by K NILSSON
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you. It suits me,” he responded.
He was mostly right. But you can’t escape adopting a mannerism or two of a colleague’s after working with them for several years. I was eager to wash my hands of this discussion.
“There’s a place I know...” Saint went on. “Private, members only...” That piqued my interest. “Good girls gone bad.”
My interest plummeted. “Public orgies?”
“No public orgies, just private rooms with two-way mirrors, and locks on the doors.”
“No shit?”
“Nope,” he said assuring me.
“What’s so special about this place other than the private rooms with locks on the doors? I can get those two things at a bus stop.” I said.
He laughed long and hard. “You’re killing me Max. Members only is a euphemism for private invitation only. All the members are vetted. The premise for the club was that a tight network exists for like-minded people.”
That sounded a lot like member rules for a private dungeon.
“Is this place a dungeon or a kinky community?” I asked.
“I didn’t know you bent that way, Max.”
“I’m just open-minded. You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, the club is not a kink club, but some members are part of the kink community. If you are into that, let me know,” he offered.
“I know enough.”
Saint never ceased to amaze me. I asked him how arranging a guest pass for me wouldn't be risky. I haven’t been vetted.
“But I’ve been vetted, Max. If I vouch for you and something happens, it’s on me.”
“Noted. Thanks.”
“I’ll send you the details in an email shortly,” Saint promised.
"Friendly ribbing aside, I worry about your celibacy, Max," Saint teased.
“Sure. Don’t lose any sleep over it,” I said.
Click.
True to his word, his email was in my mailbox after we ended our conversation. Saint arranged for me to have a temporary membership at this private club and included the address along with information on the private rooms.
Though I was moved by his concern for me suffering from limp-dick, I laughed the rest of the night, then even harder after I took care of business in the shower.
“Erectile dysfunction, my ass.”
Chapter Five
Devyn
May 13, 2017
Los Angeles
I haven't been out with my best friend, Candace, in over a year. By out, I mean a girl's night out, complete with war paint and sexy clothes. She lives in Silver Lake—too far to meet for coffee. In Los Angeles, distance is not the determining factor in drive time. It's traffic. It could take thirty minutes to meet for coffee at a location halfway between our homes.
I’d led a monk-like existence, controlled by routine and stubbornness. Predictability makes sense. The only way I could function was to work, sleep, exercise, and repeat. Nothing about tonight was a routine. Not only was it a departure from the norm, but a leap.
Candace had texted me for days for us to go out and wasn't taking 'no' for an answer. It was my twenty-sixth birthday. Finally, I answered her phone call.
“Hi, girlfriend.” I sounded as sweet as sugar.
"I don’t feel like your BFF," said Candace. "I know when you're ducking my calls."
"Sorry, I didn't realize..." I stuttered.
Without missing a beat, she talked over me, reciting the grand plan she’d put into motion for my birthday.
“See you at six.”
Candace arranged a night of dancing at trendy places and, given the chance, mingling with the glitterati.
“Isn’t a celebrity a better choice for a one-night stand?” she asked.
“Celebrities??? Pffft!” I scoffed.
Little did Candace know that my last encounter with a celebrity didn’t go down too well, and the one-night stand would have been anything but consensual from my end.
The celebrity?
Brad Trent.
He was the son of a well-known Hollywood producer, and he had a similar aspiration to his father but on a crude pornographic level.
I discovered this after meeting him at university. He was in the same class, working toward the same degree. Why? It wasn’t so much a career move as it was for rounding up unsuspecting victims to star in his next few blockbusters involving roofies and every guy on the football team.
Full of flattery and kindness, it was the last thing you’d expect from him. He hid his perverted side so well, I’d almost fallen for his con if it weren’t for Ben. He had saved me from what could have been several hours of memory loss and an appearance in 11 Shades of a Football Team that would have ended up on X-rated sites like Brad’s other productions. Ben had him arrested and expelled from campus for rape.
So, I made a mental note to avoid any people with a celebrity status.
At six o'clock, Candace announced her presence with a kick to the front door. Her arms were laden with a makeover bag, wine, and a bag of snacks. Relieving her load, I set them down on the coffee table.
"Happy birthday, beautiful!" she squealed, hugging me long and hard.
Her voice brought me back to the matter at hand, the subject of transportation to and from the nightclubs. I agreed that neither one of us should drive. Even at night, the short ten-mile drive from Santa Monica to West LA could take as long as forty-five minutes. There was a lot of catching up we could do with that time, so Candace hired a driver.
"If I go out with you tonight will you stop nagging me about it?" I grumbled. "I don't need a one-night stand."
She clucked her tongue in disapproval.
"I’ve read that if you don’t have regular, penetrative sex, a hymen can grow back."
I smirked, noting my deep appreciation of her humor.
Candace was my childhood friend, and we'd stayed friends all the way through college. She was like a sister and my rock when my mother died. So, it was hard to say no to her when all she did was help me. She vowed tonight, I'd put my best foot forward. All my resentment fell by the wayside.
"Devyn, you shouldn't even leave the house without lipstick. It's an unwritten rule. I can't allow that. By the time I'm finished, you'll have your choice of one-night stands for a month."
