The clerk with a Chanel-style red wig and blue false eyelashes noticed his interest. She informed the Electrosex was a state-of-the-art device for erotic electro-stimulation. Picking up a wand from the display, she attached a sphere-headed tube to it and turned it on. Tiny orangey rays sparked inside the tube.
“The Electrosex can be used on any body part, providing the finest controls for intensity and frequency.” She winked. “After all, precision is crucial in certain moments, right? Here, gimme me your arm. I’m gonna make a demonstration.”
As Marco stretched out his arm, he noticed a young woman inspecting the devices on the counter. Petite, she had a pale face and copper hair. Her most prominent feature was almond-shaped eyes as green as the airy dress she wore. Marco felt an instant attraction and tried to get closer.
The clerk retained him, holding his wrist as she ran the Electrosex across his arm.
Mmmm…
What ensued was a flux of delicious sensations associated with the sight of the redhead, whom Marco couldn’t stop watching. He ought to find a way of getting to know her. Marco was enthralled not as much by her beauty as he was by her curiosity while manipulating the goods—an exciting and promising curiosity.
“That’s enough, thanks,” he said.
The clerk, however, grabbed his arm with a surprisingly firm grip. She had replaced the tube with the black plate, plugging it to the wand. Then, with a mischievous expression, she slipped the plate into her cleavage.
“Now comes the best part. With this accessory, I’ll conduct the stimuli to you. We will both feel the electric impulses. Open your hand.”
Without much enthusiasm, Marco did as he was told. And next…
Mmmmmm…
The clerk massaged the palm of his hand with her fingertips, applying light shocks that made his whole body tingle. True, precision is crucial in certain moments, Marco thought vaguely. Yet the demonstration was just starting. The girl produced a white feather from a box. She rested the feather on his arm and, before sliding it, explained in an educational manner: “The plate conducts the stimuli to my body and then I can use any object to transfer the electric impulses to you.”
“Listen, I really—”
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…
When Marco came to his senses and looked for the redhead, she had vanished. He got rid of the clerk with a definitive yank.
“I like it very much, thank you. I’ll come back later,” he said, already moving away.
He scanned the vicinity, dribbling the crowd and peering at each stand he passed by. Women he spotted, loads of them, with natural or tinted hair, with a plain face or thick makeup, fully clothed or half-naked. None the redhead. At last, Marco gave up the search and stopped at an arena with a role-playing contest.
A jury formed by two men and a woman evaluated the performance of a young man in a dog outfit. The candidate sported a black vinyl jumpsuit, a collar, and a mask featuring a black muzzle and pricked-up ears. His “owner,” a gray-haired man with mellifluous hands, conducted the young guy and made him play tricks such as sitting or balancing on his “hinder paws.”
At that point, Marco got bored and finally headed for the beverage stand. He was feasting in a tonic water with lemon when he saw her again. The woman with green eyes and fiery hair stood at the opposite counter, busy paying for a fruit cocktail. She returned the wallet to her purse and, when raising her face, met Marco’s gaze.
He ventured a half-smile and lifted his own glass in a toast. The girl reciprocated with an unsure smile and left. Marco followed her at a distance. She proceeded to the stand selling tickets for the ball later that evening. The girl joined a long line, and Marco stood right behind her. They made eye contact. This time, the smiles held no inhibition. Soon the two were talking.
9. The Ball at the Devil’s Lair
The night sprinkled blue over San Francisco’s hills and gold on the bay waters. From the bedroom window Marisa contemplated the Victorian houses on the street, their pastel-colored façades standing out against the last spiral of magenta in the sky. She would miss the cable cars, mushroom omelettes and twilights like that. Pushing the glass pane, she inhaled the air permeated with a subtle hint of salt. Marisa lingered there a minute and then turned around.
