The Club

Before I even post this, so readers will be gentle and not jump on what I get wrong, I have never been to BDSM club/bar, or even to a munch. This is the first chapter to a story I have ideas to write a fair amount about.

Any feedback about what it might really be like, very much appreciated. It's something I would love to explore. My character in this story is just a bit more Irish then I am.

I like writing about fantasies.

This one I just really don't know much about, as a newbie. I don't even know what kind of BDSM "activity" Minnesota has. We're maybe not bible belt area, but definitely not...non Vanilla.

This is going to start slow, warning if Y/you want instant erotic. I need to put plot and character in place. And good thing I don't really worry about points, lol. Because this start up chapter is likely to bomb if Y/you don't have patience for plot.

I would really like any information that T/those that know more then i do, could email me, to help me make this story better.

I can't believe I am finally doing this.

For once the techno computer online search for things has done more then merely annoy me and send me whimpering to my techno friends to come fix what I did that I shouldn't have.

I'm going to a club tonight.

I found it with the help of my laptop. And it only took me three or four hours of dead ends, missteps, and the wide eyed confusion of wondering what the hell does THIS have to do with the subject I am searching for?

I found the place almost a month ago. It's just taken me a while to find the courage to actually go.

I hate going to bars, clubs alone. I don't really have much of a choice though. I am recently divorced-if coming up on a year, is still recent. I moved into a small, ten unit apartment last fall. The other tenants are nice people, but there really isn't anyone likely to become my new best friend. I seem to fall into a category all of my own. I'm either younger or older then everyone else. And single where they're married with children.

The first job I had after the divorce, I worked with a bunch of twenty something young men, and married people in their fifties. Really cool people, but no one I was going to ask to explore the night life with me.

Now I am working at an airport, with a bunch of twenty year old young women and the rare twenty something young male.. Another neat group, but yet again, not a good pool from which to find someone to do things with the rare free time I have.

I'm getting bored with just coming home after work every night and turning to my laptop. I am writing a lot. Which is good. There's every interest on earth to find sites to read about. And I have a pretty long contact list on both MSN and Yahoo. Weekdays I usually come home late enough and start work back up early again enough that going out just isn't a good idea. So I'm at least semi content to just curl up on my bed around my laptop and read, write, or chat.

But then the weekends come around.

I want to do things. I want to experience things.

I'm not some bright eyed little twenty year old anymore. But I'm damn straight still young enough that I don't want to just settle into a rocking chair...which I actually do have, sighs...and take up knitting.

I'm freed now, to explore the things that were always a part of me that I tucked away during all those Vanilla years. I'm free. And gods above and below, I want. And I need. I'm searching for something. And I'm sure as hell not going to find it rocking sedately and knitting a fucking scarf.

For once my stupid boss actually remembered that I told him during the interview for the job that I didn't want to work Fridays. At least, that I could NOT work those every other Fridays because twice a month my 3 boys come and stay with me. He has been showing a tendency to throw me on the Friday schedule here and there the weeks I don't have my kids if he has a time slot to fill. I don't really mind. It's not like I really have much of a life. Nothing stopping me from working those Fridays that he wants to schedule me. More hours, more money. He stays away from the Fridays that he knows my boys are coming. So I just don't bother rocking the boat.

So I found myself home, this Thursday night. I only worked until nine so I was walking into my apartment not much past ten pm. I knew I didn't have to go back to work until one pm Monday. And I kicked my shoes of, dropped my purse and keys...and just kind of stood there. All these hours ahead of you girl. Nothing you have to do. No one looking to you for anything. No real responsibilities or tasks expected of you other then doing that bit of dishes and a few loads of laundry.

What are you going to do?

I snarled back at that hateful little voice. Probably going to do what I always do. I'll sleep a lot, maybe drink a little. I'll work on my stupid, unimportant little marsh mellow fluff writing. I'll read and I'll chat with all the nice people that I will never, ever meet.

I'll have a nice, mellow, basically dull weekend.

