Saturday, September 17, 2011

Sample from "The Lies Have It" - Part 2

This picks up where the previous excerpt left off...

Although the night had started off rather slowly, by eleven o’clock, the party was in full swing. I suppose, if one were to choose, The Stealth Lounge is the ideal setting for a fetish party. The walls are painted one shade lighter than black. There are several oversized, ornately framed mirrors hung at odd angles behind the bar. I glimpsed at myself in them, and thought for the hundredth time that it would have been funny to replace them with the convex and concave mirrors found at funhouses and carnivals. I checked my reflection and was satisfied with the appearance of the slender, blond girl in a slim-cut, short, black skirt, and a scooped-neck, clingy, white top who smiled back at me.


The furnishings of The Stealth Lounge run to glass and chrome, the upholstery is a velveteen zebra print. Pairs of loveseats at right angles to each other are at the far end of the bar. Exposed ceiling beams, with their guts painted matte silver, give the room an industrial feeling. Blue-tinted lighting completes the mood. The music – all techno heavy instrumental, with throbbing, reverberating bass – comes over an audio system with crystal clear sound. Yeah, I guess if I were to host an S&M party, this would be the place to do it.

Couples and trios had started to pair off, and they were strapping, whipping and spanking each other with reckless abandon. Most of this pheromone themed hand-to-hand combat took place in the loveseats near the back. Those who hadn’t yet met the bolt to go with their nut were milling about the bar area like dogs in heat. No doubt some of the sexual tension came from folks who had miscalculated the targets of their pick-up lines. One dominant trying to pick up another dom was just not good for anyone.

“Hey Jess,” I said, “maybe next time we should offer sticky name tags and pass them out at the entrance: S for submissive, D for dominant, B for bondage, and Y for why the Hell don’t I find another job?” Jess laughed.

Moose, a florist by day and The Stealth Lounge’s doorman by night, was busy manning the entrance. I imagine it’s rather difficult to be macho and intimidating when you smell like roses, but Moose seemed to be doing okay. A dark-haired Latino behemoth, Moose checked IDs and names on the guest list, plus he had the unenviable task of screening people for dress code infractions.

“Oh c’mon, lemme in! I wanna check it out!” slurred a skanky looking bit of trailer trash who looked like she’d be right at home in a bowling alley.

“Sorry, but your name’s not on the list.” Moose’s face was impassive.

“Wassa matter? I don’t look sexy enough? Here, how’s this?” she wailed as she unbuttoned her shirt and flashed her saggy boobs at poor Moose and the folks standing near the entrance.

“Lemme in!” She cupped her breasts and continued to demonstrate her lack of both dignity and self- respect.

Her toothless Neanderthal of a date tried to finesse his way in with a bribe. He slipped two dollars into Moose’s palm and said, “That oughtta take care of things.”

Moose scooped the Neanderthal into a headlock with his right arm, and firmly gripped Skanky’s wrist with his left hand, and unceremoniously ushered them downstairs. A twenty might have worked, but not a deuce.

“That woman was unreal, wasn’t she?” he asked me when he came back into the bar. I chuckled and slipped him a shot of vodka. He tossed the toonie onto the bar as a tip.

The bar area was quiet for a moment; everyone’s drinks had been replenished. Jess and I leaned back against the beer fridge and simultaneously sighed, smirked, and surreptitiously stared at the group before us. A rather pudgy woman was prancing around wearing a nippleless pink teddy on top and nothing, nothing on the bottom. She had a fluffy purple feather boa around her neck and was asking guys to slap her cottage cheese butt. Ian, ever the gracious host, happily obliged, while I averted my eyes and tried not to toss my cookies.

Jess had seen most of this crowd at the previous soiree and she filled me in on whatever catty gossip she had about them.

“See that guy?” she asked, indicating a well-preserved senior with giant nipple rings, “he’s into golden showers, giving and receiving. I think he left alone last time. Can you imagine being into that?”

I cringed. “Never, no way, not in a million years.”

I folded my arms across my chest, and pressed my knees closer together than words in a dictionary. Right now, I kind of wished I were wearing a medieval chastity belt.

Jess continued, “See those two bottle blonds with black roots over there? Wearing fishnets? They’re looking for a third chick who likes to talk dirty and wants to be paddled. Do you ever think of switching teams? I could introduce you.”

“Ha ha. Piss off, Jess, or I’ll give Assless Leather Chaps your cell number. Besides, Derek satisfies me more than anyone in this room ever could.”

