Fahrenheit

by Alex Rosa

  We both went in lying to each other. I pretended to know what I was doing, and he pretended that he believed me. However, when the glow of pink and purple neon paired itself with a maze of doors, each leading to a different world, I panicked in true fashion of myself. I confessed my identity and that I was using him to exploit the topic of sex and this glamorous city.

  Luckily, my hero found me amusing. Then everything happened so fast. He made me an offer I couldn’t possibly refuse. He proposed to take me under his wing to help me with my article under one condition: In exchange for information, I’d give him access to my body.

  Don’t judge. It’s not as sinister as it reads. You have your Tinder/Grinder Apps, and I got a free ticket to a sexual amusement park with the same rules. So, I took it. Eager for information as much as I was sex, even if I didn’t know that at the time.

  Curiosity had me agreeing, and that’s usually the quality that gets us into most messes.

  I learned that under this sexual faux pas that there’s a reason a person first staggers into a place like Fahrenheit, to then emerge champions of themselves.

  This happened to me, and it’s because I had a guide.

  What I thought was an exchange of information, and some explicit interactions between two consensual strangers, turned into so much more.

  Sex is intimate, even when you try to take the intimacy out. You’re still there with that person, skin-to-skin, sometimes eye-to-eye. I think intimacy can’t be avoided in a place like Fahrenheit, because it involves trust. It’s actually the most wondrous thing about the place.

  It’s another one of those unspoken rules when you enter. Between you and everyone who dares to go inside, you give all of yourself, and they give the same in return.

  In order to understand what Fahrenheit is about, you have to jump ship. Drop your preconceived notions, your morals, and your fears. It’s a hedonistic form of catharsis that breeds in the wildfire of lust, and you’d be surprised to find out that a phoenix emerges from the ashes.

  There’s a reason why L.A.’s most powerful go there.

  Every story, including my own and my hero’s, starts the same.

  You go in lost, and you come out found, and better than before.

  Sex isn’t the key to self-realization for everyone. I get that. But when you find yourself drawn to the neon like Icarus to the sun, not knowing why, you’ve got nothing to lose but to give it a try. Especially when one might feel lost, and all other outlets flounder in results.

  I learned a hell of a lot in the process of giving up my body for the sake of “research,” while getting to know my blindfold wielding cape crusader, who avoided personal topics like the bubonic plague (per our arrangement), but gave into me as much as I did him. This is the abnormal part.

  The secrecy of Fahrenheit transcends its mysterious location, and into its members. Most don’t want you to know their personal lives. No. They want to get their fix, because sex is a tool as much as it’s a pleasure and stress reliever.

  So, why am I writing this? What’s there to tell that you don’t already know now?

  I fell for the guy, which probably isn’t surprising. I’d like to think that every boy-meets-girl, girl-accepts-invite-to-sex-club ends up this way, but I doubt it.

  Of course, I didn’t plan it, and I didn’t really want it. I’m a successful, single girl in L.A., who has her dream job and thinks her life is pretty close to perfect.

  However, Batman and I had one thing in common: a damaged heart. Our emotional fractures differed, but we stood on the same playing field of not looking to get close to another person.

  This whole arrangement was only about him getting his fix, and me getting my research. It was supposed to be simple.

  Sure, the sex was mutual, but the feelings growing between us were not.

  While ignoring the growing connection occurring, something else was happening without being acknowledged. I was learning to be myself, how and when to take control, and when to give in. I found myself thinking clearly for the first time in a long time because of this outlet.

  Things I realized:

  (1) I had a good teacher.

  (2) Sex is powerful.

  What started out as innocent transgressions of public sexual displays, spankings, and sex, all of which are definitely the norm for Fahrenheit, something else transpired. What turned into scheduled dirty dates or “lessons” in fetishes, sin, and what it means to have a membership to Fahrenheit, eventually spurred into this drowning need to touch one another while we broke the rules we said we’d keep solid.

