I’ve been mentally preparing myself for more nudity than an average episode of Girls, but when we walk in, nothing of the sort. Relief, and disappointment. But it’s early, relatively speaking, so who knows what this night will descend into. The first room is already crowded. A long mirrored bar is clogged with partygoers. Above it, male and female go-go dancers gyrate in human-size birdcages. A DJ is lofted in a balcony above us, playing upbeat electronica. To our immediate left, a silver pole extends to the ceiling. A Zendaya look-alike twists around it in a gold bikini to a bopping crowd of focused onlookers, including a handful of people in tight black T-shirts that have VOLUNTEER on the back and YES on the front.
“Coat check’s to your left; dungeon’s to your right!” a bearded man in a tutu calls, pointing.
“Dungeon?” Steph looks scandalized. “What happens in there?”
“S and M stuff,” Luna says.
Steph and I exchange a giggly glance, the novelty of raunch putting our tension on hold. Everyone is in costume, but the theme is disparate. A guy dressed as Waldo, a seventies disco couple in plunging bodysuits and skates, a gaggle of 1920s flappers, dapper gents in suits. A lot of light-up flower headbands and obvious fishnets. Romantic fairyland meets jazz baby meets leather kink. A fun, weird mix: Burning Man in Brooklyn?
Steph raises her voice over the music. “I’m going to the loo.”
“I’ll be at the bar,” I say, and she disappears. Luna’s gone too.
A short man dressed like a drug kingpin sidles up to me. “You’re beautiful, baby.”
I look away. He melts off. Interesting that it’s easier to deflect unwanted attention at a sex party than a standard bar.
“Hey.” Luna reappears by my side, holding two pale pink cocktails.
“That was quick.” I accept a drink.
“Performer perks. Where’s Steph?”
“Bathroom.”
“Alone at last,” Luna says, with a distinctly flirty smile.
A little bubble of excitement. I haven’t forgotten how much I liked kissing Camila. Luna takes my hand and leads me to an area filled with soft cushions and potted plants—very Arabian Nights. We settle on a beanbag, looking out over the crowd. We smile at each other, and then, smile at each other again. I can’t land on something to open with, not wanting to sound pedestrian or predictable. I have to say something. Anything, I have to say literally anything at all or this becomes officially awkward in five, four, three, two—“What’s in this?” I hold up the drink.
“Not sure. I think gin?”
“Long as you’re not trying to roofie me,” I joke.
She leans closer. “What?”
I raise my voice. “I said I hope you’re not trying to roofie me.”
She knows I’m joking, but she doesn’t find it very funny. “Nope.”
Fail. Reset. I clear my throat. “I met with Dr. Ho,” I say. “He was fantastic. I’m all set.” I point to my chest and make a scissor-snip motion.
“Great,” she says. “If you have any questions or anything, let me know.”
I have a million questions, but a Brooklyn sex party doesn’t seem like the right time and place. “So when does all this turn into an orgy?”
She laughs. “Things get looser the later it gets. It’s not that wild up here. People go for it more in the dungeon.”
I’m not sure if it’s an explanation or an invitation. “The dungeon” is not somewhere that screams romance to me. “Cool,” I say, a response that is both pedestrian and predictable.
“There you are!” Steph, navigating the unstable floor of cushions, loses her balance and tumbles into Luna’s lap. “Sorry!” She giggles, taking her time to extract herself.
Luna grins and gestures to Steph’s shirt. One dark brown nipple has escaped her bra. I’m expecting Steph to be mortified. Instead, she giggles. “I’m really getting into the spirit of things, aren’t I? Rogue nipple spotted at table seven!” She shakes her chest.
Luna laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
It is not.
Steph sips Luna’s drink. “What are we drinking? Mmm, gin?”
“Good guess,” Luna says, bizarrely impressed.
“Yummy,” Steph says. “So, what kind of performance are you doing tonight?”
“Aerial silks. It’s like aerial gymnastics—”
“I know what it is, it’s brilliant! How long have you been doing that?”
“About four years.” Luna settles back into the cushions. “I started taking classes before my surgery to get fit, but I liked it so much I stayed with it.”
“Is that your full-time job?” Steph is practically panting.
“Not full-time. I’m a part-time social worker and I teach yoga and pick up a few cater-waiter gigs here and there. Sort of a jane-of-all-trades.”
“Jane-of-all-trades!” Steph throws her head back and howls. “That is hysterical!”
Luna laughs too. Did they both manage to get high behind my back? Because all this is about as funny as a funeral.
“Okay, I should head backstage and start warming up.” Luna squeezes my arm. “When we start, try to get close to the stage.” She gestures to a raised stage currently filled with people drinking and dancing. “That’s the best view.” She hands Steph her drink. “Keep this.”
