Page 14 of Look, Don't Touch

They are my internal scars manifested. Old wounds healed. Mostly. They represent my growth and my dedication to living.

I dance and watch my monsters move until I can’t help but check my phone once more. The app is open already. I’m a fiend, a recovering fiend in a full-blown backslide. It’s not my patients’ app. Nope. It’s not the app that set me down this path hours ago. It’s my favorite of all the little icons on my phone. It’s one I haven’t touched in months. In just a small collection of minutes, I’ve made up for all those days away.

The center of the screen reads Crave and do I ever.

I click on my profile and hold my breath while it refreshes.

The dots on my private page have been black for the past two hours. Option one. Option two. Option three. Option four. They’re listed in order of my preferences. Tonight, I’d take option ten, if I had one. But I don’t. Over the years, I’ve whittled my list to my preferred partner and the ones I can stand.

Somewhere in the city, on my options’ phones, my corresponding dot shines green for the first time in a long time. I’m waiting rather impatiently for one of them to click my button, accept my request, and make my night a little more bearable.

This is not a dating app. It’s not even a hookup app. Though, it kind of is.

Crave is a sex club that gets a nice chunk of my yearly income for catering to the very specific desires of its members. Patrons are background checked, screened monthly in-house for a squeaky clean bill of health, administered a detailed survey, and matched with others whose desires mirror their own, all while managing confidentiality and anonymity if requested.

The three dots are still black.

“Fuck!”

It is a Friday night. Most would think the beginning of the weekend would be the prime night for a little deviant action. It is a prime night for the action of the masses, the vanilla, those who feel as though they’re living on the edge by tossing back a few overpriced drinks and going home with the first person to show interest.

Now that I think about it, going home with a stranger is living on the edge.

What I do is taboo. How I do it is safe, sane, and consensual. Now.

I toss my phone onto the marble counter, dry my wild mane, style it into a demure chignon, and apply makeup that I hope I’ll be crying off by the end of the night in a positive way instead of a depressing one.

The chirp of my phone fills the marble bathroom. It’s a special ringtone for my concierge at Crave. I’ve never been happier I set it up when I joined the club three years ago than I am tonight. I’ve been dodging calls from the hospital and texts from colleagues all evening.

I answer fast and press the device to my ear. “Hello?”

“Miss Calkins?” My heartbeat expands, reverberating through my ribs and jarring my skin at the mention of my pseudonym.

“This is she.” I am most certainly not the first female president of the American Psychological Association, but I use her name. At least, I used to, once a month.

“I’m happy to let you know your option one has accepted your request.”

“Really?” My palms sweat, and I sound like a ten-year-old being gifted a pony. I don’t care about those desperate developments. “The app isn’t showing it.”

“Yes. Option one hasn’t been active at Crave for several months. He’s submitted a new test, and we’re awaiting the results. Of course, we won’t allow him back until all is clear.”

“Of course.” I practically run to my closet and toss open the doors lining the hallway outside my bedroom. “How long until you expect to know?”

“Within the hour, miss.”

“Thank you.” My fingers shift through the laces and leathers. “And please, tell him thank you for me.” A rushed test means he’s agreed to pay five grand to accept my invitation on such short notice.

“Yes, miss. We’ll see you at the south entrance at ten o’clock.”

“Perfect.” I hang up and look at the time. Thankfully, I only have to throw on clothes and text my driving service, which I do before picking a corseted silk dress that hugs my body from boobs to butt and leaves my tattoos beautifully free. Well, the ones on my legs, upper chest, and back anyway. It’s more than I allow when in the office or at any other time. I slip my feet into deadly stilettos. The jeweled green pumps pair marvelously with the emerald-green dress. I strap on a black harness, and then I hide it, my tats, and dress with a maroon velvet trench coat.

The intercom by my door beeps, letting me know my car is waiting. An elevator ride, a fantastical entryway, and a turnstile door later, and I’m safely ensconced in the back of a black Town Car. The divider is up. I don’t have to feel bad about not making small talk with the driver. Perfect.

For every minute we sit in traffic, my nerves rattle louder, and my hand inches closer to my phone inside my clutch. By the time we’ve sat at the same light three times, I break and text my therapist. The message is plain and simple.

I’m going.

A light’s standstill later, my phone rings. I contemplate not answering, but that would disrespect the process. After all, I started this.

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