And then I thought. I could go there. To that place. Not like anything exciting would happen. Not like A/any would notice me. But I could get out of the apartment. I could do something different. Listen to some music. Maybe get to dance. And I could watch from shyly lowered eyes people that actually lived in the world that I wanted to be a part of.

I really didn't think I would do it. But it made that night a little more exciting. I did some writing, I went to the room I like so much. I just had a nice night. Simple and basically unexciting. The way my life does seem to be lately.

I stayed up pretty late that night. Was almost three am before things got so quiet with everyone leaving to go to sleep that being there just got too dull. After I logged off from there I wrote for a few hours. Tucked myself into bed just before the sun could rise enough to make falling asleep difficult.

It was my free weekend, so I lowered the shades. I didn't need that extra fail safe of blitzing sun searing my eyelids at 9 or 10 am as a back up towards getting to work on time. So this one time, I just slept, and my normally poised on the faint edge of exhaustion body got sated...for sleep at least.

It was almost 3 pm before I woke up.

I wake up hard. Like this fierce tug that just bites vicious and jerks me into awareness.

I hate how I usually wake. It's never gentle. I wake up and I explode into motion, frantically grabbing for one of my two or three alarm clocks, positive all of them failed and if I am not yet screwed and fired late for work then I at least better be dressed and bolting for the front door within ten minutes. I wake up, I guess, in the fight or flight pattern. Give me a few decades, that tendency will probably kill me with a stroke or heart attack. As it is at least lately, I always wake up with time...maybe only twenty minutes towards hitting that front door, but nothing that puts my job at risk.

So I did what I usually do every morning. I threw myself out of the bed and dove for the clothes I wear to work. If I am not horribly late when I glimpse the clock scrabbling for my shoes...then cool. I'll check the time and take a shower.

I wonder, if anyone other then people retired, wake up gently?

I'd poured myself into my jeans...I've lost some weight...working a lot and just having no interest in eating is a great weight loss plan for the recently divorced , always just was at home, eating when bored segment of thrown away wives.

I need new clothes. Just never seem to find the time to shop.

And after the time I was dashing for a bus, one hand holding my purse while the other hand rattled through it looking for my bus card...and realized just in time to defend my modesty, that my jeans were actually sliding down over my hips and were going to be pooling at my ankles if I didn't react quickly. I had to dig through my boxes of stored clothes and find a few pairs of jeans I hadn't worn in years.

So there I was, hopping around desperately trying to get my damn shoe on and not fall over and add more bruises to skin that takes a mark if looked at unkindly, when I froze, mid hop.

"Shit! It's Friday. I'm not working today. Oh fuck me sideways!" I threw the shoe at the wall and collapsed in a lazily happy heap on my living room floor. I briefly considered if I wanted to just go back to sleep...once I fought my way out of my killer clutching jeans. But I was awake and feeling perky. I didn't go to bed until almost six. But I had slept until three pm,. I was awake, damn it!

"So what do I want to do?" I mused, still in my boneless, happily lazy heap.

Well the list of possibilities made me wince and realize I really don't have a life when I'm not working or having my boys for the weekend.

So, what was I going to do?

The idea of actually going to that place hit me.

Why not? I had most of a week's worth of tips stuffed in various jean pockets. More then enough to get me there and back, and cash left over for a little drinking.

So, why not?

Well, my mind instantly jumped me with a huge list of reasons for why not.

I hate going to places alone. But I don't know anyone well enough to ask. And the one or two that I could maybe at least try to interest in a social outing, I wouldn't exactly be able to ask to a BDSM club. I'm shy in real life. Not with people I know. Or in work situations. But walking into a bar on my own, knowing half the place is looking over at the new arrival, wondering what they are thinking, it's always a miracle to me when I make it to a seat without tripping over my own feet.

I'm not that way in my chat room. I'm the sub who can never get away with using "smiles innocent or demure" without half the room laughing at the idea of bouncy little, always in trouble katt, managing to be either demure or innocent.

So I sat there still in my lazy, boneless heap. Just not quiet so happy anymore.

