I'm in San Francisco on a crowded commute-time sidewalk across from the address Clarissa gave me, my neck craned upward. It turns out her favorite building in San Francisco looks like a penis—or to be more specific, an uncircumcised penis.

I like irony as much as the next person but come on! This is so conspicuous that maybe it would be better for everyone involved if I returned to Berkeley and celebrated the end of finals getting shitfaced at a dive bar like a normal person.

And by everyone, I mean me. Plus, what does this say about Mr. Shades?

Nothing good.

The crescent moon hangs over the glowy tip of the penis skyscraper like a fishhook. I cannot do it. I can't! And it has nothing to do with the fact that I am not dressed appropriately for an interview with a billionaire; I'm dressed for a final. I had no time to stop back at the apartment to change, so here I am in a tight red sheath dress with one long tantalizing zipper up the back and matching red patent leather stilettos.

Time to end this madness and make my departure.

I turn on my heel, wobbling a little so the people around me know I'm only human. Already I can taste the too-sweet five-dollar Cosmo from my favorite bar on my tongue. My phone buzzes. I hope this isn't Vogue texting to beg for another photoshoot.

Wrestling the phone out of my tiny purse, I glance at the message.

It's Clarissa.

          Don't even think about it.

          Think about what?

          Leaving.

See, she's totally a witch.

          Why would you think I'm leaving?

          Because I know you. Just go in.

          The building looks like a penis.

          So?

          So, I'm not in the mood to be swallowed whole by a blatant metaphor.

          You're just afraid of heights.

          Now what kind of friend rudely hurls someone's fear in their face like that?

          A desperate and very sick friend. *cough cough*

          Fine.

I jab the phone back into the purse, take one more glance up at the looming penis, and cross the street. This is when things get worse. Because the stone sign in front of the monstrosity reads: SHADES HOUSE.

Crispin doesn't just live in the penis; he is the penis!

***

Girding my loins and tugging at the bottom of my too-short dress, I stride into the bright lobby, my heels click-clacking against the marble floor. The space is at least 5 stories high, with massive glass jellyfish sculptures, tentacles dangling from the ceiling like a sea of penises. The walls, décor, windows, even the furniture, are jumbo-sized, made from hard, polished materials like glass, stone, and metal.

Okay, I get it already. Penis building. It's hard. It's big. And it's fucking obvious!

I hope Clarissa makes better architectural choices than this. We're going to have to have a talk before she's unleashed upon the world of building design.

It's supposed to make me feel small and inadequate, but I refuse. This is when a brilliant idea inserts itself into my brain. Maybe I can get Shades to interview me in the lobby. There's ample space. And wouldn't it be more appropriate than having me, a poor, fresh-faced college student, going up alone into his den of iniquity?

To my delight, I spy a curved sandstone desk the size of a billionaire's ego. I hasten toward it but end up sliding on the slick floor (not on purpose this time) the final eight feet. Fortunately, I manage to stay erect and arrive at the cold, gritty edge of the desk with at least twenty percent of my dignity intact. (Which is more than I can say for the tip of Shades House.)

Seated behind the desk is a burly security guard with a strawberry blond man-bun. He gives me the once-over, then licks his lips as if I might be a tasty snack. "Can I help you?" he growls in a way that seems more "can I toss you out of here on your ass?" than "can I help you relocate your interview location?"

I straighten my spine and clear my throat. "I'm here to meet with Mr. Crispin Shades," I say crisply.

"Do you have an appointment Miss ...?"

"Jones. Anesthesia Jones."

He examines his computer screen, then pronounces: "you're not on the list."

"The appointment is in my roommate's name. Clarissa Mason."

"One moment. He types something into the computer, and a second later, he looks up and motions toward the elevator. "Penthouse."

"About that. I was thinking Mr. Shades might prefer to do the interview in the lobby. For propriety's sake."

"Propriety? Mr. Shades? Aren't you the naïve little morsel?" The gentleman laughs so hard he begins to choke. He turns red, and I'm contemplating whether I might have to perform CPR, when a stunning blonde in a version of my exact dress, except the right side is white and the left black, approaches me. Maybe she had finals today too. I wonder briefly if the dress might be available in my size. "Miss Jones?"

"Oh, yes?" I say when I realize she's addressing me, and I should stop picturing myself in the black and white dress.

"I'm here to escort you to Mr. Shade's penthouse. If you'll follow me."

My tour guide is all business and doesn't seem to notice the choking guard. I assume this means she won't give a damn about my fear of heights, so I take in a long calming breath and follow her toward the elevators, leaving Mr. Man Bun to die of a severe case of toxic masculinity.

***

I won't go into too much detail about the trip on the elevator to the 54th story penthouse, other than to say that it's lucky I haven't eaten all day. I don't think Mr. Shades would've appreciated vomit in his pristine elevator/rocket.

But that's not even the worst part. Guess where I'm sitting? In his living room, on a sofa, beside a glossy black grand piano, facing the windows which overlook the city and bay. Did I mention the windows are about a thousand feet tall? And really clean. So clean they do little to alleviate the rising panic in my stomach. I'm literally paralyzed by the view. Ms. Black and White Dress left me alone with a glass of sparkling water and a promise that the interview would commence shortly.

I try to concentrate on the light show on the Bay Bridge, which is vaguely pretty and twinkly, but not helping.

I'm a total mess. But I need to get it together for Clarissa. So, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think about all the things that make me likable, empathetic, and respectable, like my affinity for British novels, love of dusty libraries and puppies, perfect academic record, and disdain for Earl Gray tea. Not to mention my ordinary appearance. Okay, I guess I mentioned it.

"Miss Jones," a deep voice rumbles next to my ear.

I scream, tumble off the sofa, and end up on my hands and knees, my lips inches from Mr. Shade's enormous bare feet.

***

There you have it. You've wasted another perfectly good fifteen minutes on this installment of Fifty Degrees of Shade. I had the best time writing this chapter. While SHADES HOUSE is an amalgam of skyscrapers in San Francisco, one of the buildings it's based on is called Salesforce Tower. I remember the first time I saw it I was like, what the hell? That looks like a penis.

Apparently I wasn't the only one, because there's an Instagram called JustTheTipSF, where people upload photos of "just the tip." I laughed so hard, water streamed out of my eyeholes. I stole the photo for this chapter from them. Hopefully one day I can go into the city and take my own.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter! If so, vote, comment, follow me, all the good stuff.

***

This chapter is dedicated to iamRodneyVSmith in thanks for the brilliant cover. If you haven't read his work, do so immediately. He is hilarious.