Derek Armstrong is the new man in my life. Our romance is still in its nascent days, but I swear that since we started seeing each other, the skies are bluer, the sun is brighter, and the birds sing more sweetly. Oh barf. I don’t do well with mushy sentiments, but Derek really rocks my world. I couldn’t imagine doing any of this kinky stuff with him, although handcuffing him might be fun. And maybe gagging him, but that’s only because there are times when I’m not even remotely interested in him for conversation. Sigh. Derek had left on Tuesday to work on a trial out of town, and I was really starting to miss him.

Beyond the bar area, in the dimly lit corners of the room, there was a lot of yelping and moaning going on. Ian and several people were clustered around the stocks, and another group was parked near the upside-down hangy thing, so I still couldn’t see how it was being used. Perhaps it was best not to know. A moment later an extremely sexy man wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of red underwear approached me. He set down his role-playing toys – a gaudy looking crown and sceptre – on the bar.

“How ya doing?” the Regal Romeo asked.

He was so handsome and cocky standing there in his undies without even a hint of self-consciousness. It unnerved me and I got all tongue-tied.

“Great! The fun sure seems party…I mean, it seems like everyone’s having a good time.”

He winked at me and said, “How about a Bombay martini? Shaken. Really dry, with a twist. By the way, everyone around here calls me King Arthur.”

“Good to meet you. I’m Sasha.” I tried to look cool, holding the martini shaker in one hand, and shaking it in rhythm with the music. This guy’s smile was electric, and he radiated sex appeal. Why do guys like him instantly make me feel self-conscious? I tried to think of Derek, but His Royal Hotness in front of me was just too yummy to ignore. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with looking. I sucked in my tummy and tried to look cool. The charade came to an abrupt halt as my hand slipped, and the lid from the martini shaker flew off, splashing icy gin all over the front of my top.

“Guess I’m the top contender in the wet T-shirt contest.” I discovered the hard way that my clingy little white T-shirt is fairly transparent when it’s wet. Oh dear.

I measured out another couple of ounces of gin and started again. “Interesting crowd. I guess you know most of the people here,” I asked, holding the shaker a little more tightly this time.

“I’ve talked to most of them online, but this is only my third or fourth party with this group. I go to whichever parties I can. It’s a great community. Everyone’s completely at ease.”

I tried not to stare, but his undies left nothing to the imagination. Some lucky woman was in for a treat later tonight.

“Oh. That’s interesting. I never really thought of it as a community,” I said, effortlessly demonstrating my stellar conversation skills.

“Yeah, Ian hosts this group –”

“They’re called Bound for Glory, right?” It was a safe bet that the fetish group hadn’t named themselves after a Woody Guthrie song about a train. Was that a Woody song?

“Yeah. And there’re lots of other groups and chat rooms too, you know, like Second Life, FetLife, sites like that. I belong to those as well, but I prefer this group because all their events are downtown.”

“How convenient.”

I passed the cocktail to King Schlong and was instantly repulsed. He reached into the front of his undies and whipped out a gold Amex to pay. Eeeeeewwww! The credit card was warm.

“It’s on the house, handsome,” I forced a smile and nudged his card back to him. I washed my hands again, this time with scalding water.


Around 1:30, the party started winding down. Some people paired off with others to go to hotel rooms, and a few partiers invited their sex slaves home for a night of obedient lovemaking. Only three or four people left alone, including the Golden Shower Guy and King Arthur of the Red Undies. Other than them, the fetish crowd seemed to be batting just under a thousand. Ian was practically chained to Minerva, a raven-haired barracuda with never-ending cleavage who had shown up around eleven o’clock. Minerva looked like she had a long list of commands in store for Ian later tonight.


“I’ve packed up everything I can for now,” Ian said. “I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon for the rest of the gear.”

“That’s cool,” Jessica said. “Everything will be locked up when we leave, but I won’t be here tomorrow. I’m starting my vacation in about half an hour, as soon as this shift ends.”

“Well then, bon voyage. Is there someone else I should speak to tomorrow?”

“Just ask whoever’s on duty downstairs to open up the second floor for you.”

“Thanks. Can you pass me my jacket and my bag, please?”

I handed Ian his things from behind the bar and bid him adieu.

By 2:30, thanks to some help from Moose, we had cleaned up, cashed out, and were ready to go home.

“Just let me set the alarm, then we’re outta here,” Jessica said.

“Do either of you want a ride home?” offered Moose.

“Absolutely,” we both answered.

“I’ll get the lights,” I said.

“Here, Sasha, don’t forget your phone.”

“Duh.” I stuck it in my purse as Jess locked the door behind us.

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