9. Somewhere Else #2
I inch my way into the dark, one small step at a time, hands outstretched to avoid bumping into anything or anyone.
My fingers find a wall, and then, a shift in the air.
A presence. The darkness smells thick and close, rank in a way that suggests too much human heat sealed in too small a space, like a towel used for something private and left unwashed. It clings .
I want to run, but instead, I keep moving, drawn forward by the soundscape around me.
Kissing, muffled groans, the shuffle of bodies shifting in the dark.
But louder than any of it is the pounding of my own heart in my ears.
The air is thick and humid, laced with a musk that I can almost taste. It settles on my tongue like a warning.
Still, I shuffle my feet forward, relieved that I kept my sneakers on.
Then the sense of touch takes over—but it’s not mine.
It’s theirs. A hand on my back slides down to my waist, gripping with a pressure that makes me tense.
Another grazes my stomach from behind, fingers tracing up and down my abs.
I tighten them out of reflex—vanity, maybe.
I don’t know why I do it. It’s automatic, like when I catch a glimpse of my reflection while cleaning the Phillips’ pool.
I feel a third hand—this one at the front of my towel, searching.
It slips under the edge, crossing a line I didn’t offer.
Heat floods my body, sharp and uninvited, like a spark catching dry skin.
The beast in the darkness has many hands, many mouths, all reaching when something young wanders in.
But it’s too much. I shove backward, pushing through limbs and bodies I can’t see, stumbling toward the dark gap I came through.
I’m running again. Last time, it was from the lumberjack at The Anvil. This time, it’s from the part of me that keeps pretending this helps.
I take a long, hot shower to scrub off whatever the darkroom left behind. Part of me wants to release the tension, to shake off the madness that’s been building all night. But I don’t. Instead, I grab a clean towel, wrap it around my waist, and head back into the hallway.
A few silhouettes move about without urgency.
A man in a mesh jock leans against the wall, arms crossed.
Another lingers by the room he rented, leaning against the open door and watching men pass, reaching out to touch those he wishes would enter.
It’s like a spider perched on the fringe of its web.
I don’t look at their faces. I don’t want their names.
I continue down the hallway; the first man I pass is older, maybe fifty. He makes eye contact and follows me for a moment. I stop at a drinking fountain as he brushes past, trailing his fingers along the wall. I don’t engage.
A tall man nods as I pass. Older, built like he spends every weekday at the gym. He brushes his hand against my arm when we cross in the narrow hallway. I don’t stop, though. Not yet.
Another man, muscular in his early thirties, meets me near the sauna. He raises his chin and motions with his head. I don’t speak—I turn and follow him to a dark corner. We stand for a moment, not quite touching each other. I nod once, and that’s all he needs.
He presses against me—his hands at my waist, his mouth near my ear.
I let him kiss me. It’s dry, obligatory.
I turn around, my back to his chest, and let him search under the towel.
There’s no connection. No words, just the ritual of touch that means nothing.
It’s not tender, but tender doesn’t live in these rooms and hallways.
He finishes quickly—I feel the sudden warmth and pull away, still untouched, still distant.
He wipes his hands on the towel and disappears.
It’s not about pleasure—it’s about surrender—but surrender on my terms. My mind is beginning to blank, and that’s what I think I came for.
In the steam room, I sit for a while, letting the heat burn off everything I don’t want to feel.
A figure enters through the mist—forty maybe, a hairy chest with one pierced nipple.
He sits across from me, legs wide, towel slipping open.
Our eyes meet, and he gestures, but I shake my head.
It’s the small, universal signal that means “not tonight.” I stay anyway, watching without seeing, running my hand across my chest in slow, suggestive gestures as if I’m trying to feel something that I don’t .
I wander back to the small hallway leading to the video lounge, where a dozen men, half-dressed or fully nude, sit on the sofa or linger in the shadows, eyes fixed on the flickering screen and each other.
The film plays without pause, and not a word is spoken.
Whatever anyone’s here for, no one admits it—not out loud.
I sit among them, eyes fixed on the flickering screen, letting the images blur into background noise.
Someone shifts beside me, closer than necessary.
Another figure moves in front of me, expectant.
I don’t respond. My body reacts on its own, like muscle memory without meaning.
I close my eyes and try to disappear. But after a few minutes, the weight of it all settles in—the room, the silence, the why of it—and I rise to leave.
I haven’t found what I’m looking for, yet I haven’t shaken what I’m running from either.
Fatigue begins to set in, and I think about showering to leave. No clocks are on the wall, and time is hard to sense. It comes and goes in phases: a time to hunt, a time to submit, a time to dominate, and a time to disappear.
I walk toward the showers, down the long hallway of doors, when I spot him—a young, slim boy with warm skin and a nervous smile.
There’s an accent when he murmurs something I don’t catch, soft and uncertain.
He’s leaning against the open door of his room.
He’s cute, and I nod. That’s all it takes for him to invite me in.