The guestroom set for her was compact and comfortable, furnished with a double bed and nightstands topped with lilac lamps and tiny baskets of lavender potpourri. The ambiance brought echoes of sentimentality in a vintage poster of the Golden Gate Park above the headboard and in the oak wardrobe that had belonged to Mrs. Stevenson’s grandmother.
Marisa approached it and opened its doors. Time to get ready for the Leather Dream Ball. Brian and Richard’s invitation had been unexpected, and she didn’t know what to wear. It was the typical nightmare of every woman. Marisa prayed aloud: Oh God, inspire me with the best color match…
And then she removed a black minidress from a hanger.
Putting it in front of her body, Marisa tried to analyze it with scientific objectivity. She grimaced. And, in a frenzy, started to go through the wardrobe contents, erecting on the bed a mountain of discarded clothes that would make Mahomet jealous. Returning to the black minidress, she decided to wear it with a set of silver jewelry and a black satin mask. She studied herself in the mirror. Hmmm… Satisfied at last, Marisa jumped into the shower.
An hour later, Richard and Brian arrived to pick her up in the red convertible. It seemed like a replay of that afternoon, but now the vinyl hood was closed and the hosts dressed more casually. Richard showed up all in black: jeans, a short-sleeve shirt, jacket and leather sneakers. Brian underscored his Pilates abs with black skinny pants and a tight orange Lycra T-shirt. And Valentina, almost unrecognizable under heavy makeup, wore a burgundy stretch jumpsuit, boots and a leather jacket, plus a police cap borrowed from Richard.
“That’s so cool, Val. All you need now is a whip,” said Marisa as she slid next to her on the backseat.
“And you don’t look bad yourself with that mask. I see you didn’t forget to wear the seven-inch heels either. Great possibilities…”
Ah, the Leather Dream Ball: a dream interwoven from leather, such a multipurpose material for alluring the senses—second skin enhancing the animal instinct, whisper and opalescent luster in movement, smell of musk, taste of sin. That evening, leather dressed, undressed, mingled and danced in an underground paradise named Devil’s Lair. Owned by an eccentric millionaire from Silicon Valley, the club bordered Downtown and occupied a building with brick façade that used to be a church. Its gothic interiors sheltered an amalgam of scattered references: the scenography of a B movie with a multiple personality disorder.
At the entrance, guests were greeted by a voodoo altar set on a circular table. There towered a wooden cross stud with rusty nails, surrounded by skulls, Orisha statuettes and gris-gris talismans. The visitors then skirted the table to reach the rectangular main room boasting iron chandeliers with flickering lamps. A gallery stretched on each side, topped by the mezzanine and separated from the central aisle by arches and columns. Projectors spread a web of light and shadow on the grayish walls and over the stage set on the old altar.
Valentina and Marisa leaned over each detail exclaiming an oh! here and an ah! there. Richard told them he knew the club owner. Bob was a big fan of horror movies and manga. Not to mention a terrible dancer. Why, he managed to step on your foot several times in just one go, even when he danced on his own to a disco hit.
Brian eyed him with suspicion.
“Bob? How come you’ve never told me you know Bob?”
“Hey, and since when do you know Bob?” Richard retorted, equally suspicious.
Brian put both hands on his waist and came to a halt next to the gallery on the right. His T-shirt emitted a phosphorescent glow under the projectors, making him look like a hunky bottle of orange Fanta.
“Richard,
do both of us a favor and explain yourself. When did you go out with Bob? Was it that evening last week, when you said you had to work until late, huh? Huh?”
“Don’t change the subject, Brian. You’re hiding something. Why didn’t you tell me you were friends with Bob? Huh?”
Another pause. Tension rose with sparks ready to fly while the two stared at each other. Until Brian, tapping his foot, challenged: “Do you really want to know?”
Valentina squeezed herself in between the two men, intervening straight away: “Oh my gosh!”
“What?” Both turned to her at the same time.
“Check out this amazing décor!”
