is. All anyone knows is it takes a lot of money.”

  I purse my lips, holding back an inappropriate laugh. “Did you just compare an elite sex nightclub to an invite-only club at the happiest place on Earth?”

  “Some would say they’re both considered the happiest place on Earth.”

  “You’re ridiculous. They should have me write an article on you instead. I think I’ll call it, The Idiot of L.A.”

  He groans, rolling his eyes. “Okay, let’s get back to that crazy, seriously unbelievable thing you’ve said: Who would invite you to a place like Fahrenheit?”

  My neck does this twitchy, crank movement in his direction. “What are you implying? That I’m not pretty enough for someone to invite to a place like that?”

  He grits his teeth, regretting his choice of words. “Stop. That’s not it. You’re definitely pretty.” I try my best not to look like he gave me a cookie or something, and to calm the corners of my mouth. “What I’m saying is, look at you. Your messy bun of tangled brown hair, tank top and jeans combo doesn’t exactly scream, how did you put it? Oh yeah, sex kitten. I mean, did you really go to those shops looking that way?”

  “Holy fuck, Garrett!” I grab for the nearest couch pillow and throw it at his face. Unfortunately, he swats it away before it nails him. “Did you not hear me?” I puff out my chest, deciding I’m going to gloat. I was going to hide my smug pride, but I can’t now. “I’ll have you know I got an invite by one very attractive male in the first sex shop I entered. So, obviously I must’ve been at least somewhat enticing. I wasn’t aware that I scream leper.”

  A muscle in his jaw clicks as he thinks something over, his dark blue eyes examining briefly. It isn’t until I see a soft twist to his lips that I worry what he might say.

  “So, what’s your plan? Did you say yes?”

  I think about the card in my pocket again, but don’t dare pull it out. “I have to call him. He told me to think about it.”

  “Well?” Garrett goads.

  I tilt my head to the side, finding I don’t stop the smug grin that appears. “Are you jealous?”

  He shakes his head. “No, not exactly. I mean, if you say yes to this guy, isn’t that you agreeing to have sex with him?”

  I blush and swallow my nerves. The grin I had lived a short lifespan. I sink back into the couch and shrug, not because I don’t know the answer, but because it feels a little embarrassing, in a crude way.

  “Yeah, I guess it does mean that.”

  His thick brows pull together, and his head tilt matches mine. “So, you’re going to say yes?” I nod. “Isn’t that kind of crazy? All to get a promotion?”

  I take a large pull of my beer, letting the chill soothe the lava of nerves erupting in my body.

  “It is kinda crazy, but I don’t know, why not? I mean, you aren’t the only one allowed to have anonymous sex. Can’t I have my moment of being a sexual deviant, too?”

  He grunts. “I’m not a sexual deviant. I’m a single guy with …” He hums before adding, “With needs.”

  “Right,” I quip, less than impressed.

  “What’s his name?”

  I love the sound of this stranger’s name so much that my mouth opens, eager to hear it out loud again, but I manage to slam it shut before the name escapes. I shake my head.

  “What?” Garrett asks, confused. “I can’t know his name?”

  I shake my head again. “No. I don’t know much, but I do know at least two things. I’m supposed to write an article about this secret, sexual underworld and with that comes rules of confidentiality. In addition, the Internet told me that the people who go to a place like Fahrenheit pride themselves on their privacy. I doubt he’d want me to tell you his name.”

  “But you do know it?”

  I nod. “Yep.”

  “You’re so not fun.”

  I shrug, finishing off my beer as I rise from the couch.

  “Where are you going?” he asks. “I want to know more.”

  I toss the bottle into the recycling and swivel around to face the hallway. “You know about as much as I do at this point.”

  As Garrett watches me head to my room he asks, “Are you gonna call him?”

  I don’t turn around to look him in the eye, because I don’t think I can handle it. “That’s exactly what I’m about to do!” I shout as I strut to my room.

  “Keep me updated!”

  “You know I will,” I reply before closing my bedroom door behind me.

  I exhale a breath that feels as if I’ve been holding for hours.

  Turning to face my vanity mirror, I squint at my reflection. It’s nice to know Garrett thinks I’m at least pretty, yet not a likely candidate for the sex-fantasy-underworld. I grunt, pulling the hair tie free of my messy high-bun.

  Fair enough, I guess. I didn’t consider a special outfit for the evening in order to lure a guy—not that it mattered, since I got the result I wanted anyway.

  However, it has me wondering if I should think a little more thoroughly about what I’m getting into. I should pay attention to the finer details, and probably invest in some sexier underwear.

  I unbutton my jeans, looking down at my pastel pink, ice cream cone print, boy-short undies, realizing they’re definitely not sexy, and probably not suited for a sex club that caters to … well, I don’t really know what goes on there. I don’t have to be into whips and—what was that word again?—a flogger if I’m into anonymous sex, right? The Internet wasn’t specific about that.

  Not that I’m really into anonymous sex, but I’m willing to give it a try. I think.

  Speaking of, I grab for my phone and pull out the business card from my back pocket before shimmying out of my jeans.

  I flop onto the white down comforter of my bed. One hand runs its fingers through my wavy brown hair, hitting a few tangles before breaking free, while I examine the gold foil phone number under the name I so very much like the sound of.

  “Nathan,” I hum. “Nate,” I say for short again, smiling, remembering that’s what I called him when we said goodbye. “Nathaniel.” I grin, shaking my head as the name leaves my lips, deciding Nate is by far my favorite of all three choices.

  I pull my cell phone closer, and start typing his number into my phone. With each pressed button, my heartbeat accelerates.

  Staring at his number on the screen, all I need
to do is press send. It’ll ring and he’ll hopefully answer. What will I say? “Hello, Nate, I kind of really liked the way you fit into your jeans, which is what convinced me that having sex with you is probably the best decision I’ll make this century. Agreed? Agreed. Please take me to this secret society of sex.”

  I slam my face into the mattress, groaning. I’m such an embarrassment. This guy has no idea what an unsexy girl he’s encountered.

  I decide I can’t call him. I’m a coward. I grit my teeth when the thought crosses my mind, but I can’t seem to fight off my nerves. Instead, I tap out a text.

  Hi, Nate

  I press send. That’s literally all I got. I’m a sexually disappointing disgrace.

  When my phone dings seconds later, my heart is in my throat. He actually texted me back.

  Hi, Lauren

  I squint at my screen. Is he psychic?

  How did you know it was me?

  I press send. Another text quickly follows.

  No one else calls me Nate.

  Okay, now I’m smiling. Does he like it, or does he hate it? I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. I tap out another text.

  I just wanted to tell you, and confirm, that I decided I want you to take me to Fahrenheit … with you. ;)

  I cringe a little when I see that stupid winky-face, but press send anyway.

  I thought I told you to call me.

  I roll my eyes, and tap out a reply.

  Why, when we barely know each other?

  I press send too quickly. I worry it’s too snarky for this conversation.

  Maybe I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.

  I giggle like a prepubescent teen. Who is this guy?

  I’m not so good about doing what I’m told.

  I press send.

  Well, I think I know a way to fix that. You still curious?

  My skin gets hot, and desire pools between my legs. The instant reaction is baffling. He’s not even touching me, and neither has he ever touched me. This is probably a result of my lack of male attention.