We stay just long enough to realize that the people being pleased at the moment are white men who really should have the good sense to remain fully clothed in public. One being teased with hot irons has so much hair on his body, it's amazing that he doesn't go up like an old Christmas tree and the gentleman being flogged, rolls like a bowl full of jelly with each lash.
The next room is a recreation room decorated like a Fifties diner. I step to the counter and order beers for my co-worker and I, and am told that the club doesn't serve alcohol. I get a couple of sodas instead. The woman behind the counter is really a brown man. His features are quite small, so he actually makes an attractive woman. He wears a poodle skirt and a cheerleader sweater. After giving me my change, he goes back over to a young brown boy sitting on one of the stools and kisses him.
This room has a small dance floor with a silver pole extending from its floor into the ceiling and two pool tables. My co-worker and I sit near the dance floor sipping our sodas, waiting for the two Loner girls we picked out in line to find us and say hello. Eventually we are tired of waiting and having all the gay guys looking us over, so we decide to see what else there is to see.
The last room on this floor is a hall of mirrors. We walk through it and only encounter paired white couples and the occasional Loner. No sign of either of our chickies. We venture to the basement.
It is a dungeon. There are a lot of people crowded around the folks taking their licks. The oddest looking fellow is a white man, who is naked except for a leather hood with zippers for his eyes and mouth. He is strapped by the ankles and wrists to a leather footstool. He has his lips zipped, but not his eyes. I can see him looking around at his audience.
For some reason, he reminds me of a gopher or prairie dog sitting up alert and looking out the hole of his soul. He has an intense mental alertness that is vivid to me. It seems almost to have color, a kind of orange.
An average shaped young white woman with long black hair and tall black boots, a leather corset, and a black paper mask that covers just her cheekbones and forehead, drags the fringe of a short leather whip gently across his back and thighs. I guess the torture is in the not receiving of punishment. The tease of torture.
Another masked white man, who shouldn't really be naked because of what he looks like without his clothes on, is crouched to the side of the crowd, holding a video camcorder. He is filming another white man stretched out on a rack, who is taking a severe beating from a large black woman attired very similar to the woman teasing the hooded gopher man. She brings her whip down hard across her client's back, landing it with a snap that pierces the room. Her client thanks her and asks for another, and my co-worker and I walk closer and get a good look at the welts on his back.
I'm not quite sure where the thrill in this lies, but the guy does seem to be enjoying himself and getting his money's worth, which is more than I can say for my co-worker and I. Neither of us has seen either of the Loner girls that we spotted in line while we were waiting to get in since we stepped inside. I guess that is our torture for the evening. Actually my co-worker is the one who says this. I tell him not to give up hope. I am the eternal optimist. I would have been on the Titanic believing that the hole in the ship was just a scratch.
My co-worker and I head up to the third floor and walk around the simulated outdoor camping area. There are tee-pees set up among the plastic shrubbery, as nature sounds play from the loud speakers. I guess the idea is for people to step inside the tee-pees and have some fun.
The thing is, even the real outdoors only appeals to me in weekend doses. We are evolved creatures who have made structures with electricity and running water. I don't understand the appeal of camping. Most of the time you end up dragging half of civilization along with you on your back or loaded in your vehicle: cooking supplies, extra this and that, and even stuff like boom boxes and televisions.
I say, if you're really gonna rough it, you should be dropped off deep in the woods totally naked without anything and then fend for yourself. Anything less is just faking it.
twenty-eight
The day after I called E and wished her well, I was sitting in the Hotel Utah with my head resting on top of the bar. I was totally beat and I had both my hands clasped over my neck, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
I looked up and saw it was E. She asked if I minded her being there and I said no. I pulled out a stool and told her to have a seat.
My friend who was performing must have invited my ex, because I saw her enter with a girlfriend of hers. Suddenly I was very glad that E had shown. It reaffirmed the one thing I've learned: life is messy. It's not tidy. It's not something you can put in rows or arrange in nice little piles. Life spills all over the place and the best you can do is wipe it up and move along.
I told E to check out the beautiful woman at the end of the bar, and when she asked if she was someone I knew, I told her she was my ex.
E looked me straight in the eyes for a long time without saying anything, and then said for me to buy her a drink. I asked her what she wanted, and she said she wanted a beer. I got her a beer and we sat in silence.
A guy I used to work with showed up and sat down next to me. He had a white woman about half his age with him. He introduced her, and then the white woman excused herself to use the bathroom.
The guy I used to work with makes a great deal of money. He had just bought a new motorcycle. I asked him about his bike, and he pointed to where it was parked, just outside the front window.
He used to play bass for a famous Seventies hard rock band from Detroit. At first I didn't believe him, but he showed me the photos.
The white woman returned. I told the guy I used to work with that a friend of mine was playing, and he said we should move into the main room and get a good seat for the show.
E and I followed him and his date, and I saw that there was plenty of room at the table where my ex was sitting. I asked him what he thought about sitting there and he said it was cool.
I said hello to my ex, and asked if it was okay for us to join her and her friend. She seemed rather nervous about seeing me. But due to the size of the party, she couldn't really decline. We all sat. I let E scoot next to my ex. I slid in, and then the guy I used to work with and his date filled up the booth.
E started talking to my ex right away, showing some jewelry I bought her. My ex smiled and nodded her head. I didn't say much and mostly talked to the guy I used to work with about his bike.
My friend that was performing showed up and sat down at the table. He carried the conversation until he took the stage.
His performance was good, and after the show, everybody cleared out right away except for E and I. She leaned against me, stroking my thigh and we drank a few more beers. She said there was something she wanted to give me, and took her purse and stood to go. I followed her outside, and she gave me back all the letters I had written her, and then punched me in the mouth. I could tell that she split open my lip. I tasted blood as I saw her walk away and get into her car.
I watched her taillights disappear, and then I tore the letters in half and tossed them into a garbage can. I looked at myself in the club's window and saw that my lip wasn't cut that bad, so I went inside.
There were still a couple weeks to go
until our second date when she called and complained about the other guy she was seeing from Long Beach. Apparently he had been flying up and driving her crazy with his predictability.
She asked if I would consider staying
with them at her place for the weekend
pretending to be her brother in order to relieve her boredom. I could stay in
her Mom's room since she was out of town and help myself to all the food I wanted.
I didn't even have to think about it.
I asked her what time she wanted me there...
er>
Derek Henkel - Dirty Red Kiss.txt Page 11