I hate being shy. I hate all the opportunities I know I have missed over the years because my shyness was more powerful then my desire for something;: be it a person or an opportunity to do something, explore something. I hate it.

"Yeah, who am I kidding?" I mumbled sullenly, propping my elbows on my thighs, my chin braced on my clutched together hands. "You're a timid little coward. You're not gonna do anything but make up fantasies about it at night to get to sleep. Maybe write a story or two about what could happen...if you weren't such a chicken shit little shy dork."

I continued berating myself in that vein for a while. (Good thing I live alone. It was probably quite the sight. A long legged blonde with bed head wild waist length hair sitting curled on her living floor, swearing at herself at the top of her lungs and waving her hands about in self disgust.) When I accidentally smacked myself in the nose, the small shock of pain froze me for a second. Then I exploded into giggles, seeing how ridiculous I was being. I was really a little too old for such silly temper tantrums.

After the giggles died away though, and I started to think about things in a calmer mood, I suddenly got really, really mad at the limitations my shyness has put around me all my life.

I went Irish.

That was probably an even more amusing sight, with me dashing around the apartment gathering up clothes, once again swearing and snarling at top volume, jumping into the shower, still swearing away like a crazy person. At least the whole water in my open mouth and the dangers of drowning shut me up on the half witted babbling I was doing.

When I go Irish, I do things. Sometimes that's really not good things. Like losing my temper with an online Dom and throwing the phone at the wall. Or telling Him to fuck off-and then throwing the phone at the wall. Getting a lot better with that. I haven't had to buy a new phone in six months.

But sometimes going Irish is a good thing. When I get mad enough at the meek, timid, shy side of me that intends to just curl up and let yet another opportunity pass me by. My Irish side is my wildkatt side. She is, as an irate Dom once roared at me over the phone, a heathen hellion little brat bitch. And that isn't always bad. That side of me has given me strength time after time. She's probably even saved my life a time or two, when the whole curl up and be scared and timid would have seen me destroyed.

And triggering the Irish temper, always seems to spark the German stubborn to life. When those two get together, not much is going to be able to stop me from getting what I have set my mind on.

I may often be timid and unwilling to "rock the boat" but I'm not always that way. When it matters, that inner strength and fierce determination always seems to kick in and save me.

Going to this club wasn't a live or die thing, it was just something I really wanted to do. And my wild Irish blood said damn, girl, quit being such a lame ass and go have an adventure.

It's a little hard ignoring that Irish side when she wakes up roaring and ready to have at it!

So there I was, somewhere around seven pm, dressed in my favorite "little black dress" an ultra suede halter dress that wrapped about my neck, leaving my shoulders and half my back naked. The skirt came to about three inches above my knees, tight to my hips and thighs, slit high up one side to give some freedom of motion. The ability to walk at least!

My legs were bare. I hate things that bind or constrict my body, in matters of clothing at least. I have a tomboys athletic body, I can get away with going braless and I always do. I'll wear a cami to work, or anywhere that taut nipples obviously showing, aren't appropriate, but that's the closest I'll come to conceding to propriety, on that particular front at least.

I was wearing my one pair of sexy heels. Wasn't too sure how wise a choice that was. But my dress was not one that allowed for the wearing of flats. It needed at least the two inched heels I thought I could probably manage to walk in without killing myself. Or God forbid, worse yet, get my feet in tangle and cause me to do a swan dive belly flop onto some table.

"Oh good God!" I froze. "Why the hell did I just have to think that?" Because of course now I could picture it in living color. The drinks flying all around drenching the table's occupants. My body's weight flipping the table over and spilling me head over heels onto the floor ( I was wearing panties tonight for sure!) maybe clipping a chin or two in the process and knocking a Dom or Domme out cold.

I whimpered. "Oh gods above and below, get a grip girl. The worst you usually manage in heels is to trip and skid and slice up a knee and start bleeding all over the damn place." I winced. Oh yeah, that was yet another helpful thought. It was a really, really good thing that I rarely made enemies. I didn't need any. I was the most formidable foe anyone could have.

