Chapter 4
Tristan
Honestly, I’ve never been to a fetish club, which is what I tell Chasten, but I admit that I’m intrigued, and I’m willing to try anything once, especially to make some new friends.
What I don’t tell him is that I’ve wanted to go to fetish clubs before. I floated the idea with Warren once, years ago, and was quickly shot down. Warren always said that vanilla is a delicious flavor, and there’s nothing wrong with it.
And he wasn’t talking about the ice cream.
Of course, he’s right. There’s nothing wrong with vanilla; it really is a great flavor, but there are so many other flavors out there, and I’m the sort of guy who likes things to be a little spicier than vanilla.
But I loved Warren, respected his tastes, and was willing to forgo exploring my own interests for him.
Now, though, things are different. Warren is gone, and as hard as it is to think about that, I know that eventually I have to move on. That means being willing to pursue my own interests and desires, even when that scares me a bit.
Though I’ll admit, I like a bit of fear.
? ? ?
I don’t tell Dad and Bobbie where I’m going, because that is not a conversation I want to have with them (“hey, by the way, headed out to a BDSM sex dungeon tonight! Don’t wait up!
”), and they don’t ask. I’ve only been back at their house a few days, but they’ve done a good job of respecting my need for boundaries.
Not that I set many boundaries. I’m here to help, I keep reminding them.
Here to make things a little easier for Bobbie, who still works full-time, and for Dad, who wants to keep working full-time but is finding it increasingly difficult.
Before leaving, I did a lot of research on what you’re supposed to wear to a fetish club.
The Anvil has no set dress code—the only hard and fast rule, apparently, is that there can’t be any exposed genitals outside of the dungeon (except on designated Nude Nights).
Just reading that rule sends a thrill of intrigue through me.
I decide to keep things simple. I wear a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans with work boots.
To some people, it might be a completely casual outfit, but to me, there’s always been something a little erotic about work clothes.
I’m not sure if I’d go so far as to say I have some blue-collar fetish, but I like the masculinity of roughed-up jeans, old boots, and work shirts.
Something about knowing that a man knows what to do with his hands.
At the last minute, I swap my normal boxer briefs for a jockstrap.
I don’t really think that I’ll be having sex tonight—I haven’t had sex with anyone since Warren passed—but wearing the jockstrap makes me feel sexy again. Desirable.
Usable.
My Jeep rattles and grunts a bit before it officially starts, and I give the dashboard a few sharp raps with the palm of my hand, because that’s the extent of my skill as a mechanic.
I try to hype myself up on the drive to the Anvil.
I’ve never done anything like this before, but I want to.
I really want to, and I don’t want to feel guilty about it.
But I do. Just a little bit of guilt, not a lot, but it’s almost like Warren’s ghost is hovering near me, reminding me that we were supposed to be married by now.
Really, I don’t think Warren would begrudge me moving on. He was a good guy. He could be jealous sometimes, but it was cute. He would want me to be happy, and I think he would be glad that I am making friends.
The club is in the Castro, in a nondescript brick building. There’s no sign on the outside, and the windows have been painted black. I park down the block and text Chasten.
TRISTAN: Just parked!
CHASTEN: Great, same. I think Yale and the others are already here, want to walk in together?
TRISTAN: Please. I’ve never done anything like this!
CHASTEN: I gotchu boo <3
I am so, so thankful to have reconnected with Chasten. We were never super close in nursing school, but he’s a great guy. And who would’ve thought that he’d open the door for me to the world of kink?
Chasten waves at me from the other side of the street. He’s wearing a sheer black shirt and black leather pants, and a chain with a lock around his neck. I trot across the street and hug him.
“You look great!” I say.
He grins. “Thanks. Honestly, I’m not the kinkiest person there is, at all, but I like these places. You can learn a lot, and I really admire how important consent is in BDSM spaces.” He shrugs. “And sometimes I like to watch.”
“Girl, that’s a kink.”
He winks. “I know. You look good, too. Very hot trade of you. You ready for this?”
“Actually, yes, I think I am.”
“Remember, don’t do anything that’ll make you uncomfortable. It’s okay to watch or hang out. Scenes are kept in the playrooms in the basement. The first floor is just dancing, drinking, and food. It can actually be pretty chill.”
I pat his shoulder. His concern is sweet. “I’ll be okay, Chasten. I promise.”
“Good. And if it’s too much, promise me you’ll still be my friend?” He looks at me with a sweet expression, and it melts my heart.
“Of course I’ll still be your friend.” I laugh. “I need friends, now that I’m back here. I’m glad we reconnected.”
“Good. Now let’s get kinky.”
? ? ?
I’m glad I did some research on the Anvil, so I know what to expect.
We have to show our IDs at the door and then sign a waiver upon entering, agreeing to the club’s rules of conduct.
It’s a lot bigger on the inside than I expected and looks like a pretty typical club/bar, except it has lockers near the front where you can store clothes or gear.
Near the back, there’s a door that leads to a basement floor, with signs letting you know what to expect down there in the dungeon.
Chasten introduces me to the friends who are already there. Hank, Damien, and Yale, who are all our age, and then Phineas, Yale’s boyfriend, who’s older and who looks like something straight out of a Tom of Finland drawing, with his mustache and his leather getup.
The guys are nice, and they welcome me right into their group.
One of my biggest priorities when I moved to San Francisco was to find myself a group of queer friends as soon as possible.
I knew it wouldn’t necessarily be difficult, because there’s such a huge queer scene in the Bay Area, but I also knew how important it would be for me.
A friend group is as important for a queer person as their family, I believe.
Warren and I had a lot of couple friends, and a big handful of them were also gay or queer, but most of them were Warren’s friends first, and he liked to hang out with a very specific genre of person.