  So, how does any sexually beneficial friendship end up in chaos, you ask?

  Snuggling.

  We’ve all been there. You wake up one morning in your bed (or his bed), arms wrapped around one another, basking in skin and smell, and you smile, but when you open your eyes, you freak out.

  Which is exactly what happened to me, or I should say, to my sexual vigilante.

  Without the neon veil of Fahrenheit, we had no barriers to keep the rules in place. Lines blurred, as they usually do when sex is involved.

  What I didn’t anticipate is when he ran. Running isn’t Batman’s style. Actually, if it were my problem, he would have no issue addressing it outright. But when his gold eyes locked on mine one morning when he accidentally slept over, you’d think he woke up next to his arch nemesis.

  He didn’t say sorry. He didn’t explain. He only gave excuses. Men, right?

  However, I saw what lie behind his eyes. Ones that screamed of heartbreak and fear.

  We didn’t have a nightclub to cover up those basic human conditions any longer.

  It was raw, and he ran from me.

  You might be telling me to drop the guy, and trust me, I considered it, but for the first time in my life, I wasn’t scared of his sprint out of my apartment.

  I can’t begin to explain the slew of shitty guys that have entered and exited my life, but I will tell you, I care more about this one than I did the others, and he wasn’t even my boyfriend. In addition, I knew that Batman felt the same even if he vanished.

  Through all the sex and secrecy, the research and talks, I found myself above the situation occurring. I felt powerful and in control in the moment Batman was at a loss.

  I call this the give-and-take that happens when you establish the type of relationship you have with someone at Fahrenheit, even if we had stepped out of bounds.

  It was a strange revelation; trust me.

  Okay, this has turned into more of a diary entry than an exposé. My boss might kill me for what I’ve written, but I don’t think I’m worried about that, or what’s at stake.

  I’m sure you’ve learned a lot, whether it’s about sex clubs, or your friends with benefits relationship you’ve got going on. Don’t act as if you don’t.

  Now the better question is: What’s the point of this article?

  It’s to reach out; to tell Batman he doesn’t have to do this alone.

  It’s to explain that my curiosity started this, but his thrill for adventure brought us here.

  It’s to tell him that life sucks and then you die, and that love hurts and people can be even worse.

  It’s to say that whoever that girl was that broke him is an idiot, and that even though she wasn’t worth the risk, that maybe someone else is. Maybe me.

  I don’t know what’s in store for us, but I don’t like that he left. What once was a small babbling brook between us is now an ocean. Doesn’t it feel wrong, and pardon me, but also stupid?

  Regardless of what you think my intentions are, I think Batman owes me an explanation, and an apologetic smile. See how I didn’t say apology?

  Instead, I’d like to face this. Whether that’s another confession, saying goodbye, or giving me a moment to thank him for unearthing who I wanted to be, even if the method was unorthodox.

  So, I’m reaching out. I’m giving Batman a chance at redemption. He confessed his sins, and now it’s time for us to move on.r />
  Batman, don’t focus on the pressure. See this as showing yourself you’re better than the fear. That’s what you did for me, and I’d like to return the favor.

  If you’re reading this (and I hope you are), meet me where we first met. Yes, I’m serious. On the first Friday after this magazine hits newsstands. I’ll be waiting there at eight o’clock. Same awkward place as before.

  Come if you dare.

  I refuse to believe you’re the villain, and now is the chance to prove Gotham wrong.

  Silence hangs for seconds. Minutes, maybe.

  Rebecca doesn’t move after she finishes the last line. She stares back at her computer, her eyes unmoving as she gawks at the screen.

  I’m holding my breath. She could scrap it. She could tell me I’m crazy. She could banish me to the depths of editing for the rest of my career here, or worst of all, she could destroy my plan of convincing Nate to take a chance on me.

  I’m not sure which outcome I’m more terrified of.

