For the first few days, she thought he might come back. She took a little longer to get ready for work every day, putting on a little extra makeup and wearing sexier clothes. After several days of not seeing him again, she started to wonder if he was coming. After a week, she was convinced of it.
The she got scared. She realized she had been intimate with a complete stranger, and she hadn't used birth control. She went to see her gynecologist, and after a full examination was relieved to find that she was both disease and child free.
She lingered for a few days being deeply hurt. Why hadn't he come back? She thought she he had seen something special in her, but not she was beginning to think that he saw her as just an easy piece of ass. Yet another man had waltzed through her life, given her a whiff of something better, and then drifted off before bringing it to fruition.
Finally, she got angry. Angry at him for thinking he had the right to treat her this way. Angry at herself for caring. Angry most of all for wanting more. For not being able to keep him out of her mind. For not being able to get to sleep at night until she brought herself to orgasm remembering how he felt inside of her, or imagining how much more it could have been. She didn't want to wonder what it felt like to have his tongue between her legs. She didn't want to wonder what his cock tasted like, or what kind of noises he would make as he came in her mouth. She didn't want to wonder these things but she did, and she hated herself for it.
So she decided that she was going to do something about it.
She began to try and piece together what she knew about him. He was, of course, a reader. "The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty," regardless of why he was reading, was certainly not common literary fare or something we would have been assigned to read in a class. She guessed that he was probably a student, because of the backpack that he carried. It had looked heavy, as if full of texts. She didn't figure him for a biker, though. He was probably more likely to be a Generation X holdover. A thirty-something refusing to let go of his "wild youth."
She decided to begin her search in the local clubs. Tampa wasn't a small town by any means, but the underground scene really wasn't all that expansive, and she figured if he was a club hopper he might be able to find him in that manner.
She tried to look up the band that had been on the T-Shirt he was wearing. Jello Biafra. At first she thought she was barking up the wrong tree, because all she was finding was links to a political activist and "spoken word" artist. That would make things more difficult. There were lots of bookstores and coffee shops in the area that had spoken word engagements. After digging a little farther, she discovered that Jello Biafra was the former lead singer for a band called the Dead Kennedys, an old punk rock band from the early eighties. There weren't that many clubs that played that kind of music in Tampa, so she knew she was getting closer. A few more searches later, she decided that the best place to start would be a "gothic" club called The Castle in Ybor City.
Saturday nights were crowded in Ybor. It had been a long time since she had been down here, and it seemed like so much had changed over the years. It didn't feel dangerous, or edgy anymore. It felt touristy, and crowded. 7th Avenue was packed with drunken partygoers, most of them clean cut and young. They looked like they had money. The last time she came here, it was different. It felt special, not commercial. Back then she would have felt comfortable in her jeans and t-shirt, but in the Ybor city of today she felt out of place. Underdressed.
That feeling didn't change as she approached The Castle. The world suddenly changed from a streamlined, shiny money machine to a dark and gritty gothic-punk reality. She felt out of place again, but now she felt too normal. The people here were all wearing some form of black clothing. Leather jackets, trench coats, black t-shirts from bands like Marilyn Manson and Stabbing Westward. Many of them wore white make up, trying to make their pale and clammy skin even more unnatural. It seemed as though all of them had some kind of body piercing. Eyebrows, earlobes, noses, tongues - nothing was sacred. She could only imagine what else was penetrated. She thought about turning back, but then her anger welled up inside of her again, and she set her jaw and walked up to the entrance.
The doorman, a gaunt lanky man with long black hair and hawkish features, looked over her incredulously as she handed him her ID and $5 cover charge. She stared back at him, silently waiting for entry to the club. He shrugged, handed her card back to her, and stamped her hand. She walked past him and through the black doors that throbbed with the bass from inside.
The music assaulted her senses as she broke the threshold. Loud, pulsing and slow rhythm coursing through her body, so loud she could hardly think. A dark voice, chanting over and over again "I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead" while a sea of ashen hedonists gyrated on the dance floor. Everywhere she looked, she thought she felt eyes on her. Amused. Curious. She stood out like a sore thumb, and she hated it. She got a drink from the bar, and found an empty booth in a dark corner. It had a good view of the dance floor, so she figured that if he showed up she could see him from there.
She sat there for what seemed like hours, drinking the whole time, waiting for him. Her head was swimming, the music so loud and constant that it seemed like it was coming from within her. That even if she covered her ears it would be just as loud, just as invasive. This was hopeless. This was inane. Why had she even bothered? She was just about to get up and go when a woman slid into the booth next to her.