"No, I am not doing this to myself. I am bloody well going damn it. Even I can manage to walk in two inch heels, slowly, across a room to the closest available chair!"

I walked myself carefully back into the bathroom to finish putting on my make up.

I don't wear a lot of make up usually. Until I started working at the airport I basically never wore it. Thanks to genetics I have good skin. Foundation and powder always made me feel like I had a mask on. And who really bothers with blush, or eye shadow or lipstick when the odds are you won't even leave the house that day and the only ones who'll see you are your kids?

But now thousands of people see me every time I go to work. And I want to look a little more polished. So I've relearned how to put all that stuff on. It's actually kind of fun. Get all decked out, earrings and necklace and all. Polish on my nails. Green-gold eyes glowing under subtle shadow, lashes looking a mile long. The mouth that my pretty in pink with the trademark smirk smile picture always draws a comment about bright with lipstick.

It's nice. To look at that woman in the mirror and see almost no resemblance to the dowdy, much heavier house wife of barely a year before. I know I've changed for the better. I see it every time I have to show my ID to a clerk and they look from me, back to the license, three or four times, trying to assure themselves that the two women are indeed the same person. I have been asked with total disbelief more then a few times if that's really me on the ID. Luckily I have pretty unusual eyes.

So by around eight pm I was all ready to go. There wasn't anything left to do allow me to nervously keep fiddling. I was even wearing perfume.

I stood staring at myself in the mirror. Trying yet again to answer the question that I never can. Even though the few people I have innocently allowed to see me on that damn stupid web cam have assured me that I am. I know I'm not ugly or homely. I see thousands of people every day. I see those that honestly are a lot.

I think maybe, that I do appeal to people, purely on the physical level.

There's that blasted cop at the airport who takes a diabolical pleasure in flustering me.

He's added a new nickname to the usual honey, sweetheart, or darling that half the cops and pilots casually call me. Now I'm Rapunzel as well, since he's seen me heading for home with my hair released from the work required style and hanging almost to my waist.

And sometimes, during a lull, when I'm standing there just aimlessly staring out at the people passing by, I'll catch someone's eye, and they'll smile at me, and suddenly veer to come order a coffee.

It's a little hard to flirt with me though. I get shy. And I've had enough of long distance relationships. I want real world.

So I looked, then shrugged. What the hell, either or. This was probably as good as it got. However good that good actually was. Beats me. Always has. At least people don't take one look and run from me screaming.

I decided I better get out that door before my Irish chick decided it was too tiring to sustain my courage and wandered off to take a nap.

So I grabbed my leather duster, it came down to mid calf and hid the fact that I was wearing a killer sleek and sexy little slinky number. My neighborhood isn't exactly the hood, but neither would you find the Cleavers living here.

I took the bus to the club. I don't drive. I've never had anything beyond a learner's permit that expired half my lifetime ago. And I have a bus card. So I figured why take a cab both ways. I'd researched this whole thing really well. I had to walk maybe two blocks from where the bus let me off downtown, and it would still be light when it did.

I got off the bus and started walking towards the club.

I turned the corner and started up the street that the club was located on and froze-I was really doing that a lot today.

There was a line.

Obviously, this was not a place you just handed over a cover charge and walked into. They decided if they wanted to allow you entrance.

"Oh fuck me sideways." I whispered, continuing to walk, albeit now at a snail's pace, towards the end of that line.

"I can't do this." I whimpered softly. "I can't stand around feeling like a neon sign."

I was ready to turn and just run like hell, heels and all. It was early enough I could probably get a bus back safely home just on the other side of the street from where I'd left the bus to get here, within ten or twenty minutes. But then I noticed, the end of the line was two average looking, happily chatting mid twenty something young women. They didn't look scary. They weren't intimidating. I could probably even talk to them if they got the conversational ball rolling.

I took a deep, shaky breath. "Ok, girl. What are we going to do here? Turn tail and run? Or actually make an effort that counts? Stranger things have happened. You might make it in. It's only 8:30 or so, and that bus does run until midnight."