5. Kira
5
KIRA
A few months later…
After nearly a decade of working as a fitness instructor and personal trainer across a variety of different disciplines, I've come to appreciate the fact that my body is my home and my meal ticket. I have to treat it well so that it will continue to serve me the way I need it to. I stretch regularly. I have a physical therapist on standby. I drink enough water to hydrate a hockey team daily, and I rarely take risks that could lead to serious injury.
However, the few times a week that I have to walk down a set of metal stairs and across a slippery platform to my instructor's bike while wearing cycling shoes flies right in the face in all of that careful consideration .
The large plastic cleats on the bottom of my pink rhinestone encrusted Nikes are a necessary evil for stationary biking but I swear, one of these days I'm going to slip down these steps, eat shit in front of all my students, break both my ankles, and ruin my career in the most embarrassing way possible.
My Saturday morning spin class is by far the most popular time slot I teach here at Spin Sync. It’s been dubbed the ‘Saturday Killa Sixty’ and it always books up weeks in advance. The crowd in the room is typically quite a sight to behold. I've had movie stars, professional athletes, even the First Lady of the United States in class with me for sixty minutes of cycling and sweating to music.
As I walk into Studio B—carefully, taking small steps so I don’t slip in these stupid cleats—I recognize about half of the thirty-nine patrons as regulars, including my three best friends, Rachel, Dottie and Georgie. They’re in the front row like always, pedaling on the bikes closest to mine.
I chose AC/DC's “Thunderstruck” as my walk-up song for today, since I'm teaching a metal music themed ride. These are widely known as my hardest classes and possibly the most difficult classes on the Spin Sync platform. They're always fun for me because there's nothing better than sweating and screaming to Rage Against The Machine and Korn while encouraging people to do things they might not realize they're capable of.
The class applauds as I cross into the room, gripping a cold brew coffee in one hand while the other gives out high-fives like they're free candy. My hair is tied in a bun on top of my head, secured with about a million bobby pins in a feeble attempt to keep the frizz at bay.
I've got on my least comfortable workout set–faux leather black leggings with a matching sports bra, as well as a hot pink, long-sleeve mesh rave top to match my shoes and my hot pink mic pack belt. It's not at all practical. When class is over and I’m trying to peel the sweaty pleather leggings off my body, I will regret all of my life decisions, but I can't help myself. I need to look the part if I'm going to teach a heavy metal class, even if the goth-looking smokey eye I spent twenty minutes applying will be melted down my face when the hour is up. I clip into my bike at the front of the room as my producer, Jackie, speaks into my in-ears.
"I'm sending a production assistant out to take that coffee away from you Kira, so you'd better get to chugging."
"Ah shit, y'all. I just got here and they're already trying to take my caffeine! C'mon, hype me up," I call out as I remove the plastic lid from my coffee cup and bring it to my lips.
My regulars are well-versed in this tradition by this point. I never finish my coffee on time, it’s a curse. My producers are constantly trying to steal it away from me before the camera goes live, and the class begins streaming. Not only am I teaching the thirty-nine students in my studio today, but I’ve also got about a thousand people logged in at home on our app ready to ride with me, with more joining every second as the countdown to pre-show ticks on.
Spearheaded by my girls in the front row, the crowd chants like we're at a frat party and I'm the upside-down guy doing the keg stand.
Chug! Chug! Chug!
As my class continues to cheer, Jackie follows through on her threat and sends a production assistant in to take my blessed cold brew away from me. He’s just in time, too, ducking out of frame as the red light goes on and the pre-show begins.
When the lights dim and my playlist starts up, the opening notes of Teardrops by Bring Me The Horizon fill the room and I look straight down the camera and say the line that I've opened every single class with since my first audition three years ago.
"Welcome to hell, Spin Sync! My name is Kira McKenna, also known as your worst damn nightmare, and you are here for your sixty-minute heavy metal ride."
