Chapter 5
Caitlyn
I've been here before, five times, in fact, but tonight feels different.
Tonight, it's less about the anxiety of what I'm facing and more about the possibility of who I might see.
Before, it was nameless faces, as if the people circling me and pressing their fingers to my bare skin were figments of my imagination. It was less real than the possibility of what I'm facing today.
I can't seem to turn off the ignition in my car, and I doubt I can make it to the club's front door without falling because of the tremble in my knees. The parking lot is packed, and seeing all the expensive cars makes my skin crawl. I know it's not okay to judge anyone else for being here when I'm preparing to walk through those doors as well. Maybe this is a form of therapy for others, and they may not even know it.
Dr. Moore set up this appointment. It seems there's a new owner, and tonight's entry is free. With the expense of pay-per-visit fees, I'd be a fool not to take them up on their offer.
As much as I fought against ever doing this again, I know I have to continue therapy if I have any hope of having a more normal life in the future.
I haven't fully decided if running into the man Eli called Jersey would be a good thing or a bad thing. I haven't heard from anyone at the cabin, and my appointment this morning was fine. There was no mention of what Nolan was told, but I'm not foolish enough to think everything is perfectly fine.
Gathering all of my confidence, which could fit in a shot glass right now, I turn off the ignition of my car and shove open the driver's side door, letting the cool night air hit my face before I can change my mind and drive back home.
Somehow, my false confidence spreads throughout my body, and I manage to open the club's front door without wobbling and face-planting on the asphalt.
My hands tremble more than they had the last time I was here. This part of the process was the easiest part after the first time, but with new faces and new protocol, my unease is growing.
When I walk in, the smiling woman behind the counter looks like she has already run a marathon. I have a scheduled time to be here, and since I have no intention or desire to mingle, I haven't given myself much time to get ready.
"Welcome to Catalyst," she says with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
A sense of foreboding claws at my skin, telling me something is off, and I should run for the hills.
Blaming avoidance behaviors, I step up to the counter and show her my driver's license.
"I have an appointment," I say, my voice weak and unsure.
I clear my throat and attempt to stand a little taller.
"Caitlyn Rudd," I tell her.
She keys something into her computer, and my anxiety triples when she seems to have trouble figuring out what to do with me.
I vow that if I have to explain why I'm here and how things are to be done, I will walk right out and never come back. Having to experience this is awful enough.
"Ah, here it is," she says, relief marking her tone as if she has had more go wrong tonight than has gone right. "If you give me just a minute, I'll find an attendant for you."
"Female," I blurt, giving her a weak smile.
"Of course, Ms. Rudd. One moment."
I pull my driver's license off the counter and shove it back into the back pocket of my jeans before taking a few steps back. My fingers tangle together, nervousness making me eye the door. There's still time to escape, and I’m seriously considering it when it opens.
Before getting a look at the people's faces, I turn away, pointing my back at them.
My face warms at the sound of two voices, one male and the other female, as they approach the front desk.
"Ma'am," I hear from the other side of the room.
I keep facing the door where I know my attendant will come from. Whatever the other people have going on, it's not any of my business. I pray they give me the same courtesy.
"Ma'am?"
The voice is closer, and I startle, pressing a palm to my chest when I turn to find a woman standing right beside me.
She's wearing the same shirt the woman at the counter is wearing, making it clear that she works here.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper.
She gives me a kind smile. "No problem. Right this way."
I follow the sweep of her arm and still fight the urge to run out the front door when the direction takes me right past the front desk and the couple standing there.
Instead of being a coward, I drop my eyes and follow the attendant from the room, walking through a door on the opposite side of where I normally enter.
I haven't been to this side of the club before, but it quickly becomes apparent that this part mirrors the other side.
"I'm Roxie," she tells me. "I was able to look over your notes. You can use that room there to change, and then we can head out."
"Thank you," I manage before walking into the small room.
I close the door, take in a few deep breaths, and then take my time undressing before slipping on the provided robe. I don't immediately leave the room. I stand in the middle, staring at my neatly folded clothes, and remind myself that I'm here because this is helping and not against my will.
I've done this every time I've come here, whispering the words as if they're a mantra I need to remember to maintain my sanity. It's why when Jersey asked if I was there willingly, it struck such a chord with me. At that moment, it made me think there was a hidden camera or something in the room. I inspected the area when I got back and found nothing.
I jolt at the sound of the knock on the door.
"Ma'am?" Roxie asks. "We have a schedule for the cross."
I open the door, offering her a sheepish smile. "Sorry."