"Candy... " I whined.
She fell silent, hating that nickname, just like I didn’t like being called Devvie. We both have an aversion to diminutive names, they convey smallness as if we were children again. That's fine with me because I hated being bullied into dressing up and wearing war paint to get laid. I was humoring Candace, wasn't I?
Candace was a testament to the anomaly that some people don't get jobs in their field of study, instead, followed a different career path. She was a pre-law student and had the courage to tell her parents she didn’t have the desire to become an attorney.
"I will not live out my father's dream of having a lawyer in the family. God gave me a special talent, and I can't disrespect that."
Candace was a professional stylist and dressed like one. Her clothing, an advertisement for her skills. Dressing people was her passion, but she turned it into a successful career. Her advice turned the average person into a stylish one and changed their lives.
Frowning as she inspected my hair and lack of makeup, Candace was my opposite. Her heart-shaped face had apple cheeks, green eyes, and thick, coppery-red hair. Contrasted against my oval face, high cheekbones, and blue eyes, we were on the opposite side of the Irish spectrum.
She wore her hair short and tousled to one side. I kept mine straight and wore it long. Candace had an hourglass figure. My shoulders were broader than my hips, and my arms and calves, muscular, taking after my mother.
"Candace, if I was desperate to have anonymous sex, I’d hire someone from an escort agency. That way, I'd know what I'm getting."
"Devyn, you're avoiding opportunities to meet men," she argued.
"I'm not looking! Men a
re too much trouble. I like being independent, free to do my thing, like staying in my PJs all day, call out for Chinese food delivery, come and go as I please with no one to answer to."
"You haven't met the right guy yet. The right guy is everything."
“There isn't a right guy for me,” I lamented stubbornly, thinking about the fiasco with Justin.
“Oh Devyn, Justin doesn’t count. He was a mistake, a bad romance.” She slashed the air with her hand. Only Candace could finish my sentences for me and be 90% correct.
“Justin made me want to hand in my woman card. I didn’t get him out on my own,” I confessed.
Justin was a guy I met at a coffee shop I stopped by on my daily jog to the pier. Coffee gave me the energy to sprint faster and run further We struck up a friend-with-benefits thing after eye-fucking each other. It became a regular thing. The next thing I knew he’d asked to stay overnight complaining his roommate brought home strays... and I let him stay for one night.
"Just one night," I said.
"I promise."
Little by little, bag by bag, before I knew it, he had moved in. Sure, I was lonely, and the sex was fantastic. I was dick-whipped. But just as he moved in, I wanted him gone. He didn’t have a job, ate my food, used up my laundry detergent, and expected me to wait on him. The first time I asked him to leave, he ignored me. The second time, and every time after that, he gave me a sob story and distracted me with sex. I felt guilty for even thinking about moving him out.
Thank God for Candace.
"Sometimes you have to ask for help. If I hadn’t come over to check up on you, he would still be there,” she reminded me.
"He had a fit when he saw his things in the parking spot he used for his car. I had the locks re-keyed," I laughed.
I was at work when my neighbor Julia, an eighty-year-old busybody, called me. I gave her my phone number a while back, in case she had an emergency.
Thank God for her too.
"Devyn? This is Julia. I thought you’d like to know...your boyfriend, the one you threw out, called a locksmith. I had the window open and couldn't help overhearing."
Justin told the locksmith he lost his key and to come unlock the door with his special tools. Once he arrived at the apartment, the locksmith refused. Ben heard my end of the discussion with Julia and followed me home. Justin was waiting by the door. He glowered at Ben.
Ben crooked his finger and said, "Justin, a quiet word?"
He left with Ben in a huff, throwing me a threat over his shoulder, "you'll be sorry Dev."
I felt so stupid having Ben see me in that situation. He didn’t shame me for tolerating the bullying. I was too proud to ask anyone for help.
"You can’t let the Justin nightmare block you from future experiences. There was Henry," she said.
"He was a nice guy, brought me flowers, cooked for me, we went to the movies."
“What happened there?” she asked.
“There wasn’t that spark the romance writers describe, you know what I mean? My stomach didn't flip or clutch at the thought of seeing him. I didn't even want to go all the way, just second base. I should have felt... something more. I couldn’t lead him on.”
“Like I said...” continued Candace.
Candace was one of those women who believed in the fairy tale, a romantic courtship, and a happy-ever-after. I didn't see myself ever having a happy-ever-after. Not wanting to throw ice water on her fantasy, I didn't say a word.
Candace set up her makeover kit creating a staging area in my bedroom. Rummaging through my closet, she had a pile of clothes on the bed, the discards on the floor. I'd have a mess to deal with tomorrow.
I'd washed and conditioned my hair and already showered and shaved my legs. She’d queued up her playlist and took me into her world. From Lana Del Rey to the Backstreet Boys and everything in between, it was karaoke foreplay.
She treated my face to a mask she made from cucumbers and honey, which I think she should trademark as soon as yesterday. Then she waxed my brows. I go to a Brazilian Wax Salon for my privates.
