With or Without You (10 page)

On this night in Paris, she pulled out all the tricks, including stuffing a rolled pair of nylons down the front of her slacks.

Was it wrong for me to think she was handsome? Was it wrong for me to want to fuck her?

I kept those feelings to myself, staying silent as she dressed me to look like her ultimate dream date, creating more cleavage than I actually own with the assistance of an under wire demi-cup, pulling a frilly red dress over my head – also purchased at the fabulous flea market that had taken an hour-long metro ride to get to – making me wear heels that I’d never have chosen on my own. One needs sensible shoes to log as many hours as I do walking through museums. Sensible isn’t a word that Nora puts much faith in.

‘I don’t know,’ I told her, staring at my reflection as if seeing myself for the first time. I couldn’t believe how sexy I looked. How did she do it? I wondered silently. How did she make me look so pretty? When I am left to my own skills, I definitely know how to use a mascara wand. But I am never able to win the same results that Nora achieves. She’s a magician with make-up. On this night, she outlined my eyes using a silvery pencil and suddenly they seemed as large and bright as her own.
She used a rose hue on my cheeks and coloured in my lips with a dark merlot.

‘You look amazing,’ she insisted, standing behind me, adjusting her package with the attitude of a pro. Immediately, she had adopted the swagger of a man. As one who studies people with the relentless scrutiny that Nora possesses, she didn’t find it at all difficult to stand the way a guy would. To move like a man. To put an arm around my waist, the way a man would, holding me casually, but close.

‘But will they buy it?’ I asked, still unsure. I could see the maleness to her, but I could see her feminine side as well. Was it only because I knew there was a girl underneath those clothes that made me worry? Or would others stop for a second look when she passed by, wondering whether my date was a he or a she?

‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘No one will have any clue.’

As usual, she was right. We got into the club without a problem, the hostess in her tiny racer-back black dress checking us off the reservation list without even a mild register of disbelief. Either we really looked like an honest-to-goodness hetero couple, or the woman didn’t actually care. I felt my nerves start to build as we walked inside. To my great relief, Nora stayed by my side.

The club was located in a quiet out-of-the-way neighbourhood. If Nora hadn’t known of its exact location, we never would have found the spot. Nora has used that information for her own clubs. You’ll never find her setting up in storefronts out on Hollywood Boulevard or bellying up to Rodeo Drive. You have to know where Nora’s clubs are located in order to gain entrance. Average Joes simply can’t stumble into her heavenly headquarters.

The Two Muses was created with the same philosophy. Only those in the know were granted access – but once inside, all doors were open. The club featured three floors of frivolity. The ground floor was devoted to dining and dancing – no live band, DJ only, American music the
darling of the hour. As we sipped our drinks and watched attractive couples grooving on the dance floor, we heard Aerosmith and Madonna, Prince and Bon Jovi. Couples were dressed quite like Nora and myself. That must have been why the hostesses hadn’t spared us even a look of interest. Men were in black suits and white shirts, while women were clad in more colourful frocks. I’d always thought of nightclubs as places filled with leather. But heavy fabrics don’t lend themselves to dancing. As the club became crowded, the room grew hotter. People peeled off any extraneous layers, revealing ever more skin as the evening passed.

‘Dance?’ Nora asked after we’d killed several cocktails.

‘With you?’

She nodded as if that went without saying. Who else would I dance with? I eyed the couples around me. One of the perks of this club was the fact that it was couples only – no worries about lecherous lone-wolf males hoping to prey on the ladies – yet couples could easily divide and mix with one another, morphing into brand-new couples. In spite of my reservations, I was pleased that Nora wanted to dance with me, and I watched as she stood and helped me to my feet. I had a difficult time simply staying upright in the shoes, but with Nora’s help, I found my balance. Since our very first conversation at school, she’d made it something of a challenge to get me comfortable on a dance floor. I’d never become the type to go up on stage. Not like my fearless friend. But I did have a better ability to hear a beat.

Under a glittering silver disco ball, Nora and I danced. I stared at her, focusing on the way she moved. She was dancing differently this night. She was actually dancing the way a man would. I couldn’t believe how well she blended, able to pull off this charade as if she were a classically trained actor.

