Warning: This work has been rated 18+.
I. Groping for Air
Creating a wall around the half-octagonal were pillared speakers that intoxicated the crowd with retro-80’s dance music. Above the stage were disco-style lights that shone on the occupants like police-ray’s, only these rays enabled misconduct and promiscuity. The tight clothes, drinks, and black mini-skirts composed the throng of people on the dance floor, and along with the lessened area of dress there was a lessened area between the dancers. It was a small venue, a night club, from a metropolitan-area that does, indeed, sleep. It was filled to the entrance with early-twenties and late teens (whom snuck in or carried a fake ID).
The booming music filled the stall in which I was pissing. It was around 11 o’ clock; the liveliness was starting to seep in to my body. It was invigorating and held me like a cocaine-addict holds the last dime bag, ever. While releasing the yellow dam, sweet satisfaction swept over me: most men in the club were not even going to be able to go to the bathroom. As the stream ended, I washed my hands and exited into the flashing floor of base pleasure.
Down the bathroom hallway was the dance floor and bar. As I walked toward my desire, a damsel caught my eye-- there in front of me -- was a crowd of five or so women. Dressed like carbon copies of each other, from the tight-black skirt to the wanton red lips. Distorting the identity of the ladies were neo-masquerade ball masks covering their brow ridge to bottom of nose. Every one of them was looking haughtily at approaching men and those who caught the spiteful, or seemingly so, eye-contact.
My eyes carving an outline of the mask of the second shortest nymph, wearing a white mask that cut a line directly from the bottom of her nose to her ear. I crossed the sweaty pit of dance fanatics and I stumbled on a shoe or a leg – something got in my way. I stopped myself from falling, but bumped into the masked lass I was moving towards, the shrouded sugar, the apple of my eye. Only by circumstance did she reveal her uncovered, partially, face. Covered in a sanctimonious, overly-adored makeup that accentuated her magnetic blue eyes and slightly upturned nose.
Her response, a shove starting with her eyes, which looked a shade of blue from the haze and lights, and ending with her arm, which only appeased my inner-ruffian. The adjacent companions of hers came to her rescue as well, coming near me with sultry and vivacious movements that compelled me to nudge them aside with the utmost attention to adequate and not-excessive force. After the kindergarten playground activity, my partner’ vagrant eyes set on mine and like a dwarf set upon a hobbit’s pantry.
Breaking away from her slightly, I moved my arm up her back and pulled her locks, Rapunzel? Nay, just courting the dame. I felt her legs get closer to mine after and she started dancing on nearer to my thighs. No words, just action; however, the reaction from Rapunzel was audible, this response was only audible to mythical Olympian goddess’s, specifically, Aphrodite. Her face was inches from mine and her mien revealed as we danced the mask away. As if mimicking my prior endeavors of attention, she drew her hands to my chest and hair and tugged away; time was the second best at causing my hair loss.
Her friends were looking around at the unkempt actions of their group member and immediately dissolved into a disheveled entanglement of arms and legs groping for a dance partner. As we struggled to take breaths between our elegant wrestling match, my partner’s friends started to dismiss boys again. Their mien changed from impressive jaw lines and feminine posture to witch-like scowling. The circling friends seemed to be rising in anger from her waning interest in their “girl’s night out,” and her new desires for my presence. The music shook her hair from my perspective, and her being a little lady, must have shaken some inner libido because she was writhing on my leg like a musical worm. The amount of words spoken could have written an entire haiku; I never told her my name, hers was Karen.
She was the most vivid memory from last night. Her and the other masked missies were probably waking up hungover at some sorority house. They were about to start complaining that there are no good men around, yet they seem content in giving their sin-fueled bodies away for less than a three-second stumble for eye candy, like myself.
The image of the masked women was still fresh in my dreamscape while I slept, I saw a masked girl beckoning me into a sunlit parlor. She was covered in a black robe, much like something out of Harry Potter, and I walked by her to sleep on the satin fainting couch that was illuminated by a single beam of light coming from a high window.
A clock ushered me into Friday morning, I could hear the rain barraging the ceiling of my house. The sun only shone a single modest glare through my window across the room. The window was slightly open on the bottom and a small puddle of water was accumulating on the windowsill. I got off the bed and closed the window, separating the puddle by a wall of pane. The plastic was starting to grow a moldy-looking black rim near the bottom that touched the windowsill, yet its looks are not why I obtained it.
Behind me sat a disheveled bed, an office chair facing a brown wooden desk (matching the bed), and an opulent mirror rimmed in a hand-chiseled ivory with a golden finish. The mirror was a gift from a former client of mine, it had been made in Italy, during a nationwide ban on ivory. Interesting how the chief directive of the law was to ban the elephant tusk, but instead the ban only interrupted the middle class’ ability to purchase the luxury. Now, it is a nationally-ubiquitous symbol of wealth and leisure.
I stood by the window now, close enough to see the slow parade of sunlight casting the shade away from beneath buildings across the street. As the darkness was being ushered, a woman was unveiled from the cloak of early morning. Her swagger mimicked the sun’s revealing of the curves of the road, a road which I knew. She slowed down as she approached a blockage of people with umbrellas and hoods or hats on. Across the street was a coffee shop with a line of decaffeinated workpeople through the window it was Friday, and still a workday, for most.
Mornings excelled at undermining my cognizance, I slowly creep the carpet, meandering at best, until something in me awakens. It’s like having a dead commander in the military, the troops still move, but they’re chaotic. Whether or not the sluggishness was leftover from a long and useful slumber or if it an additive from my narcissistic lifestyle. Either way, it was a drudgery, and I removed the unbecoming behavior from my system with a steady flow of cool water. Livening, as if I was a corpse beforehand and the water a necromancer; I stood in the shower giving new facility, life.