With less than a minute to go before the class clock starts, I've got fifty seconds to give my quick info and safety spiel. Easy as pie, it’s the same speech I give before every cycling class. I could give it in my sleep.
“Make sure your feet are clipped in, and your heels are all the way back in your cycling shoes. Booty on the widest part of the saddle. Cadence is your leg speed, turn the resistance knob to the right to make your road steeper, to the left it gets easier. Inhale, exhale, clock starts…now.”
I lead the class through a warmup to get their heart rates elevated and then we're off to the races. When I program these classes, I prefer to always have us riding to the rhythm of the music. In a metal ride, that means we're pedaling fast as fuck. Because I'm someone who likes to uphold my reputation as a killer and give my students their money's worth when they show up to my class, it also means that we're pedaling fast as fuck up steep as hell mountains.
"If it doesn't feel like you're pedaling through mud, you need to add more resistance," I say during “Enter Sandman” by Metallica. It's the fourth song of class and one of my regulars that I know only by his Spin Sync leaderboard name–HotPapi69–is moving way too fast for the pace I've set.
I never call out anyone specifically during class because at the end of the day, each workout is personal to every person and I'm just here to provide guidelines. I do, however, throw HotPapi69 some side-eye. He's been riding with me for years, so I know that he has more in his tank than what he's giving me right now.
Plus, dude is a total perv who sneaks his phone in to take pictures of my crotch so he can post him on his weird jerk-off blog. I get a lot of joy out of making him sweat until he’s sick.
Metallica fades into Iron Maiden, followed by Slipknot, Anthrax, and more Iron Maiden. At the penultimate song, I have my class pedaling up a hill as fast as they can with more grit than feels humanly possible, even for me. As we huff and puff our way up, I offer a bit of encouragement to help get us to the summit.
"Come on, don't give up now. Can you do this? Yes or yes? Look around you. Look at the person next to you. Look at me. We're all in it. We're all pushing. We’re all struggling for air. Every single set of lungs in this room is on fucking fire right now. Every ass is burning. Every one of us is dripping with sweat. It's not just you. No one does it alone, we're all in the fight together. I've got your back, so you gotta have mine too. Let’s get to the top of this fucking hill."
With that, I let out a cathartic roar because fucking hell, I don't know who I thought I was when I programmed this class. This last push is tough and, in my studio, I'm always doing the work I'm asking my students to do. I’m not the kind of instructor who will hop off her bike to correct a student’s form while they’re spinning for their life. There are no dismounts or paused feet for me.
When I welcome my students to hell, I want them to know that I'm not just the guy driving the golf cart giving them directions. I'm the demon walking alongside them, pushing them and myself to our limits.
When the last working song ends and “Down Bad” by Taylor Swift flows through the speakers, I revel in the exhausted laughs and chortles from my class at the abrupt change of vibes. I point to the speakers in the ceiling as I work to catch my breath.
"You all know that this song is perfect for our cool down,” I say, pointing up to the speakers in the ceiling. “I don’t know about you, but I’m damn close to crying in this gym, and you cannot tell me that Miss Swift isn’t metal as hell."
I lead the class through a cool down and a stretch, bathing in the euphoric high I can only get from a solid cardio session and letting it carry me through post-class meet and greets and photos, all the while thinking about how damn lucky I am. It may have been a bumpy ride getting here, but I have the best job in the entire world.
And if all goes to plan, soon my dickhead boss will pull his head out of his ass and sell me what is rightfully mine, and then everything the light touches here at Spin Sync will finally belong to me.
"How do you all feel about pegging a man? Like, do we lean more towards the yay-side or the nay-side when it comes to strapping up?”
I pose the question to my three best girlfriends between sips of my grapefruit mimosa. We’re right in the middle of our standing weekly brunch date. Every Saturday after a workout, we head out to a trendy restaurant and pig out on carbs, champagne, and girl-talk.
This morning, the gabbing is happening at a breakfast-only joint in Hayes Valley over eggs benedict, apricot French toast and strawberry pancakes.
