Page 11 of Meet Me In The Dark

“I went to a sex club.”

“Oh.”

“It all started with a physical paper invitation. No digital footprint, no public information. You have to sign an NDA at the door before you even enter. If you don’t sign, you don’t get in... which is why I can’t go into too much detail about the logistics or even where it’s located.”

I blink at the phone. “This can’t be real.”

Emmy gestures urgently. “Quiet, it gets better.”

“It’s not what you think. It wasn’t dark or sleazy. It was beautiful. There was a bar, a library, and a garden terrace. And in every room, the energy was the same: welcoming and safe.

“You could choose to sit and observe, talk to people, or, if you wanted, participate. But only if you wanted to. There were no expectations. No pressure. Just choices and rules. Every person there signed the same code of conduct. Consent wasn’t just respected, it was the foundation.

“I didn’t realize how heavy the shame was until I stepped into that space and felt it lift off my shoulders. I saw that I’d spent years convincing myself I didn’t want or need anything—that it was safer not to want. Easier not to try. I’ve had partners who didn’t listen or ask questions. I’ve flinched through kisses, braced myself for pain, and apologized so many times I forgot what it felt like to say yes without fear.”

My throat tightens suddenly, and my stomach clenches in a familiar, uncomfortable knot.

Despite the teasing and jokes, her words strike a nerve in me. I know exactly what she means. That weight. That disconnect. That hollow ache of wanting something you’ve convinced yourself you shouldn’t need.

I’ve spent so much time trying to turn off that part of myself—the part that still craves intimacy, still longs to feel wanted, safe, and good. But hormones don’t care about trauma. Biology doesn’t bend for shame. And lately, I’ve started to feel it again—the ache beneath the surface, the need I’ve tried to suppress. Not just the sexual kind, though that’s part of it, but the deeper, quieter hunger. To be touched like I matter. To be seen without judgment. Not having to apologize for how my body responds, or doesn’t.

“But in that club, something shifted,”the letter writer continues.“When both men approached me…”

“Both?” I screech. “You go, girl.”

“…It wasn’t a performance. They didn’t assume anything. They asked. Every step of the way. It was slow and grounded in respect. Not because they saw me as fragile, but because they saw me as a person. A woman. One with wants and agency and the right to feel good in her own body. For the first time in years, I did. I felt free. I felt alive. I wasn’t afraid.”

God, I miss that. I miss feeling like I’m more thanjust something to work around. More than a complication.

The idea of a space like that—one where you can just be, without needing to pretend, where everything is about choice and control in the best way—hits me harder than I expect.

My eyes sting, and I blink fast, trying to hold it together.

“Why am I never invited to things like this?” Madison asks, dropping her head into her hands.

“You barely RSVP to weddings. How could anyone trust you with a sex club invite?”

Madison ignores my logic and is already pulling out her phone. “How would you even search for this? ‘Secret Los Angeles sex club’?”

“The letter said it was anonymous. You’re not going to find it.”

“There are a lot of sex clubs in this city,” Madison mutters, scrolling rapidly.

Emmy arches an eyebrow. “And you’re surprised?”

“Wait, what’s this one?” Madison squints at her screen. “The Upside-Down Pineapple?” She clicks eagerly, then immediately recoils. “Oh, God. No. Abort, abort! It’s exclusively for older swingers.” Her eyes widen in horror. “Why the hell are there pictures? My eyes! I can’t unsee this.” She frantically waves her phone in my direction. “Celeste, help me. Please!”

I burst out laughing and snatch her phone away before she can traumatize herself further. “This is exactly why we don’t let Madison use the internet unsupervised.”

She covers her eyes. “I need therapy.”

Emmy and I share a look before stifling a laugh. “Yeah, Mads, I think we all need therapy.”

Four

Sex clubs.

I’ve thought about them too many times since that letter was read on the podcast, and not just in a passingha-imagine-that kind of way, but in anit-won’t-leave-my-head kind of way.