— I’m going out, I lie.
— Who with?
— That’s my business.
— Some fucking dyke, huh?
— Which part of “my business” don’t you get? Don’t call me again. I am so over mercy fucking, I tell him, and switch off the phone. That asshole is way beyond real.
I wasn’t intending to go out tonight, but I sure as shit am now. Besides, I got plenty to celebrate, thanks to that nosy Sorenson chick and her iPhone! I head into my walk-in closet and slip into a clingy, short, black denim skirt. Then I roll on some nylons and a purple-trimmed garter belt. A lacy black bra pushes my tits up into the world’s face, and I pull on a long-sleeved see-through gray silk blouse. A knee-high pair of leather boots with fierce silver buckles finishes the look. Not quite, as it’s all about accessorizing, and a silver heart necklace dangles above my cleavage to draw eyes there. A set of spiked silver bracelets gives the look an edge that nicely hints at S&M. A last-minute change of mind, and I decide to put on some simple black cotton panties. The sort that can easily be pushed aside for dick, dildo, fingers or tongue. Some mascara, lipstick the same purple as the garter, and a few strategic dabs of Givenchy, “very irresistible,” and I’m out the door and heading to the club on Washington.
From Lenox at 10th, it’s an easy walk in the warm, still night air. Then I’m honked at by two separate cars stuffed with grinning Latino pricks, spewing rounds of Spanish inanities over their loud music. That’s the worst thing about slutting up, this gauntlet of a six-block walk. I wish I could just fucking teleport into that club. I wonder how many more years I can carry this look off: thank fuck we age slower in Miami Beach than the rest of the world, or at least those of us who remember sunblock and don’t have to work outdoors do.
The liquid display on the clock behind the bar tells me it’s just a couple of minutes shy of midnight as I get into Club Uranus. On weeknights you’re usually assailed by bad commercial EDM, but there’s evidently a new DJ and I’m pleasantly surprised by frothy, bubbling Latin beats. Club Uranus has a cramped aisle with a bar and an inset DJ booth opposite, which makes it look like a five-buck-cover-charge dive, until you realize that beyond this it opens out onto a larger dance area, expanding onto a wrecked concrete yard. The club resembles a narrow-necked vase, and many people say they should refurbish, moving bar and booth to the sides of the dance floor, and ending the potentially hazardous bottleneck at the door. My friend Chef Dominic always rolls his eyes when I suggest this. “That’s the appeal of this place, sweetheart, fighting through that tight passage into some kinda heaven!”
As I weave through the chatting throng toward the bar there’s no sign of Dominic or any other faces, but two android carpet-munchers gape at me, quickly turning away as I meet their eyes. It’s soooo pathetic to see one chick trying to be butch and the other femme, but the bitches in fact looking indistinguishable. You can smell the U-Haul off them, but I guess we all got to start somewhere. Then I pass a shirt-sleeved, marvelously cut black guy, who mouths, — Hot.
I glance at myself in the mirrored pillar without breaking stride, and I know I’m the shit.
The back bar is lined with an assortment of tourists. Most look too sozzled and paunchy to cut it on the dance floor with the beautiful locals, so they amuse themselves by getting loudly drunk. Two heavy-eyed, swaying, German-sounding dudes ask what I want to drink, and I shake my head and wave to Gregory at the bar, who gives me a soda water. I seldom drink alcohol and I never touch drugs.
I take the water and press on. A stick-thin coffee-and-cigarettes slut, huge implants straining against her tank top, practically offers herself to me with a desperate smile. I blank the bitch instantly. Think again, ashtray breath! As if that isn’t bad enough, she has a total grenade in tow. The grenade has haunted, anorexic eyes but a still-beefy ass and short, stumpy thighs that refuse to retract in the face of her starvation diet.
So I turn and I’m face-to-face with this big, square-shouldered guy, and he grins broadly at me. I don’t want to go home with anybody though, so before either of us knows much about it, we’re across to the rear dance floor, then out the back, round through the yard and into the alley behind by the patio wall. It stinks of the garbage dumped here from other liaisons, and I can hear tin cans and plastic containers crushing under our feet. — Let’s fucking do it, I say, and the guy goes to speak but I shut him up with a kiss. I don’t want to hear a goddamn thing from his mouth, and I’m guiding him into a stance between the back wall of the club and a big tree, sort of wedging ourselves in between a space which I know, through previous experience, is perfect for fucking. The vibrations from the sound system drill through the wall, reverberating the bones in my back. The playboy’s pressing his hard meat against my thigh, saying shit in Spanish. I don’t need that cause I’m already Niagara Falls moist, and I reach down and rub at his crotch. — Gimme that shot of beef, I command in his ear, slut-demanding, and as he backs against the trunk of the tree, I enjoy the little glimmer of arousal (or maybe even fear) in his eye before he unzips. I’m wrapping my arms around his neck, crushing my thighs around his hips like a boa constrictor, levering him against the tree. He pulls my panties aside and I’m enclosing his hard prick. Then he gets some traction and he’s slamming into my cunt, practically knocking my breath out with every stroke. I’m bucking like a deranged goat, thrusting my ass up to take more of this motherfucker, pushing him back against the tree and he’s screwing me into that fucking wall, the 4x4 beat throbbing through in time with his strokes. — C’mon, bring it home, boy, I’m demanding, — I need more, bring it the fuck home!
Another flicker of distress in his eyes, but then he starts to go harder at it, pounding like that fucking bass line. Sometimes they just need a little encouragement. The red mists are coming down and I’m turning inside out in ecstasy in this shit-strewn alley. He’s spent, you can tell by those tombstone eyes and his shallowed breathing (it’s no mistake that it was a man who described the orgasm as a mini-death), but I’m bucking my way to paradise and he will hold the fucking line till I’m done. They can always give more than they think they’ve got. Fucking hammer me, you prick-wielding pussy, I won’t lie down to you, FUCK ME FUCK ME, I won’t lie down to you, FUCK YEAH FUCK YEEEAAAHHH. .
As he fades and slips out of me, I climb off him, lowering myself onto unsteady legs. In more than a hint of desperation he croaks that his name’s Enrique and he wants to buy me a drink. But the dude is just like a piece of gym equipment to me, and we’re now in postworkout scenario. I’ve had my dose of dick and his is already weeping like last night’s leftover quesadilla. So I smile and say, — Thanks, that’s very kind of you, but you know what? I gotta go. Maybe some other time, enjoying the sad tumble of his face and the sorrow in those brown eyes. No point at all in hanging around a joint like this once you got what you came for. I go back home and check my emails.