Page 69 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice says.
We all pull away from each other and see an intimidating man in a suit, no mask. He looks like a pro wrestler, his face a little busted up.
“I’m happy you’re all having a good time, but may I suggest moving to the Scorching Heat side of the venue?”
“We got it,” says Fatima. “Thanks, Harrison.”
“You’re welcome, miss,” says Harrison.
Fatima pulls me by the hand away from the bar, and Twyla pulls Oscar along by the hand too.
The alcohol is now hitting me really hard. My brain feels stimulated, and the room starts to spin.
Soon, we’ve made it down the hallway and back out into the lobby area. Twyla and Fatima lead us to the hallway on the other side of the reception counter.
Standing at that entrance is yet another military-looking man (another brother?! a triplet?!).
Twyla shows him her thermometer stamp. She says, “Scorching Heat!”
The rest of us raise our wrists too, and soon we’re in a similar hallway as the other one, lined with offices.
This side, however, is much darker, and the fog is much thicker. I can barely see in front of me, so I just let Fatima guide me.
The offices we pass are quite dim because of small candles with small flames. I do manage to see what looks like couches and large beanbag chairs.
I also see silhouetted figures on the furniture: people are lying on the couches, side by side or on top of each other, or they’re very close to one another on the beanbag chairs. I see flashes ofnaked flesh. Glimpses of bare skin on bare skin. Masked guests exploring, enjoying each other’s bodies.
Oscar, who’s barely audible because of the pounding music, says to me, “Bro, is this a fuck party?”
I nod. I don’t say anything, but I don’t have to. Because, yes, Oscar, this is a fuck party.
30
Scorching Heat
As soon as we walk past all the offices full of people having intimate encounters and step out of the long hallway, we’re greeted by darkness.
After a moment, the colorful lights pulse on, but they’re not very bright. It’s just enough to see clouds of fake fog everywhere and to realize we’re standing in a space the size of a classroom. This “Scorching Heat” room is not nearly as big as the “Warm Climate” room on the other side.
Then the lights pulse off. Darkness. The music makes our skin vibrate.
Fatima, Twyla, Oscar, and I only move when the lights are on, so there’s a lot of rhythmic starting and stopping. We take a few steps forward, stop, a few more, stop.
Our eyes start to adjust to the environment.
On both sides of us, we see unmasked men in suits, obviously jacked, presumably security guards, keeping watch. They stare straight ahead, their faces blank, their hands behind their backs.It’s as if they’re paying attention to nothing, but I get the feeling they know everything that’s going on. You wouldn’t want to mess with them, unless you like the idea of getting your skull cracked open.
In front of us is a long antique table. On one side of the table is a pile of different kinds of condoms. On the other is a pile of plastic tubes with some kind of liquid in them.
Oscar grabs a tube and holds it up to his face.
He says, over the loud music, “Lube!”
Because the fog shows no sign of thinning out, Fatima and Twyla lead me and Oscar, by the hand, to the right, so that we can use the wall to guide our way around. This way, we don’t have to wait for the lights to come on to move. We can circle the whole room in the light or the dark.
Both Fatima and Twyla say something, but they can’t be heard over the sound of the pounding EDM. Oscar and I shrug at each other.
Because the fog seems to get pumped in a timed cycle, for a moment a little bit of it seems to dissipate. And when it does—and as if the naked bodies we just saw in those offices and the condoms and lube weren’t enough of a clue—it becomes clear what Perpetual Sunset is about and what one hundred dollars gets you.