She applied a moisturizer to my face that smelled like Grandma’s face powder, scented with a hint of violets. I loved it. After applying the makeup with a light hand, she patted a paler color on the dark areas under my eyes. Candace smoked out my eyes with dark brown shadow.
"Devyn, these browns are perfect. The contrast makes your eyes look denim blue."
She was right. Even I couldn’t look away. She brushed on a rose blush and gave me a neutral-colored lipstick. The makeup highlighted my features and celebrated the “good girl gone bad” look. What are best friends for if not helping you bring out your best game?
Candace pointed to the clothes she laid out on the bed.
“Put on that lingerie.”
“So sexy!” I squealed.
As soon as I put it on, I preened in front of the mirror.
She beamed with satisfaction.
"That outfit is a dick meter."
I looked at her, bewildered at the expression.
“What’s a dick meter?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “He should feel aroused, his tool should stand tall, be rock hard, and straining to get action. If it shows none of those signs, he’s either dead or gay and I'd walk away.”
I laughed so hard that she had to fix my eye makeup.
"Let me loose on that gorgeous mane."
She took control of my dark brown hair, trimmed the ends, back-combed the top and sides, and made it bigger.
"The higher the hair, the closer to God," she said with an affected drawl.
Ever practical, Candace said, “Let’s have something to eat now so we won’t get any food on our clothes.”
I had a robe over the lingerie. She wore a black bowling shirt over her clothes.
“Sure. Shall I call for pizza?” I asked.
“No. I brought cheese, fruit, and a nice Pinot Grigio.” She jerked her chin toward the kitchen.
What a way to start the evening.
“That’s my girl,” I said.
We finished the bottle when Candace threw me a cocktail dress I’d picked up at a thrift store years ago. It was an off-the-shoulder number with a gathered skirt. I loved it because it gave off an Audrey Hepburn vibe.
Candace hemmed and hawed over my meager shoe collection. I picked up a pair of black flats.
"No. They won’t work with this look. I found these in the back of your closet." She pointed to a pair of stilettos in the corner. They belonged to mom. My eyes misted.
“I brought a clutch bag that will work with the heels.”
"Your closet is a disaster," she proclaimed. Clothing I hadn’t worn in a long time shoved into a duffel bag, the shoe boxes of memories—photos, my diary, and trinkets from my dad—and a few handbags hid in an empty suitcase. She turned me around to face the mirror.
"Christ, Candace!" The transformation amazed me. I was all hair, eyes, and legs. The times I spent in the sun gave my pale skin a golden glow. A veil of freckles lay across the bridge of my nose. The voluminous hair almost overtook my personality, so I pulled a section over to one side and put it behind one ear, uncovering cheekbones and earrings. What she did with my eyes was amazing. My friend turned me into a dark princess.
She handed me a small box.
"Oh no, you didn't," I said.
"You say it every year, but you know I will always give you something on your birthday. Now open it," said Ms. Bossy pants.
I slid the pink silk ribbon off it. Inside was a small vial of my favorite perfume, Gold, a soft vanilla scent, and condom packets. I raised my eyebrows.
"I love the perfume."
"What about the condoms?" she asked.
“Thanks for looking out for me,” I grinned.
Chapter Six
Devyn
Los Angeles
The air was dry, and the 70F weather was temperate. The dark sky was lit with millions of sparkling stars. The full moon looked unusually large,
and I half expected sheep to jump over it. I haven’t had carefree fun in ages and was a free spirit for the evening. We bounced from club to club not thinking twice about the outrageous cover charges.
My feet hurt, and I contemplated taking off my heels. I was ready to call it a night when Candace dragged me into another bar.
"It's the last one," she promised.
My friend knew me well enough to know I’d take a cab home. I was done with the shoes and I’d been complaining for the last thirty minutes.
"Stand over there, birthday girl," she commanded, pointing to a spot away from the line of people waiting to gain entrance.
Candace approached the crowd controller who checked his list and let us in. The people in line grumbled. Once inside, we went straight to the bar to order drinks.
The bar itself was huge, taking up most of the room. A glass staircase in the center of it was the showpiece. Each riser lit with aqua-colored neon light. Guardrails of tempered glass secured each landing. The overall effect was that the dancers floated. A catwalk bordered by glass rails gave onlookers an unfettered view of the action. From my perspective, the club was a voyeur's paradise. Someone with eclectic tastes staged the club. Each table around the perimeter of the dance floor had a pineapple drop light that glowed a soft white. Glittery disco balls dotted the ceiling.
All the trouble I endured having Candace dress me up and drag me from place to place was worth it. The outing lifted my mood. I stood tall with my shoulders back, neck slightly extended, and smiled. However, the evening would disappoint as far as meeting someone. So far, more women than men packed the clubs. I always saw the glass half empty, instead of half full. Tonight would be no different, but I knew how to deal with my self-fulfilling prophecies.
"Keep your eyes open for celebs. This place is a favorite stomping ground. Did you see the paparazzi standing by the curb?" Candace asked.
I hadn’t noticed them. "No," I replied, but she wasn't listening.
She squinted her eyes as she looked around, scanning the room like a hawk looking for prey.