None of his friends were actually influencers, but it was obvious that they wanted to be.
They were fun, but I never quite felt like I fit in with them.
With these guys, though, I don’t feel the need to pretend about anything.
Even though I don’t go to the second floor at all, I have a lot of fun.
The club is full of men of all different types.
Some are dressed in “normal” clothes, some in full fetish gear.
Some are young, the youngest looking barely older than twenty-one, and some have full beards and bald heads.
Everyone is welcome, and there seems to be very little judgment.
Everything is carefully negotiated, very respectful, and completely consensual.
Yale and his boyfriend disappear upstairs not long after the others hit the dance floor. I dance for a bit, too, and then break off from the group to sit at the bar.
“Water,” I say when the bartender asks what I’d like to drink. He’s wearing a leather harness and a matching leather codpiece, and nothing else.
I’m drinking my water in silence when someone takes the stool next to me.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” he says to the bartender, who shrugs and fetches another plastic cup of water.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the guy next to me. “It’s just water. Nothing interesting.”
“Nothing wrong with water,” the guy says, and raises his cup towards me to toast. “To hydrating.”
I laugh. “To hydrating.”
He holds his cup to his lips and drinks it dry in a few long gulps, his throat bobbing. His eyes never leave mine. I feel pinned to my seat, and a thrill runs through me.
He is very attractive. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s maybe a year or two older than me.
His head is shaved, and he’s got perfect dark eyebrows.
His skin is a deep tan, his lips full, and his cheekbones as sharp and shapely as Cartier diamonds.
His clothes are subtle: a shortsleeved black shirt, unbuttoned to show his smooth, muscular chest, and black jeans.
“I’m Nick,” he says.
“Tristan.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” He has a nice way of speaking, each word measured and low.
“You wouldn’t have. I just moved back to the city this weekend.”
He nods. “From?”
“Los Angeles.”
Those beautiful dark eyebrows shoot up. “What brought you back here?”
Because I don’t feel like dumping all my recent traumas on a stranger in a fetish bar, I shrug and say, “This and that.”
“Oh, he’s mysterious.”
“You have no idea.”
“Do they have any places like this in Los Angeles?”
“Of course, but I never went to one.” I lean closer like I’m sharing a secret. “This is my first time at a fetish club.”
“Is it? And what do you think so far?”
I glance around the club. “A lot less Fifty Shades than I expected. Way more chill.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“What about you? Are you a regular?”
Nick snorts. “I don’t know about regular, but I make an appearance every now and then. I like it here. I know the owner.”
I’m not quite drunk. Before the water, I had a shot to celebrate with Yale, and then a cocktail while I was dancing, but that’s it. I’ve never been a heavyweight when it comes to drinking, and it doesn’t take much to get me drunk, but I’m still mostly lucid.
Still, my tipsy brain cannot stop noticing how seriously attractive Nick is. Everything about him, from his chiseled features to his veiny forearms to his long, smooth hands—honestly, who has attractive hands?
It’s been a year since I’ve had sex, and I’m in a sex-positive fetish club, and based on the way that Nick is eyeing me, I’m pretty sure that I could go and put an end to my year-long drought right now, if I wanted to.
“Have you explored the whole club yet?” Nick asks.
He watches me very carefully while he speaks. His gaze is intense, pinning me to my stool. It makes me feel immobilized, exposed. And it thrills me.
I know he’s referring to the basement, to the dungeon.
Chasten and Yale told me how they work. There are private rooms, group rooms, and a public play space.
There’s equipment, gear, and plenty of toys.
I’m definitely intrigued, but I’m also a little overwhelmed.
Sure, I’m interested in the world of kink, but I also know that there are probably easier ways to explore it before jumping headfirst into an orgy with ropes and paddles.
As fun as that sounds.
“Just this floor,” I say, unable to look away from Nick’s face.
“Would you want to take a look around?” Nick’s voice is low, throaty, just south of suggestive. It sends something warm and tight coursing through my insides, a pulse of desire that I haven’t felt in ages.
And then, out of nowhere, all I can see is Warren’s face. Warren’s eyes. Warren’s body. Warren, looking around the fetish club and wondering what the hell his fiancé is doing here.
Warren, lying bloody and broken on the ground after the car accident.
My body chills, desire instantly replaced by an old, aching grief.
I shake my head, feeling guilty and ashamed. “No, thank you,” I say. Nick has the grace not to look disappointed, and doesn’t press me to change my mind.
“I understand,” he says. He hesitates—no, not a hesitation. Nick doesn’t seem like the sort of person to hesitate. He deliberates and then says, “May I be unusually forward for a moment?”
The shame and guilt inside of me muddle with interest. “Sure. Forwardness is always appreciated.”
He nods. “I noticed you when you first walked in with your friends, and I’ve spent the last hour working up the courage to come over and talk to you.
You are very handsome, and as much as I would love to go down to the dungeon with you, I think I would like to take you out to coffee even more. Can I give you my number?”
I blink. I was most certainly not expecting that. A speech like that from someone else might sound phony or put-on, and I know that I don’t even know Nick, but I inherently trust the honesty of what he’s saying.
“That…that would be nice,” I say. And I mean it.
I slip my phone out of my pocket and hand it to him. He spends a second typing, and then slides the phone back. I see that he’s added a new contact: Nick Gutierrez.
“It was nice to meet you, Tristan,” he says.
The shame and the guilt are back. Warren’s ghost is in my mind, watching me accept a phone number from another man, and the chills running across my body are now fighting with waves of heat. I need to get out of here, and get out of here fast.
“Nice to meet you, too, Nick,” I say, and after a stammered promise to text him, I excuse myself, find my new friends, tell them how exhausted I am, and get the hell out of the club as fast as humanly possible.