It's 2 a.m., and my driver pulls up to the curb. My assistant opens my door for me, and promptly follows behind me. My right boot makes a dense packing noise as it hits the pavement, while my fingers curl around the door frame. My chains jungles and my trench coat billows as the wind blows gently, causing my black hair to half way cover my face. There are hordes of people outside standing in front of an enormous warehouse which bares a gigantic neon title, "DV8." This is my club, my establishment, my Sodom and Gomorrah. The crowd parts and whisper to each other as I make my entry way. Two behemoth bouncers stand sentry adorned in black leather and spikes in front of a sign that says, "No Black, No Spikes, No Fetish, NO ENTRY!" The bouncers step aside and open the double doors for me.
The night comes to life with the pulsing beat of the live band whose name had filled the airwaves the prior week. The lights and the crowd move with the music like a dream within a dream. I move through the sea of people unable to maintain a low profile. The air is filled with the scent of cigarettes, liquor, leather, make-up, and sweat. The smell is intoxicating. I make my way past the main stage, the bass of the drums, and the bass guitar is throbbing through my body. I enter a door that says, "VIP ONLY." I climb a small black iron staircase to my private booth suspended above the dance floor allowing me to view the entire crowd through a large window.
The other walls are adorned with gothic weapons, jewelry, collars, leashes, and multitude of photographs of famous musicians, and other celebrities that have been to the club. Looking at myself in the mirror-finish of my English broadsword, I push a lock of my unruly ebony hair out of my face. In the cent of the room is the master chair, my throne if you will, with the Celtic knot work carved into the redwood frame encasing red velvet cushions. I take my seat and observe the mob below. The heartbeat of the stage cuts through the floor like a red hot knife through butter. I rest my head on my open fist with rings slightly pinching my cheek.
After watching the patrons dance for sometime, a soft know comes to one of my doors. "Enter," I say tapping my black fingernails on the armrest. A man wearing a black short sleeved Marilyn Manson t-shirt over long sleeved fishnets and long black pants approaches my chair from the left side. He hands m my usual drink, and says, "It's 3:00 Sir." I was already fully aware of what time it was. "Of course it is Christopher," I reply as I stand and advance to the window. My eyes scan the crowd, and then my eyes fall on her...
Her black and red hair in the front swoops down around her face while the hair further back is short and spiked. Her skin is milk white and smooth looking. I watch her hips grind in her black leather mini-skirt. My eyes travel up to the matching corset, giving her gorgeous cleavage. She also appears to be wearing thigh-high stocking and garter belt. From my perch, I can see her full pouting red lips sit beautifully on her soft square jaw-line. "That one," I say pointing to the siren. Christopher goes to the wall and collects a collar. I turn to him once more, "Is my Princess here tonight?" He nods, "Yes Sir, she opened the club today." Again I look to the window, looking over everyone in the club, and then I spot my quarry. In the center of a mob circle wearing black shorts, boots, spiked bracelets, and shoulder length dread locks with black tribal tattoos covering his bare back and arms. The dreads flail as he break dances like a capoeira master.
I grin mischievously, "Take another collar, and a couple leashes to." I point to the dancer. Christopher leaves and I walk to the end of the room to finish my drink. I set my glass on a small table and remove my coat, unveiling hundreds of dollars worth of stone tribal tattoos coiling like rocky snakes all over my back and shoulders. I'm wearing my favorite knee-high combat boots, black pants with chains that come off the waist, and a black cotton vest resembling a flak jacket. My body is built like a middle weight kick boxer, well defined but not rock hard. I hang my coat on the beak of pole axe. "Showtime," I quietly say to myself with a smile, I enter the door labeled, "NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY."
