The second floor of the sex club felt like a page out of *Where’s Waldo.* There was something going on everywhere — a dominatrix flogging a girl in a complex shibari harness. A man throat fucking another man on the floor. One woman was mummified in plastic wrap and getting absolutely railed by a skinny person in a gimp suit.
“Oh my god, they’re fucking the *shit* out of her,” I said, marveling at the spectacle.
To my left, Claude glanced at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. We looked around the crowded room and to our pleasant surprise, there was a chaise in the corner for us to sit on and watch the chaos.
Truth be told, we were hiding. We’d come to this party with Sam and Maya, and I didn’t play with strangers. Knowing that, the unspoken plan was that they’d be fucking *us.* Because how *else* were they going to enjoy the decadence and gluttony?
But the moment Claude and I laid eyes on each other, I would only want him, and he would only want me. Unbeknownst to everyone (perhaps even ourselves) each of us was the other’s “one who got away.” Right place, but wrong time. I’d always wanted him, and he’d always wanted me.