5. The Wrong Kind of Warmth
T he Anvil smells like sweat, beer, and leather.
It feels humid and wrong the second I step inside.
Just past the door, hands still buried in my pockets, the urge to leave hits almost immediately.
I’ve never been here before, so I tell myself it’s just for a quick drink.
I’m just here to see what the place is like.
I’m just here to remind myself I can still disappear into something or someone if I need to.
The lights are dim, and the air is thick.
It’s a place where no one sees you; they just scan you.
I slowly move through the club, taking it all in and brushing past men who don’t look twice or for too long.
There’s a bar and a dance floor, complete with a DJ booth and a metal cage hanging from the ceiling.
Past it, a leather shop stocked with oils, harnesses, and other gear.
In the back, the hallway of shame leads to the darkroom.
Someone whistles from the shadows as I pass, but I don’t stop.
I won’t run into Kevin in a place like this, but I knew that before I walked in.
The bar is sticky under my elbow. I order a vodka tonic with lime and take a sip before slamming the whole thing back. It’s like watching myself from a few feet away—tired, out of place, pretending to be okay. Pretending this is me, and I’m fine being here .
I feel him before I see him. Brawny. Confident.
Maybe thirty-five. I’m six-one, and he’s at least an inch taller than I am.
He moves like he’s done this before, like he knows the room is watching him with anticipation, and he’s meeting their expectations.
His shirt is tight across his chest, sleeves rolled up, like a lumberjack; the sweat on his chest hair catches the glow of one of the few pin lights in the room.
He looks straight at me when he approaches.
“You new here?” he asks, already too close. Too assertive.
“Not really,” I say in an octave lower than usual, trying to sound as solid as he looks, to square my shoulders with my voice.
He smirks like I had already said yes. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Like you’ve been too good for too long, so now you’re here.”
I glance down at my drink, then back up. I don’t answer, and I don’t smile. But I don’t walk away either. That’s the part that bothers me.
The lumberjack’s hand finds the small of my back as if he owns it. My first reaction is to stiffen, which I do for a second, but then I relax. Maybe this is why I came here. If I can’t be satisfied, perhaps I can at least be wanted.
“Want to go back?” he says, tipping his head toward the red-lit hallway.
I hesitate. It’s barely a second, but I feel it in my stomach. Then I nod.
The back room is even darker than I imagined. Bodies shift through shadows. I hear heavy breathing and grunting. Someone whispers in the far corner, and it sounds like a dare .
The lumberjack leads me into a half-lit alcove where a bench lines the wall. There’s no door, just shadows, breathing, and the faint, wet sounds of other bodies deeper in the darkness. No one stops us. No one looks.
His hand lands on my shoulder, large and heavy, guiding me down like we’ve done this before. I sit on the bench, and he looms over me.
It’s fast from there. Too fast.
Yet, I still let it happen. Because walking out would mean going home and sitting alone, feeling everything. I’m so fucking tired of feeling everything and feeling nothing at the same time.
For a second, I let myself believe that letting someone else take over might be a relief—that maybe if he calls the shots, I won’t have to want or feel. I won’t have to think about Kevin, hate myself, or relive that night again. Yet, I don’t want to forget it either.
I used to be good at this—this pretending—this disappearing into someone else’s heat. I told myself it was freedom, that it made me brave. Now, it just makes me cold.
The lumberjack lifts me off the bench in one swift motion, gripping my chest and driving me back into the wall. His weight presses in. His mouth finds mine—rough, urgent, without tenderness. I allow it on autopilot, but I’m not here—not really.
Then his hands are at my waist, pulling at my belt like he owns it—hurried, rough, trying to turn me toward the wall with an urgency that surprises me.
“Slow down,” I growl, my breathing exasperated, but I’m not sure he hears me—or cares.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. There’s a grin, but it’s the wrong kind. “Damn,” he says. “You’re one of those pretty boys who likes to play shy.”
His hand clamps on my jaw, tilting my face with a force that makes me freeze, like I’m something he thinks owes him.
“But I know what you want,” he snarls back, pressing his mouth to mine—hard, forceful, like a command I never gave. His hands are everywhere. On my belt. My chest. My neck.
And something inside me snaps.
He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t see me. I let him get this close, hoping to feel something, but all I feel is anger.
“No!” I shout.
He doesn’t move. Just smirks. “Relax.”
I shove him hard, using the wall behind me as leverage with one foot.
“What the fuck?” he spits, more annoyed than hurt. He looks confused but not afraid. Like I’ve broken the rules.
I stand fast, my body suddenly coiled, my heart slamming in my chest. “Back off, asshole!”
He straightens up, all attitude. “Jesus. It’s a queer bar, not a fucking church.”
But I don’t wait. I push past the asshole and out into the hall, my breath ragged, hands shaking. My face is hot like it’s burning from the inside. I feel watched. Judged. Followed. I don’t look back.
Pushing through the crowd shoulder-first, I ignore whoever calls after me. I’m outside before I realize I’m running.
The night air hits me like punishment, cold against my sweat- damp skin, and I gulp it like water. My hands won’t stop shaking. My feet pound the sidewalk before I can tell them where to go. My shirt is half-buttoned, and my pulse won’t slow down.
I feel stupid. I feel dirty. I feel like I said yes to the wrong thing to avoid the right one.
How did I let that happen?
How the hell could I have thought that would help?
The walk home is a blur. I keep walking, one foot in front of the other. No music. No cab. Only the sound of my shoes hitting the pavement and the burn in my throat every time I try to swallow.
By the time I reach my apartment, the keys are slick in my hand, and I fumble with the lock like I’ve forgotten how doors work. When it finally clicks open, I step inside and shut it hard behind me. The slam echoes, and I wait in the silence, just breathing.
No one followed me. No one cared enough to.
I can’t go on like this.
Stripping in the hallway without turning on the lights, I toss my clothes into the hamper without looking at them. I don’t want to see myself right now. I don’t want to catch my reflection and have to explain what the hell I thought I was doing.
As I stand there naked, steam rises from the shower as the water heats. I step in and crank it as hot as I can take—until my skin stings and the mirror fogs over. The water hits me like a slap, and I let it. I deserve it.
I scrub harder than necessary, chasing some illusion of control I can’t reach. My skin prickles under the heat. I scrub like I can scrape off the night. Like I can erase myself .
My jaw aches where he grabbed it. I close my eyes and see him again—his smirk, his grip, the way he said ‘pretty boy’ like it was both a compliment and a warning.
I thought I could handle it. I thought I wanted it. But what I really wanted was to feel something other than alone. I shut the water off when it finally runs cold, but the silence is worse than the heat.
I towel off without completely drying, drop the towel on the floor, and walk to the bedroom. I lie on the bed, damp and hollow, arms folded over my chest like armor. Beads of water drip from my hair into the pillow as I stare at the ceiling.
The room feels unfamiliar. I feel unfamiliar. This person isn’t who I want to be. But it’s who I am tonight—still chasing the wrong kind of warmth.
This wasn’t about sex. Not really. That, at least, I understand. It was about not feeling alone, yet now I’m lonelier than ever.
I don’t know what hurts more—the fear, or how close I came to calling it comfort.