It’s an extra special Saturday for me and The Pussy Posse. Our girl Rachel is joining Georgie in the club of old married ladies. Her man, Amir, popped the question over Rosé and romance novels in their home last night, and the two have decided on a quickie engagement and a low key ceremony.
My gal pal is already the chillest bride-to-be to ever live and is insisting that the whole thing is no big deal. However, I think that nabbing herself a hot billionaire and the twenty-carat planet of a diamond on her left ring finger deserves a brunch to be remembered.
Hence, the question. If Rach doesn’t want to be celebrated, the least I can do as the self-appointed group circus-monkey is to provide some entertaining and stimulating conversation.
"Pegging?" Dottie asks from my right side, a bite of English muffin smothered in hollandaise paused halfway to her mouth.
"Yeah, pegging. You know, like strapping on a dildo and going to town on a man's back door? I was reading last night and came across a scene that really did it for me. The woman was described as feminine and cutesy-looking with the purple strap-on on her waist. The dude was a big, buff gym bro. He was super grumpy and gruff through the entire story but in this scene, he was a total sub, laying on his back and holding onto his knees. I didn't think I would get into it, but it was hot. I couldn’t help it; I had to get myself off. But then when I was done, I had some post-nut clarity. Like, could I do that in real life? Could I put on a silicone dick and have a man ride me into oblivion? I don't know, how do we feel?"
I take an oversized bite of my strawberry pancakes and wash it down with a sip of mimosa. Across from me, Rachel shrugs. I can already guess what her answer is going to be. She and Amir are the cutest, nerdiest, bookworm-iest couple with a closet–no, excuse me, an entire playroom –filled with dirty sexual secrets. Those two get freaky and kinky on the regular.
"I'm Team Pegging, but I get it. I was intimidated at first, but in the end, it's just like any other sexual activity. If everyone involved is willing and enthusiastic, it's gonna be hot," she says, sipping her latte and then grimacing. Rachel owns a coffee shop called Espresso Yourself a few blocks away and as much as she might try not to be, she's a total coffee snob. She never truly enjoys hot bean water unless she makes it herself.
Totally valid, though. She makes the best coffee and craft beverages I've ever had in my life.
"And you, G? Are you a fan of hitting Mr. Adler with the old gravy plunger?" I ask Georgie.
Her husband, James, is unquestionably hot and completely unserious, not to mention he has more money than god. I swear, he was made in a factory to be the ideal man for G. He’s become as much of a brother to me as my real brother is, which is perfect because I believe I was put on this earth to be an annoying, pain in the ass little sister. He started teaching at Spin Sync a few months ago, and I get a sick high out of annoying him in and out of work.
A day in my life doesn't feel complete until I've needled Georgie’s husband to the point of exhaustion.
“You did not just call it the ‘gravy plunger’,” Dottie says, leaning over to mock vomit in my lap.
“Calm down, Dottie girl. There’s only so many times a gal can say ‘pegging’ before the word loses all meaning. And it felt crude to ask if Georgie likes to fuck her husband in the ass,” I shrug.
“And the best thing you could come up with was ‘gravy plunger’?”
“Okay, the next person to say ‘gravy plunger’ has to pay me five hundred dollars!” Rachel exclaims, putting an end to mine and Dottie’s bickering. “Georgie, answer the question.”
Georgie looks down at her plate, a blush creeping over her cheeks as she pokes at her hash browns with her fork.
"We’ve done it a few times. James loves it. It’s not my favorite thing, but that’s just because I’m lazy. Mostly, I prefer to just lay back and be maneuvered around like a doll, but when the mood is right…yeah. I’m Team Pegging, too," she says with a smirk.
I slap a hand down on the table. The silverware rattles and people at nearby tables turn to look, but I don't care.
“That’s my fucking girl, Georgie. All this time I thought you were this sweet, innocent little dove, but you’re out here doing your feminist duty by strapping up and pegging the patriarchy like a good girl!”