But suddenly I felt that other people were watching us, too.

‘Do they know?’ I asked, when she pulled me in tight for a slow dance.

‘No, they just like us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is a couples’ only club for a reason,’ Nora explained, her lips pressed against my ear so that I could make out her words over the beat of the music. Yet even though I heard what she was saying, I still didn’t get it, didn’t understand at all what she was talking about. ‘Couples come here to play.’

‘Play?’ I echoed.

‘You know,’ she murmured, her breath tickling my neck, ‘
play.
’

At her words, I looked around the room, and now I saw that in some of the darker corners, people were making out. But they were doing more than kissing. One couple was necking passionately while another couple stroked them, fingers running all over their bodies. The foursome seemed not to notice that others were watching, yet I could tell from the way that they moved that they relished the thought of an audience. One of the women – the one kissing her partner – had her eyes shut. I watched her shift her hips, then spread her thighs wider apart, so that I could see the sliver of her pale pink panties beneath her short dark skirt. The sight made me grip onto Nora more tightly. I did not want her to leave my side.

Finally, Nora decided she wanted to explore the lower level. ‘If my information is correct,’ she said, ‘the next floor down is for fucking.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me,’ she said as she took my hand in hers.

She was right, I had. I only didn’t quite believe what she’d said. ‘What do you mean, though?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean “for fucking”?’

She couldn’t be totally serious, could she? We’d been to several risqué clubs during our travels, but most simply encouraged naked dancing. Or featured pretty
girls in cages suspended over the dance floor. Every once in awhile, we’d caught sight of a sexual encounter, often in the hallways near the restrooms, but there hadn’t been an actual location where people were encouraged to get together.

Nora didn’t respond to my query. She didn’t need to. All became clear as we made our way down the stairs, coming to land in a world of beds. Beds made up in velvet and satin. Round beds. Low beds. Beds halfway hidden by long heavy curtains. The walls all around us were lit with sconces. Purple and gold draperies hung along the walls, shielding the lovers from the chill of being thrust below street level. This underground level echoed the same coldness in the air as the catacombs had, which we’d visited the day before at Nora’s insistence. But with the glow of the lamps and the heat from some unseen source, the floor was welcoming.

I must not have been the only one to think so. There were scores of people using the provided beds. Women and men dancing to a different beat. Those who wanted to watch, rather than join, leaned against the walls or perched on the edges of the mattresses for a closer view.

So Nora’s information had been true. The lowerground floor of the Two Muses
was
for fucking. And the basement was …

‘A dungeon,’ she said in her matter-of-fact style.

‘A what?’ Once again, I’d heard her, but I didn’t like the sound of the word. Did she mean a
dungeon
-dungeon? Could she possibly? Besides, even though she’d scared me with the new concept, my mind was still on the second floor.

‘That’s why we’re really here, Eli. It’s a dungeon, a stone room down below. That’s what it’s called anyway.’

Instantly, I envisioned chains and whips, men in leather masks,
The Story of O
come to life. Yes, I knew all about O. I’d read the story at Nora’s recommendation. She’s always had the desire to broaden my sense of the world. Now, Nora did little to shake my image.

‘You have to walk down the winding staircase that takes you below sea level. The lady at the top gives you a flashlight to help guide your way, but on the lowest level there are no lights allowed at all.’

I was shocked by the thought. Truthfully, I’d already been shocked by the sight of lovers entwined on the lower-ground level. Here, couples were willingly exposing themselves to others, stripping off any false pretences as well as their clothing.

Yes, most of the clubs we’d visited so far had been slightly more adventurous than I’d expected. You might catch a girl taking her top off, or win a glimpse of naked flesh when someone spun quickly in a dress, revealing a decadent lack of underclothing. But the concept of strangers fucking in total darkness floored me.

Nora, of course, took the whole notion in stride. She might not have been planning on offering a similar arena back at home, but she still wanted to see how it was all done. Even when we were this young, she hoped one day to have clubs of this sort in LA. The trip was research to her. It speaks of my endless trust for her that I headed down those steps to the basement level. Nora promised me nothing untowards would happen to me. I took her at her word.