  The creaking of her office chair distracts me from my musings. She leans back, steepleing her flat, white stiletto nails in front of her face.

  I’m about to turn blue in the face from lack of oxygen.

  “Lo …”

  I exhale hard. “Um, yeah?”

  The corners of Rebecca’s mouth stretches upward into a Grinch-like smile as her eyes lock on to mine. “I’d like to say congratulations.”

  I grin. My heart rate hits light speed.

  “You mean it?”

  She nods. “And I want this on the cover.”

  My jaw drops, surely hitting the floor. “You don’t have to.”

  Waving me off, she says, “No. This is the story the magazine needs, and you need the exposure. Batman needs to get his shit together.”

  I turn crimson. “That’s not necessary.”

  “You nervous?” she asks, ignoring my rebuttal.

  “Terrified. What if he doesn’t show?”

  She continues to dismiss me with a shake of her head. Failure has never been in Rebecca’s realm of possibilities. “Spotlight goes up for Batman one week from today.”

  I go wide-eyed. “That soon?”

  “Told ya we were on a deadline.”

  “Aren’t we all,” I chide.

  I took the week off. At this point, it’s hard to say who’s the coward, Nate or me. I guess only time will tell with that one.

  I’ve yet to send another text or call him since my last attempt over a week ago, but I don’t think I need to.

  My issue of the magazine released on Monday. My article was listed on the cover in the left-hand column reading, “Los Angeles Sex Clubs and Finding Your Hero. Batman, we’re talking to you!”

  I cringed when first catching sight of the hooking caption that appeared without my permission. Obviously, it was Rebecca’s doing, so there was no arguing it anyway.

  I decided that now is the perfect opportunity to use some vacation time I had stockpiled, or to crawl under a rock, depending on how you look at it, as I let the world judge me.

  Part of me can’t believe I allowed my real name on the article. Especially since I keep receiving texts from Rebecca of the issue’s success, along with a handful of friends who seem to have caught word of my debut. All of this buzz should probably be a good thing, but it’s only messing with my head. People are reading my words, even if I might’ve written it with only one person in mind.

  The magazine is apparently flying off the shelves of newsstands and bookstores throughout the city and nationwide. I was surprised it only took a couple days for it to build momentum, but when you have the whole publicity team rooting for you by shooting supportive whispers into the interweb, and your friends are sure to feed into the rumor mill via the social circuit of downtown L.A., it can do a lot for your journalistic debut.

  I refuse to read my email, knowing some local radio stations and blogs want to schedule an interview. This isn’t what I signed up for, or planned at all.

  I should be thrilled, but instead, I want to vomit everywhere. Like seriously, everywhere. Nausea is the only word I can use to describe myself. So many uneasy feelings rolling around in my guts, giving me what I’ve dubbed a “motion sickness of emotions.”

  Rebecca wasn’t enthused when I told her I was taking the week off, but she didn’t push it either. Not only did I not want to bide my time sitting behind my desk waiting for Friday, but I also didn’t want to be her show pony at work as she prances me around the office as her journalist protégé. She’d veil it with a slew of compliments to feed my ego, but claim me as her brilliant idea, especially now since sales are doing well.

  Ugh.

  It’s mid-week, and I’m only two days from doomsday. I’d like to say I’ve changed clothes since Sunday, but I haven’t. I’m in the same pair of shorts and oversized sweater that I’ve formed some crazed nostalgic attachment to since that one time Nate appeared at my apartment. However, I decided to ditch the knee-high socks to keep my sanity intact. It’s only kind of working.

  Since Monday, I’ve done the same routine: lingered in my room until I hear Garrett leave for work, have a breakfast bowl of ice cream or Oreos, and then binge watch the current Netflix series I’m attached to, then retreat to my bedroom before Garrett arrives home.

  Life is a beautiful thing, I remind myself. And yes, I’m being sarcastic.

  This ritualistic existence has worked for me; that’s until I hear keys entering my front door.