"Keeks, you shouldn’t say stuff like ‘peg the patriarchy’. You make it sound like there's something wrong or less than if a man is into having his ass played with," Rachel says with a shake of her head, but she’s still got a smile on her face.
"You know that’s not what I’m saying, Rach. It’s just that all these white male billionaires are out there destroying the climate and hoarding the world’s wealth. It's nice to know that at least one of them is too busy at home being dommed by his hot, bisexual wife to focus on ruining the Earth twenty-four-seven. That was a James and Georgie specific observation."
"Kira," G says, shushing me between giggles. "Someone could hear us."
"They’d have to be eavesdropping to hear us, G. And if they are, that’s their choice." I shrug and lean over to steal a piece of sourdough toast off her plate. People are always telling me I'm too loud, too much, not demure. But I am a twenty-eight-year-old woman. I don’t have it in me to give a flying fuck what people think about me anymore.
Don't get me wrong, I'm mindful of my volume. Someone would have to be sitting pretty close and be actively trying to listen to hear me. I'd never want to be rude or intrusive, but I'm also not going to completely dull myself down for others. If people around me are eavesdropping on my conversations and don't like what they hear, that's on them, not me.
"Wait, okay, I feel left out now. Should I be pegging Stephen?" Dottie asks, and I put an arm around her shoulder. Dottie is my oldest friend; we go all the way back to kindergarten. Her boyfriend Stephen grew up with us as well back in our small town of Fox Hole, Tennessee. They were high school sweethearts, but broke up when we were all eighteen. Over the holidays last year, they reunited and the two of them moved here to San Francisco.
"Don't feel left out, Dottie girl. I haven't pegged anyone either, I've just fucked my battery-operated boyfriend while reading about it," I say as I squeeze her shoulder and pull her close. She fake sobs and pouts.
"How do you even bring that up? Like 'hey babe, the girls and I were talking at brunch, and I think I want to try fucking you in the ass?'" she says.
"You could try that if you want to scare the hell out of him. You two were practically virgins when you got back together. I think if it's not his idea, it might be better to ease him into it. Drop a few hints," Georgie laughs and Dottie furrows her brows. Rachel leans across the table and puts her hand on top of Dottie's.
"Next time you're going down on him, just give him a little tippy-tap behind his balls with your pointer finger and work your way back towards his ass. See how he reacts." She taps her pointer finger on the back of Dottie's hand, demonstrating.
"And what do you do if he tenses up or freaks out?" I ask, fighting the laughter that wants to bubble out of me. I can't help it. I might be a grown, mature, tax-paying woman of the world, but talking up the butt—anyone's butt—will always be enough to give me the giggles.
"I don't know. Apprehension in the bedroom has never really been a problem of Am's," Rach says with a laugh.
"If he tenses up, just pretend like it never happened. Or tell him it was an accident. It's easy to get lost down there, he'll understand," Georgie says in a tone that is so serious, it bursts my bubble. I throw my head back and laugh, garnering more judgmental looks from the surrounding diners.
"Do you think the guys talk about the three of you and your sex lives when we're not around?" I ask when I finally settle down.
"Hmm," Georgie hums, looking like she's contemplating hard. "If I know my husband, then absolutely. The man was born with the gift of gab. I can almost guarantee he's yapping away to his besties as we speak."
"Between Am's complete lack of filter and his and James’ borderline romantic relationship with each other, I'm going to agree with Georgie," Rachel says. "Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't texting each other like teenage girls after G and I fall asleep at night."
"I know for a fact they're chatting away and exchanging stories. Remember when Stephen first moved out here and James and Am took him golfing in Pebble Beach? He came back absolutely scandalized," Dottie chimes in, and I hope to myself that someday I find a chatty man of my own to fit in with our weird little group.
Not that I mind being the only single gal left in our group. Georgie, Rachel, Dottie and I decided a long time ago that while romantic partners may come into our lives, the four of us will always be soulmates. It also helps that two out of three of the Pussy Posse men are billionaires whose black cards I have access to.
