There's a code word to get in:
schiavo
. Don't forget it.
And you turn the foreign word over and over in your head.
Schiavo, schiavo, schiavo
. And you wonder what it means, and where you've heard it before, and what kind of stupid club still has code words to get in, and how you let yourself get talked into being on the F train at midnight going to some club you've never heard of, with people you hardly know, all for the sake of being with
her
. Later, you'll think back on it, and the light bulb will go on over your head, and you'll remember you heard your grandmother say that word when she was bitching about all the goddamn housework she had to do, and you'll wonder if she was trying to tell you something by nagging the back of your brain with the music of the Tarantella suddenly getting stuck in your head as you exited the station at Houston and First Avenue. But you don't realize. Not till later.
For now, you're swearing up a storm as you try to keep up with the pack as they head up Houston towards Ave A, and you're cursing the inventor of the high heel and all their descendants, because who the fuck decided that women need to wear heels, let alone go dancing in the bloody things, and why the hell didn't you wear sneakers to walk in, and then change when you got to this stupid club that thinks its so damn popular it needs a fucking code word like
schiavo
so not everyone and their mother can get in? But your heart skips a beat when
she
turns around and smiles, that wicked smile, that devilish smile, that God-I-want-her-to-fuck-me-right-here-on-the-street smile. And
she
stops for you,
you
, the one most unlikely to ever be with
her
, and then
she
flips out on her friends and tells them they damn well better wait for you. And you melt, from the top of your excessively hairsprayed head to the soles of your leather-clad, high heeled feet, which no longer hurt when
she
takes your hand in hers and looks at you like that.
Schiavo
. The foreign word rolls easily off your tongue, even though you still have no idea what it means. The guy at the door makes you feel about the size of a pea, because his closest relative must be the troll from the first Harry Potter movie, and he probably smells just as bad. He marks you down on his clipboard with fingers that resemble the overstuffed sausages your grandmother used to serve on Sundays -- what is she trying to tell you? -- and then that Neanderthal takes the liberty of stamping not your hand, but your chest, your cleavage to be exact, with a large, red S, like he thinks you're Supergirl or something. But before you can open your mouth to give Cro-Magnon Man a piece of your mind,
she's
at your side, her hand stamped with something you can't quite see in the dark light of the club, and
she's
got her fingers intertwined with yours, laughing, and smiling, and escorting you deeper and deeper into the club's hallways.
There's music pulsating up through the soles of your shoes, and you're barely even given a chance to take in the atmosphere or décor of this place you've never been, with the DJ spinning high above you in a shiny red lamé shirt, and the walls upholstered in what you
think
is zebra wallpaper, before this
woman
, this woman who does things to you that defy Heaven and Earth, that would make angels weep if they knew, before
she
pulls you out on to the dance floor, and pulls you to
her
in a dance that would probably get both of you arrested for public indecency if it were done out on the street.
Her
sinewy arms wrap around you like a constrictor encircling its prey,
her
scent enveloping you until you're dizzy with the thought of
her
,
her
chest,
her
hips,
her
pelvis, pressed close into areas of your body barely protected by your black Lycra tank-top and red leather mini-skirt, worn, at
her
behest, with no bra, no panties, no stockings.
As song flows into song, Depeche Mode into Inkubbus Sukubbus into INXS into Lacuna Coil,
her
graceful hands repeatedly trace the contours of your body, outlining your ribs, hips and thighs with gentle, knowing caresses,
her
fingers tenderly touching your breasts, softly stroking your nipples to hardness, knowing damn well what
she
does to you, knowing
she
has the power, that
she
can make you cum right there on the dance floor without ever going below your clothes, and no one would ever hear you gasp
her
name in the midst of orgasm because of the pounding of the bass and the wail of synthesizers emitting from the DJ's booth. And when, under the cover of a throng of people and darkness and noise and sound and Annie Lennox's voice lamenting the coming of the rain,
she
slips her fingers inside you, you're more than hot and wet and ready for her, and
she
makes you cum, over and over,
her
fingers dancing over and in you, finding just that
spot
that takes you over the edge. And you cling to
her
, hands and nails digging into her shoulders, whispering, gasping, pleading
her
name into her ear, begging
her
to keep you upright, as wave after wave of orgasm threaten to knock you to the floor.
Your breathing returns to normal as you look at
her
, that mischievous twinkle in her eyes visible even in this shadowy room, always sparkling like mad, even when
she's
completely resting and relaxing.
She