“Thank you so much,” Steph simpers. I roll my eyes, and she catches me.
Luna gives a little wave and threads off through the crowd.
“What?” Steph asks.
“There’s something particularly gross about watching you flirt,” I mutter. I regret it as soon as I say it, but our dynamic feels oddly permissive right now, even if it’s unprecedented. We always squabbled as roommates—whose turn it was to take the trash out or pay for takeout—and while we don’t have those little domestic disputes anymore, if there’s anyone I’ll pick at, it’s Steph. Usually, that’s okay. But tonight, things are shifting.
Steph’s face hardens. “That’s mean.”
“Is it? I thought flirting with your friend’s date was meaner.”
“I’m not flirting,” Steph says. “I’m being friendly.”
“Being friendly with an exposed nipple is flirting,” I tell her. “I read it in Cosmo.”
“Well, maybe we have more chemistry than you,” Steph says, taking a fussy sip of her newly procured cocktail.
I almost spit mine out. “That doesn’t give you permission to make a play for her. She’s my date. She’s mine. Okay?”
Steph stares at me. “You’re touchy. Did something happen? Something with Elan?”
“Elan?” I shout, startled. “God, no. I haven’t talked to him in weeks.”
“Breakups are hard. I get it,” Steph says, in a way that’s flat-out condescending. “It’s normal to rebound with someone unavailable—”
“It’s not about Elan. I will never see him again.” Even as I say it, I feel a humiliating gush of sadness. “I like Luna. She’s not a rebound, and she’s not unavailable. If you’re worried she’ll choose me over you . . . you should be. She will.”
Steph blinks at me; once, twice. “Ouch.”
That was cruel; that crossed a line. I prickle with shame, and pretend that I’m not. “I’m going to get a better view. Come with?”
She shakes her head. She’s turning red.
Fuck.
I get to the front of the stage and stake out a position dead center.
Steph and I have never liked the same person, for obvious reasons. Luna probably won’t choose me: in the collective ten minutes they’ve spent together, she and Steph probably do have more of a connection. But watching them flirt, right in front of me: that’s hard. Am I really that unlovable?
And how, exactly, will a goddamn mastectomy make me more lovable?
The organizers are clearing partygoers from the stage.
The show is about to begin.
Music fades.
The crowd quiets, turning its collective attention to the empty stage.
Movement from above.
Two swathes of red silk tumble from the ceiling. Wrapped into them, spinning around in a perfect circle, is Luna. Half-naked, now only in hot pants. Her skin is lightly painted in gold glitter. Her long dark hair whips around her like a serpent. The crowd oohs. Using only the red silk twisted around her body, she forms fluid, lithe shapes, spinning and twisting. So light. So effortless. Everyone in the room is mesmerized. She looks beautiful; vital. Most beautiful of all, her breasts. She hasn’t hidden the scars. They are what make her look strong.
She lands soundlessly on the stage and meets my gaze. She smiles and extends a hand, gesturing for me to join her. I shrink back, shaking my head.
The crowd pushes me from behind—go on, go up.
To a small swell of applause, I join her. A black harness appears beside the red silk. I’m being strapped into it by two assistants, and Luna. “You’re not afraid of heights are you?”
I can do this. I can do what she did, because she did it. “No.”
Straps and buckles tighten around me securely. The faces of the crowd are turned up at me, a sea of lights and fake flowers and burlesque masks. “I got you,” she says. There’s a whoosh. My feet leave the ground.
I’m flying. Luna twirls my arm, twisting me around. The party swirls below me and I’m laughing and squealing, weightless and free. The red silk spirals around me, Luna, a smear of gold next to me. We whizz back and forth, through color and light. I am birdlike with bones made of air.
And then I’m descending, lowered back toward the earth. I could’ve been up there for five seconds or five minutes, I have no idea. The assistants are unbuckling me, and Luna is beside me, smiling, her eyes bright. She holds my hand up and the crowd cheers, again. I am filled with love: for her, her courage and beauty. I pull her close, and put my hand on her cheek. We kiss. I know the crowd is cheering even louder, but I’m barely conscious of it. All I feel is her: warm breath, soft lips, new and powerful. I pull her closer still, my hands twisting into her hair, tasting sweat and gin. Her body feels lean and muscular under my fingers. I feel her smiling, her mouth on mine. We break away and I’m liquid fizz, silly and high.
I meet the gaze of the crowd for the first time, laughing.
And I freeze.
Everything around me tightens.
Through the blinding lights, I can just make out Steph, still on the cushions, watching me with an odd sort of blankness. But she’s not who I see first. That would be the person standing a few feet away from her.
Elan.