I love to watch the lights. Red, blue, white, green. Bouncing off the gleaming, sweaty faces of hard, writhing young people, as if to illuminate the different facets of their personalities. To mirror their concealed souls. Who would have thought that all it takes is a change of pigment to transform somebody? Or maybe that’s all perception. Maybe sometimes a pretty fucking light is just a pretty fucking light.
The music’s shit, but isn’t it always? I can never tell the difference. Dubstep. Acid house. Acid hop. Trip-hop. Dub hop. Whatever. I can usually identify the drug the artist was on before I can identify the artist’s name. What an industry. It’s a wonder any of these people still function.
As the song warps into a quicker Latin beat, I slip past coat-check without dropping anything off and make a beeline for a bar.
“Vodka Redbull,” I shout over the jilted electronic scratching. “Double.”
Instead of reaching for a wallet, I look down the bar. Perfect. Machine-tanned Versace suit at 12 o’clock. Reeks of cologne. Eyes aren’t too buggy. He’s not on anything. Yet.
I make sure he gets a good look at me. To be fair, it’s hard not to.
Time for the platinum-card smile. Transaction processing, and…
“You here alone?”
“I dunno. Depends if you’re gonna pay for this or not.”
Double vodka Redbull slides across the sticky counter.
“Twelve-fifty!” the half-deaf bartender screams.
I look at Tanned Versace. Better add a tip for good measure. Place my hand on his firm bicep. Squeeze.
Tanned Versace pays the guy as I sip my drink, rolling the thin straw around with my tongue, watching him order a Heineken for himself. Once he pockets his change, he swivels around and “accidentally” bumps into me. Grabs my hip to keep me from falling and doesn’t let go. Prince fucking Charming.
He knocks off the neck of his beer. Eyes trailing down my dress.
“So where do you fit a wallet in that thing?”
Smiling coyly. “I don’t.”
“So how were you planning to pay for that?” he nods to my highball.
“You know those people who walk on tightropes?”
“The good ones don’t use a safety net,” I lean into his ear so he can hear me, my lips brushing his skin. I can taste his aftershave. “Throws them off their game. The thing that really keeps them up there is the fear that at any second, they could slip and die.”
Tanned Versace pulls away just enough that he can guzzle his Heineken and look me in the eye. “Sounds like a whole lotta risk for nothing.”
“You tell me,” I say, flicking my straw towards him with my tongue. “Was it for nothing?”
He stares at me for a long time and says nothing. They tend to do that sometimes.
A pilot light switches on and stabs Tanned Versace with intermittent white rays. In between the slivers of darkness, I note a shift in his expression. He leans in close.
“You do blow?”
“Not anymore,” I tell him. Now I have other things.
“Come with me.”
He takes my hand and leads me through the maze of dripping bodies to the vast unisex restroom which is far too hip for its own good. I watch him cut a line on the toilet seat with a razorblade and snort it off with a rolled fifty. He offers me the bill even though I’ve already declined. People hate to get off alone. I finish my drink and roll an ice cube onto my tongue, clinking it against my teeth as I lean against the stall. Tanned Versace, kneeling at my feet. With his crisp fifty still raised. Yes, people do hate to get off alone.
He quickly snorts two more lines, packs up, and drags me back to the dance floor.
As a general rule, cokeheads are terrible dancers. Tanned Versace is not the exception to the rule. It’s a good thing I didn’t come here to dance.
White light blasts the room for a second and I can see his pupils shot to Hell.
“Are you nervous?” I mouth to him. Useless to shout over the music.
Tanned Versace gapes at me. For someone who was so handsy earlier, he seems afraid to touch me now. The nagging social anxieties flooding right back. Coke will do that. I don’t know why they bother.
I guide his hands to my body and sway to the rhythm of the lights, hoping he’ll get the message.
Maybe to prove a point, Tanned Versace slides his hand onto my ass. Well, that’s something. It’s about now that I can tell the type that I’m really dealing with. Red light streaks across his manic features.
His groin’s against me and he’s either pathetically small or this just ain’t doin’ it for him.
It’s okay, I never mind lending a helping hand. Like leading the blind, I take his hand and guide it under the hem of my dress.
Finally, I feel him go rigid against me. Thank God. I’m not in a pitying mood.
I know that he’s not going to take it slow. Cokeheads don’t take anything slow. Tanned Versace is not the exception to this rule.
He’s pleased to remark my lack of underwear, as most men are, and shamelessly fingers me while wet bodies grind against our backs like rabid animals.
He seems to have forgotten what his mouth is for.
Once he remembers and leans in to kiss me, I push him away. He looks at me, scorned. Hand still shoved up my cooter. He’s had his taster.
“Not here,” I tell him, detaching him from me.
Panting, he lifts his fingers to my mouth and for a moment, I taste myself.
I tell him, “Come with me.”
And we head out.
In the alley, I don’t feel the cold, even though Tanned Versace shivers as I tear open his button-down. He has his tongue down my throat as he tugs down the straps of my dress and frees my tits. Hands over them. Pinching my nipples.
“I don’t have a rubber,” he gasps. He bites my neck. “You’re clean, aren’t you?”
“Of course.” That’s the least of his concerns.
“I’ll fucking kill you if you lied to me.” He kisses me.
I just laugh.
Tanned Versace shoves me on top of a crate and I undo his belt, reach into his slacks, and find his pulsating cock. I tug him out and lean back. Tanned Versace’s already panting as he slams into me. He’s way too vocal for my liking.
Grunting, he slides in and out, in and out.
“Tell me when you come,” he gasps.
Oh, so he’s waiting for something.
Pensively, I run my tongue down the stubble on his gullet. “That’s a complicated thing for me,” I say.
“Fuck that, I never come first,” he says. “Never.”
Who said chivalry is dead?
Tanned Versace pulls out long enough to turn me around and fucks me from behind like a jackhammer. He squeezes my tits and I can feel his teeth tickling the nape of my neck.
Sirens wail from somewhere, but he doesn’t stop and I don’t tell him to. The sirens fade away.
When I get bored, I shove Tanned Versace off and sit him on the crate so I can ride him. His pupils are still dilated. Sweat cakes his hair down and rolls off his sideburns. I can tell he’s losing it, but he’s just so fucking determined. Poor thing.
I ride him more intensely and his nails dig into my thighs. His eyes squeeze shut.
My hand falls to my dress, half-hanging from me. I reach inside.
Professional tightrope walkers know that they won’t make it across the line unless they’re afraid to fall. The problem with amateurs is they don’t know when to be afraid. Some people just need a safety net.
As Tanned Versace bruises my legs with his iron grip, I stick the razorblade in his throat. I drag it down all the way like a zipper.
Tanned Versace gurgles, eyes snapping open. His grip hardens – then relaxes.
Black blood flows down his chest. Down the alley, neon lights flash, giving it tint. Red, blue, white, green.
When the light stops shining in Tanned Versace’s eyes, I come.
I dismount him, tucking away my razorblade, pulling up the top of my dress.
“Huh,” I say. “I guess there was room for something in here after all.”
Sharp pain shoots through my limbs like it sometimes does when you’re coming down from a high. When for a second you feel like you’re dying, but then you realize it’s just your body reminding you that you’re still alive.
There’s blood on my hands, but it will look like paint in the club. Leaving Tanned Versace by the dumpster, I slip in through the back and head to the unisex. I wash myself in the sink while a convincing transvestite vomits behind me, oblivious and unaware. I smooth myself out and examine a hickey on my collarbone. Not bad for a night out.
I leave and head back to the bar, where I can scope out a ride home.