But it would be nice to have someone to go home to when the brunches are over.
We settle back into our meal and drinks, catching up on everything and nothing. As we discuss the horrors of sex on a beach–something Dottie tried recently and adamantly does not recommend–a middle-aged woman with a “Kate Plus Eight” haircut approaches our table with an ugly sneer on her face. She'd been sitting in awkward silence with a man at the table catty-corner to ours a moment ago. She points a spindly, French-manicured finger into my face.
"Just so you know, my husband and I are appalled by the language that comes out of your filthy mouth. You should be ashamed. You ruined our breakfast," she seethes, and I make a mental note to frown less so I don't wind up with the same deep lines she has between her eyebrows. This woman seems like the type that's looking for a fight, so I decide to kill her with kindness.
Well, maybe not kindness. More like feigned ignorance.
"Oh my god," I sigh, placing a hand over my heart. "I'm so flattered. I can't believe I had such an impact on your life. That makes me feel so wonderful and important." I give the woman my biggest, fakest smile. I didn't think it was possible, but her eyebrow lines get even deeper as she scowls. Her nose crinkles, and her mouth sputters like she wants to come back at me with something, but she storms off towards the door.
I flick my hair over my shoulder and turn back to my girls.
"You just make friends everywhere you go, don't you?" Rachel says with an affectionate roll of her eyes, and I shrug. I'm not everyone's cup of tea, that's for sure. My dads raised me to be a strong, independent, confident woman who takes no shit from anyone. It can be a difficult thing to balance considering my job and last name have made me a public figure of sorts. I have to be careful to not portray myself as rude or ungrateful, even when I feel like being rude and ungrateful. You never know when someone has a camera pointed at you and will try to smear your reputation on the internet. But it's not like I'm going out of my way to piss people off. It just happens sometimes.
"People like that are only looking for a negative reaction. She wanted me to get pissed off at her and make a scene or crawl in on myself out of shame. I'm not going to give her the satisfaction just because she couldn't keep her listening ears to herself."
“Hear, fucking hear," Dottie says, lifting her glass to the middle of the table. The rest of us clink and sip, just in time for our server to pop the cork on another bottle of bubbly.
One of my favorite things about living in San Francisco is how wonderfully weird it is. From the residents to the landscape to the climate, you never know what you’re going to get from block to block in this city.
I love how that wonderful weirdness is reflected in the colors and variety of the homes in the city, especially in my neighborhood. Haight-Ashbury is best known for being the hub of hippie culture in the sixties, home to iconic musicians from Janis Joplin to Jimi Hendrix to The Grateful Dead. It's arguably San Francisco's most recognizable neighborhood, made famous by the Painted Ladies—a row of Easter egg-colored Victorian homes that line Hayes Street in front of Alamo Square Park, where the Tanner clan picnic in the opening title of Full House. I’m lucky enough to live right here in the heart of it all.
As I walk up the steps to my house, I'm reminded that the free spirit vibes still flow freely in this little slice of brightly colored heaven in the middle of the city. When I first found the gorgeous pastel pink Victorian with the yellow shutters on the corner of Masonic Avenue, I felt immediately pulled in by the house's 'in-your-face' kind of charm, and I knew that this neighborhood was the one for me. I met with a realtor who told me that the house had been owned for fifty years by a woman named Meadow.
Meadow was best known in the neighborhood for throwing loud parties, shuffling through famous lovers like a deck of cards, and letting neighborhood cats freely roam through the house to keep them safe from coyotes. In an instant, I was sold. Meadow passed the year before, and her home had stood empty and quiet on that street corner until I came along and bought it for myself. Finding this home was fate. I know no other buyer would cherish the life and livelihood of the previous owner how I do.