In the darkness, I saw nothing, as might have been expected. My eyes wouldn’t focus. This wasn’t like being out at night, where stars or streetlights would offer some safe glow. This was total blackness, reminding me of
Murmurous Moto, Maestro
, by John Chamberlain, the painted and chromium-plated steel sculpture that’s blacker than anything I can imagine.

When my hand left the railing and met the flesh of a stranger’s back, I immediately recoiled and turned to head back up the stairs.

‘Wait,’ Nora whispered, her hand on my wrist, holding me steady.

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Just a second,’ she murmured. She was enthralled. I
could tell. I’d heard that tone of voice before. But I wouldn’t stay. This was too much to ask of me.

Nora flicked the flashlight on and off quickly, strobing the room so that she could see the activities in the darkness. My eyes took in images – flash! – a woman between two men. Flash! Three women together in a row, licking and kissing one another. Flash! A man pressing a woman up against the grey stone wall. All of these interactions were taking place without the aid of light. I saw that the floor was carpeted in a silky-looking rug. Thin pillows were scattered about, but no beds, nothing hazardous for people to trip over. At the flickering light, the lovers all looked our way.

But was lovers the right word? These were strangers, coming together in the darkness. Strangers, giving one another exactly what they desired.

Nora clicked off the flashlight and pushed me back up the stairs. She’d seen what she wanted. She’d made her own decisions. Now, she was ready to go home. I’d seen more than I’d bargained for. Images like artwork remained emblazoned in my mind. While Nora lost herself in mental plans of her future clubs, I walked back down those cold stone steps, over and over again, poised on the brink of action before turning back each and every time.

ThePinkFedora.blogspot.com

Don’t worry, chicklets. You didn’t miss anything.

You missed everything.

While you were sleeping, the Cinéma Vérité room got one hell of a full-body workout. This was late Thursday night, with two stellar runway models. (You’re thinking women, aren’t you, you sexist piglets? These were
male
models!) The two lovelies created a pussycat sandwich around my favourite new female bartender. The show was taped. View playbacks this Sunday and Thursday evening. Or create your own movie fresh.

Now, remember we’re starting the countdown now to my new reality show. Keep coming back for the latest posts. We’ll be putting some headshots up on our site to let you vote for your favourite contestants. And we’ll be listing the drinks that they mix so that you really can ‘try this at home’.

But don’t stay home. Come join us at the Pink Fedora!

And don’t forget to wear your hats. Anyone in a fedora gets in free.

A pink fedora wins a dance with me.

Kisses
,

Nora Hammond

Quote for the Day:
As Billy Idol said, ‘Everybody got it wrong. I said I was into
porn
again, not born again.’

Nora drinks like a man. Like many men, really. A whole football team of men. She can pound shots without looking back, a talent which she considers part of her work ethic. Drinking is a skill she’s honed over the years, building up her ability like an athlete in training. I’ve never had the stamina she possesses, and I was rusty, anyway. Byron and I weren’t the club-going type of couple, even back at the very start of our relationship. We didn’t think we were too highbrow. We were just too boring.

After returning from the Pink Fedora, I lay on Nora’s sofa bed and gazed up at her ceiling. She has painted the walls of this room the perfect shade of red, what I’d call rose red and she’d call cocksucker red. But the ceiling is panelled in black and white tiles, like the floor of an old-fashioned kitchen. In the centre of the room hangs a chandelier – not your normal crystal, either. Nothing’s normal in Nora’s world. This chandelier is made from antique silver forks and spoons that dangle somewhat dangerously overhead.

I know that Nora designed the room herself, without the help of an interior decorator, and I wondered for the first time whether Nora was able to be so creative because she’s never had a long-term partner. If she’d been married, or at least dating steadily, would she have been as free to decorate as she saw fit? That led me to questions I wasn’t fully ready to answer: Had I become dull because I’d given over my life to Byron, or was I dull because I’d always been?