As she spoke, Valentina took Brian’s hand and dragged him away. And, soon enough, Bob and his disco sway slipped into oblivion, for the gallery on the right offered an impressive succession of phantasmagorias: the medieval chamber and the smiling executioner amid iron chains, the room with a hairy creature staring at the moon in the window, the compartment that hid an alien monster, the greenhouse with gigantic carnivore plants, the office where a nurse threatened to stick a syringe in the patient tied to the exam table, the crypt holding an empty coffin and a disturbing question—where was its occupant?
The gallery on the left aimed at practical purposes. Besides the cloakroom, it hosted the bar with tall tables, stools and a counter dotted with electronic candles. The four friends left their coats at the cloakroom and, following the natural order of things, made a stop at the bar. Richard offered everyone a round of blue cocktails embellished with a luminous cube, and they all stood there watching the action. Although the DJ set was still in the warm-up stage, the dance floor in the central aisle had already sprung to life with the lysergic Anemone by native band The Brian Jonestown Massacre.
Oh baby
How hard I try
To be truthful to you
Please don’t say goodbye
“Let’s check out the mezzanine,” suggested Brian as his gaze swept the room in search of attractive male specimens.
“Good idea. Maybe you’ll find us a little gift up there.” Richard produced a wink.
“Anyone in particular?”
A brief silence before Richard answered: “Bob!”
And they both couldn’t stop laughing.
You took over my head
I see you everywhere
But when I look closer
You’re just not there
Marisa also scanned the place, in hopes of spotting someone interesting—preferably the blond surfer. The ball had been regally divulged and attracted a more diverse audience than the fair. Among gay men wrapped in leather paraphernalia, women in vinyl and the usual drag queens, there were also students, clubbers and other tribes.
Marisa noticed a man of strong build in ripped jeans and a red T-shirt imprinted with the watchword Resist! He looked like a German actor whose name escaped her, short hair and light-brown eyes, a silver loop on one ear and several rings on his fingers. Not her type. But the stranger stared at Marisa with insistence and moved in her direction. Marisa’s gaze fell upon the black letters on the T-shirt, which became increasingly large as he drew closer: Resist! She turned around fast and followed her friends, who were already climbing the stairs by the bar.
With access at the galleries’ extremities, the mezzanine featured a U-shape configuration, which converged to the front of the main room. Its walls displayed a faint pattern of silver flowers against a black background. Low tables and red velvet couches formed chill-out areas surrounded by Greek statues, suits of armor, gargoyles with flaming eyes, and pale bouquets of withered roses.
The four friends sat in one of those velvety oases, and soon Richard and Brian met a couple of acquaintances that joined the group (Gina and Theodora, two blonde, lesbian-chic lawyers, one in a pinstripe suit and the other in a long black dress). While the two men talked to their friends, Marisa turned to Valentina: “Did you happen to see that surfer from the fair here?”
“As a matter of fact, I saw him earlier downstairs. Forgot to mention. You are really interested, huh?”
“Where did you see him?
“On the dance floor.” And, noticing Marisa’s agitation, Valentina smiled. “Can you calm down, Ma?”
“No! We must go there now!”
(Finally. Oh sea of delight in translucent beads of azure and extensions of complexion gilded by the sun, a dragon on the chest and blazing wheat in the hair… She was so ready to surf—on the surfer.)
10. A Little Surprise
Marisa mobilized the group and they all went down to the aisle. No sign of the surfer. Frustrated, she gave up on her search and decided to enjoy the party, dancing with her friends until she almost dropped. Then, another pit stop at the bar for more fuel. Well, it was just a matter of getting to the counter and having a mineral water and fanning herself for Marisa to spot in the middle of the dance floor… who? None other than the surfer. She stared at him indecisive. In an instant, she returned to the dance floor.
Marisa went on plotting the attack strategy. She would pass by the surfer, feign surprise and, with her best smile, say something witty. Hmm. Like what? Let’s see. For starters… hi. Yeah, very good. Hi. And then… an observation about the ball? that joke about Plato and a platypus in a bar? a comment about the waves in Australia? (That’s how Marisa went on plotting, not exactly thrilled with those options—even though the joke was hilarious, by the way.)