  My eyes fly to the clock above the TV, wondering if I’ve somehow scheduled my day wrong. It’s only going to be noon. I’ve barely finished off a bag of skittles I found in the kitchen, and I haven’t even managed to start episode six of season two of Orange is the New Black.

  I swallow my last red skittle as Garrett walks in. His blue eyes are sprite, but wide as he enters.

  I exhale, my brows wiggling in a hesitant attempt to understand where we stand. I haven’t faced him since his amorous confession, which makes me a terrible person. He deserves a response. Our friendship is better than the silent treatment.

  In unlikely Garrett style, he timidly steps into the living room, closing the door behind him.

  We lock stares, and I realize how tired I am when I attempt to hold his gaze. I’ve held back so many emotions since submitting my article to Rebecca that I haven’t had an outlet to vent or scream to. I’ve had no Garrett for that. No best friend in a time of need.

  Our mouths open at the same time as we both attempt speaking. We choke off into awkward, raspy chuckles before silencing ourselves. His sudden smile gives me a sense of relief.

  He tries again as I sit silent, bemused and helpless on the couch, and intrigued by what he might say.

  “Becca said you took the week off,” he says.

  I forget we’re all mutual friends from college. I wonder who reached out to whom first. My money is on Garrett for this one. It’s typical of him to deflect emotional responsibility, but still find a way to get the details.

  “Yeah.” I nod, wishing things were different. News of me taking the week off to hide from the world is something I’d normally report to my best friend first, but we’ve been disconnected since our incident.

  My eyes fall onto what’s in his hands, widening. His fingers are curled around the thing that has me hiding. I didn’t consider the collateral damage that could ensue from that article, like hurting Garrett’s feelings.

  I’m more of a mess than I realized.

  My cheeks burn hot. I’m about to curl into myself further, wondering when I’m going to break down.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I babble, lifting my hand to point at him.

  He drops his backpack onto the floor before he flings himself toward me, which is not something I expected.

  He’s still cautious, putting ample distance between us when he takes a seat on the same couch. He clenches his hands, causing a sound of wrinkling paper to form around the magazine he’s abusing. It’s almost as if he’s an
xious to touch me, but trying to replace the need.

  “Yeah, it is,” he replies.

  I sniff. I don’t know where this sniff comes from, but my body does it as I stare at him as if I’m a cornered animal on the verge of entering oblivion. My eyes search his face for a sense of normality, comfort, and hope, but I’m scared.

  We speak at the same time again.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Did you read the article?”

  We laugh.

  He releases a long exhale. “Are you okay? Because you look like shit.”

  I grin. “I miss you.”

  It might be the most inappropriate thing to say, but it’s also the most honest.

  He snorts. “I love how when I insult you, that’s the first thing you say to me.”

  “Of course. It’s who we are.”

  His lips dip into a pout as he agrees. “I don’t think I want to spend too much time rehashing our last conversation, but I don’t know where to start either. How about: You were right. I was being an idiot.”

  I sit up. His words springing me to attention as I pull myself to my knees, scooting closer to him so I can press the back of my hand to his forehead. “Garrett, are you feeling okay? You just admitted you were wrong and an idiot in the same sentence.”

  He smacks my hand away. “Stop it.” He laughs. “It doesn’t mean what I said before isn’t true.” He gifts me an apologetic shrug. “I confess, I do have terrible timing, and maybe seeing you with a dude and acting so differently made me see things in a different light, and I panicked. Fair enough, but I realized something in the days and really weeks of us not talking. I understand what you meant before. You’re too important to me. I’ve gotten into my own shenanigans this week, and it’s been killing me not being comfortable enough to stomp into your room in the morning, or calling you at work to complain or vent. I guess I do understand all that shit I put you through these past years, but I don’t want to lose what we have. It’s—you’re—too valuable to me. I know that now from my panic attack, okay? I just have never seen you so …”