There's a hole in my kitchen wall from a rogue champagne cork popped off a bottle of Dom Perignon by Jerry Garcia in 1967. It's now surrounded by a gold-plated frame—the first piece of decoration I put up the day I closed on the mortgage. There was no way in hell I was covering that piece of history up. I've kept other pieces of my home's former owner around as well. Meadow's grevilleas bloom with beautiful honey and coral-colored flowers along the front steps every fall, and a vintage aluminum sign covered in florals and peace paraphernalia with the phrase 'Stay trippy' still hangs on the front door.
I like to think that I'm keeping Meadow's traditions and spirit alive by standing in her footsteps as the weird, loud woman that judgy neighbors whisper about in hushed tones at barbecues and book clubs. I might not be throwing wild parties or kidnapping neighborhood pets, but my inherent clamorous personality certainly puts me amongst Meadow's ranks.
"Pancakes, I'm home!" I call out as I stumble into my kitchen, tripping on the pile of discarded sneakers by the door. I keep promising myself that I'm going to clean the shoes up, but I never do. It’s far too convenient to have so many options at my disposal when I’m running out the door each day.
I slip off my black and yellow Jordans and add them to the pile, then I head to the living room where my beloved Pancakes lazes happily on a 3D printed lily pad in his tank.
Pancakes is a beautiful white and butter yellow Half-moon Betta fish I fell in love with on sight a few months ago. I never fancied myself a pet person, and Pancakes’ residence in my living room started as a joke. I'd been complaining to my friends that everyone—even Dottie and Stephen's fucking dog—had gone for a flight on James and Amir's private jet and I hadn't. A valid complaint if you ask me, but I guess I was getting on everyone’s nerves because James promised to buy me a fish to shut me up.
I don't know why James thought a fish of all things would placate me. I was fully ready to demand a trip to Chanel instead, but he was right. From the moment we rolled up to the pet store, and I saw Pancakes swimming laps in his little plastic cup, I knew he was my son. On top of the adoption fee, I made James buy Pancakes top of the line everything, from his ten-gallon tank to the natural driftwood furniture to the top of the line river substrate that lines the bottom of his tank. My boy deserves nothing but the best.
I still haven't taken a ride on the jet, but at least my fish son is living in the lap of luxury.
Pancakes takes notice when I pop the lip on the top of his tank and drop in two pellets for his lunch. His home looks nice and clear since I did a small water change before work this morning. Tomorrow morning after my massage, when I do my full Sunday reset, I'll deep clean his tank with a full water change, algae sweep and rinsing off his toys and furniture. Afterwards, Pancakes will get a treat of brine shrimp while I eat Pad Thai and do a face mask on the couch, and the two of us will watch something from my collection of early 2000s Disney Channel original movies. It’s feeling like a The Thirteenth Year kind of week.
After making sure Pancakes eats all his pellets, I grab a blanket and snuggle onto my couch for my post-brunch nap. I turn on ESPN and see that my older brother, Dean, the quarterback for the Knoxville Crushers NFL team, is being interviewed about the upcoming draft. I close my eyes and settle in. Listening to my brother talk football is the perfect sound to bore me to sleep. When I wake up a few hours later, the sun has begun to set, and there's an unread email waiting for me on my phone.
From: Jonathan Graham [email protected]
To: Kira McKenna [email protected]
Subject: Monday Meeting
I’d like to see you in my office Monday morning before your first shoot of the day.
7 a.m. will be good.
We have some important things to discuss.
Jonathan
Founder & CEO, Spin Sync Inc .
My stomach coils into a knot at the brusque tone of his message, but that’s just Jonathan. Since we met in LA all those years ago, I’ve never known Jonathan Graham to mince words. Sure, he’ll lie and hide things, but he does so with conviction. And while we’ve had our differences in the past about Spin Sync–the ‘Founder’ in his email signature still annoys the shit out of me–I have a feeling I know what he wants to discuss on Monday.
Jonathan is ready to move on, and if he’s ready to sell Spin Sync, I am ready to buy. The company I envisioned as a young woman, the one I’ve poured my heart and soul into over the years, is finally going to be mine.
Kicking my feet with glee, I type out a response.