At that moment, going from point A to point B required a painful exercise of patience. Marisa advanced with exasperating slowness, looking above the sea of heads to make sure she didn’t lose sight of the surfer. She managed to draw closer and went on circling and circling. Almost there, almost… Suddenly, she could no longer spot him. Where did he go? Where…? All she could see was heads and arms swaying to the music. When a tall guy moved to the side, Marisa found the surfer again—and realized he was leaving the dance floor. She set off after him.
Like a castaway that crosses the hostile sea, Marisa emerged on the other side of the dance floor and, staggering, neared the surfer. She smoothed her hair and fixed her belt, which had rotated forty-five degrees to the left. Then she squared her shoulders. It was now or never. Or was it? Marisa gazed at him, torn between her attraction and sudden insecurity. There stood the surfer, sunny hair and blue T-shirt, aquamarine eyes and… the horrible truth.
The surfer was kissing the platinum dominatrix (red dress, no whip). Marisa could almost hear them purring. In the face of such a Dantesque scene, there was no argument. She turned around to stumble upon five smiley faces: Valentina, Richard, Brian, Gina and Theodora, who had followed her there in the trail of her impulsiveness. Now the stage whitened with a haze of dry ice, while in the background the projector stamped an indigo sky with clouds that shifted to the electronic beat. The friends decided to stick around.
“I just saw the surfer with the dominatrix,” Marisa confided to Valentina.
“I knew it. He seemed too cozy around that whip.” She shook her head. “People have their secrets, and at some point they sneak out of the closet.”
“What about you, Val? Seen anyone interesting?”
Valentina had made out with a bad kisser she had encountered at the bar. She concluded it was safer to watch the drag queens parading around with their golden-sequin dresses and plastic-fruit turbans. Marisa, annoyed, backed her up: drag queens were more fun than men. She had already decided she was not making out with anyone that evening.
“Uh-huh. What if Jim Morrison rose from the dead to make out with you?”
Marisa shrugged.
“Nope. Not making out with anyone tonight.”
If only she knew.
Up above, two cascades of purple fabric unfolded from the sides of the stage. Each was scaled by a ballerina in white, tutus floating in the clouds. The two alternated going up and down: while one twisted herself, upended,
to a higher level, the other formed an arch with her body near the ground.
The band stepped into the scene, led by an African-American singer with long hair in black shorts and vest. To her left stood the guitar player with dark hair in an unbuttoned white shirt; to the right, the dark-skinned bass player wearing a suit and sneakers. She sang with a plush voice as they played Ride by the LA duo Supreme Beings of Leisure. The clouds dissolved in shreds of gauze, and in the clear sky rose the moon.
The applause cascaded, expanded and softened. It expanded for the moon outside, round as a host, pristine in the perfect day for night sky. It softened when migrating to the moon projected inside each one there. The moon inside lulled spectators into their own daydreams and sensations. Music was a pinch of magic dust tickling up the nostrils and soaking each person in the existing music within themselves. Past, present and future, a walk in the clouds.
Beauty is all in the ride
Every little change inside
Leads to a major fork
On the road
New horizons unfold
In the beauty of the ride
Marisa danced amid the crowd without suspecting that, not far from there, Marco had just ordered a drink at the bar. He watched the show with almost anthropological curiosity and, from time to time, scanned the aisle and the mezzanine. He was supposed to meet the redhead from the fair: Yarina, the Ukrainian immigrant and owner of a delicious accent with whom he had spent the afternoon.
Since Marco’s arrival at the club an hour earlier, he had searched for her to no avail. Then he spotted a girl in black right next to the stage. A mass of copper hair escaped from under her Lurex beanie. Marco couldn’t see her face. Was that Yarina? There was only one way to find out.
Red: A Love Story Page 24