Instead of assuring me that it's okay, which I appreciate, she simply turns and waves her hand for me to follow.
The tile floor is cold on my feet, but I know just how cold things will be in the large open room where I'll be momentarily. The reminder of it makes goosebumps start to form on my arms.
The deep bass of a song echoes around me, the beat coming alive the further into the massive room we walk. I keep my eyes down, refusing to look up because I know it would only make me lose focus and the nerve it takes to be so vulnerable.
I sense people all around me and hear voices as people carry on conversations.
As far as sex clubs go, there's nothing really thrilling about what I'm doing. There are people in scenes that do so much more, but that doesn't prevent others from lining up to participate before they're even told what the rules are.
Roxie helps me out of the robe, and I fight the urge to lift my hands to cover the most private parts of me. She helps me up to the cross, keeping her touches to my skin minimal and only to my wrists and ankles as needed to tie me into place.
I keep my eyes squeezed shut as she begins to speak.
"Touching only. No penetration of any kind. Use nothing more than the tips of your fingers. Breaking these rules will lead to your permanent expulsion from the club."
I jerk with the first touch, grateful that it's only fingertips to my lower back, but before I can relish the safety in that another touch brushes the tip of my left breast. A tremble begins in my body, and before long, it's unmanageable.
My breaths are uneven, fear swimming inside of me, trying to find a way to escape.
It seems harder now, and I wonder if it's because of the length of time since my last visit or if this form of therapy is actually causing more trauma .
I'm only up here an hour, but each minute ticks by as if taking a year for every second. Touch after touch to my body does nothing but ramp up my anxiety, with it growing worse and worse.
Eventually, the petting and traces of fingers on my skin slow, some minutes passing with no touches at all, and this is how it has always been. People grow bored with so many other activities around the club to participate in.
I chance a look, opening my eyes and letting them roam quickly around the room. It seems no one is paying attention to me at all, but even knowing that my body takes no comfort in it.
I squeeze them shut again, but they're only closed for a moment before the atmosphere seems to shift around me. I wait for the touch, for someone to whisper all the dirty things they want to do to me, but it never comes.
I risk another look, an electric jolt running up my spine when I see Jersey sitting in the same spot he was that first night.
His eyes are locked on me, and as hard as I try to close my eyes again, I feel entranced by his attention.
Maybe Dr. Moore was right. Maybe our bodies know who might be important to us even though there's no context.
Instead of immediately climbing to his feet and crossing the room to me, he lifts his glass, sipping a dark, amber liquid.
I swallow, thinking about the burn of it in his throat, my mind racing with thoughts I normally never have, like wondering what his taste might be right now if we kissed.
I jerk, my body instinctively on high alert, when a shadow crosses in front of me.
I keep my eyes locked on him as the man circles me.
"Such pretty, unmarked skin," he says, his voice so rough and unappealing that I feel the hair follicles on my head activate, the need to scratch making my hands clench into tighter fists. "A blank canvas of sorts."
My eyes are planted across the room, and I see Jersey's eyes narrow a second before the brush of a fingertip skates across my left butt cheek.
I swallow the cry that threatens to bubble up, but the touch doesn't last long, and then the man walks away.
I watch as Jersey drains his glass before standing, and suspense of an unknown origin begins to build inside me.
As he sets his empty glass down and approaches, my nipples tighten. Although there's something akin to anticipation bubbling inside of me, it tangles with a nearly suffocating fear. I still can't manage to look away. As he draws closer, I know the urge to close my eyes has less to do with not wanting him to touch me at all and more to do with not wanting him to witness the vulnerability I feel when he does. It's as if some part deep inside me wants him to witness my strengths, which makes no sense to me.
Vulnerability is the entire point of this exercise, and I want the opposite where he's concerned.
He doesn't speak this time as he circles me. He doesn't lift his hand to press to my skin. He doesn't press his mouth to me, but I can feel his breath on my skin. Then again, I might be imagining it.
I wait for him to circle me fully, but he pauses behind me.
Then I feel the tip of one finger along the top curve of my right shoulder. Without thought, my head leans in that direction, my body still trembling but also on fire in an insanely foreign way.
The goosebumps on my skin seem to reach out to the touch, wanting more, but he pulls his hand away as quickly as he reaches out .
My mouth hangs open, suddenly dry, but my rules are not to speak.
"Please step back," Roxie says as she steps forward. "The scene is over."
An insane part of me almost tells her to give us a little more time, but instead, I stay silent, watching his back as he walks away while Roxie unclasps the buckles holding me in place.