The room smells faintly of poppers and sex, but it doesn’t matter.
The guy tries to kiss me, but I turn my face.
I don’t want tenderness here, not from him.
Thwarted from kissing, he lowers himself to his knees in front of me instead.
The boy gazes up, waiting for permission.
I give it with a nod. He lowers himself and takes over—eager, practiced, his hands firm, his breath hot.
I close my eyes and let it happen. Not for pleasure.
For escape. It’s not a conversation. It’s a transaction .
Then I push him off and pull him to his feet. His mouth opens, breathy and eager, but whatever he calls me twists something in me. It’s a name I never asked for, never claimed. It hits wrong, sharp under my skin. I’m not here to play a role. I’m not here to be someone’s fantasy.
I take hold of his hips and turn him. He braces against the mattress, reaching for the lube on the bed, but I get there first. My chest presses against his back as I uncap the bottle, the gel cold on my fingers. I move without speaking—focused, mechanical, not tender.
The boy thinks he knows what’s coming—wants it rough, wants me to play a part he’s imagining.
He keeps moaning, grinding back against me, pleading in breathless fragments.
He reaches behind himself, trying to take control, to guide me where he wants me.
I bat his hand away instead. Then I grip his waist, lift him clean off the floor, and toss him onto the bed.
He scrambles to reposition—on hands and knees, still offering—but I grab his ankles and flip him onto his back instead.
He lies back, already aroused, one leg shifting open in invitation.
But I press his knees together and guide them down flat.
Then I straddle him, reach behind to steady myself, and lower myself, letting the space between us close—slowly, deliberately—until our bodies touch, every motion intentional, every breath controlled.
There’s surprise in his eyes, but no resistance.
I’m taller, heavier, and stronger. I take the lead—controlling the rhythm, keeping the moment on my terms. He adjusts beneath me, breath catching, yet still unsure.
When he tries to move in response, I place a hand on his chest. “Don’t,” I say firmly, and he quiets, eyes wide, breath hitching.
I reach around, letting my hand slide between us—exploring, not rushing.
His breath hitches, eyes fluttering as I apply steady pressure.
He shifts beneath me, responding to my touch without words, his body giving in with a sharp, sudden gasp.
I watch his head tip back, mouth open, every muscle drawn tight before he exhales all at once.
He reaches to touch me, but I knock his hand aside—once, then again—controlling the pace, the space between us.
Finally, I catch his wrist and guide it gently to the mattress, holding it there—not forcefully, but firmly—as I move in closer, setting the rhythm of what comes next.
He stays quiet beneath me, breath shallow, gaze fixed, like he’s letting himself be led.
It builds like an orchestra—layers of breath and motion rising together, pressure and rhythm stacking into something almost symphonic until his whole body tightens.
I hold him steady as the tension crests and breaks.
He jerks beneath me, breath catching as the climax overtakes him.
He sinks into the sheets he’s clutching, trembling through silent waves of release.
His eyes stay shut, chest still heaving. He reaches for me again, but I’m already off the bed, pulling the towel around my waist as if none of it touched me, as if I wasn’t there. I don’t linger. I turn the knob and slip out before he can say a word.
The edges blur until I’m nothing but muscle and breath and need. This isn’t pleasure—it’s disappearance. I’m not chasing connection—I’m trying to vanish from it.
In the shower, I try to find some kind of release, but when it comes, it’s muted—more a flicker than a flood. The pressure lifts, but it leaves behind the same hollow ache I walked in with. Whatever I was running from is still here, lingering in the steam and silence.
Places like this aren’t about being seen. You slip through shadows, swap silence for contact, and leave more empty than you arrived. I don’t feel proud. I don’t feel ashamed, either. Just misplaced. Just somewhere else .
I dress in silence, avoiding the mirror as if it might accuse me. When I step outside, I breathe in the cool night air, but it doesn’t help.
The receipt with Kevin’s number remains in my back pocket. I don’t take it out. Not yet.
By the time I leave, it’s nearly four in the morning. My legs ache, my mouth is dry, and my whole body hums like it’s hollowed out and refilled with static.
On the drive home, I don’t turn on the radio. I take a long way. Past the park. Past the strip where people are still spilling out of late-night diners. Past Mateo’s bar, now dark, chairs flipped on tables.
I can’t help but think about Naomi and how I told her I was too tired for dinner. I think about Mateo and telling him I was heading home. I think about Kevin, about how I almost dialed the number in my back pocket before grabbing my car keys.
Unlocking the door to my apartment, I step inside. The room is still warm; the bed is unmade. I pull the receipt from my back pocket and place it on the coffee table where I had it earlier. I look at it for a long moment before turning away.
Stripping in the dark, I crawl under the sheets. My skin still smells like other people, but I don’t shower again. What would it wash off? I lie there in my cowardice, watching the fan blades turn, wondering what’s left when the lights come on—and whether I just ran out of reasons not to call him.