The exclusive men's club of The Pink Cushion was built in the shape of a heart. Its gigantic double domed roof caressed the clear blue evening sky like voluptuous, sunburnt buttocks. The warm glow from the fat sun on the horizon bathed the building in deep orange. It was balanced precariously on its point with nothing visible supporting its sides. At the v shape of its base was the inverted triangle of the front door.
I looked down at myself before knocking. My body was young, tall, slim, athletic, dark skinned and I found myself very handsome. The new sensation of having a cock was strange. It felt as if a significant part of me was focussed on a place outside my body. My tight pants pressed against the organ, giving me a nice and sexy feeling. The absence of breasts was more disturbing. My chest felt hollowed out and incomplete. I felt myself all over and was pleased by the hardness of my muscles but, as I struck what I hoped was a masculine pose, my fist found no place to rest on my flat hip and slipped off.
I lifted the hinged genitals of the naked boy rendered in brass, a relief sculpture moulded into the door, and banged them against his yellow groin a few times.
The brass boy said, "Please confirm your age before entering."
I cleared my throat and said, "Forty."
I was shocked by my voice. My own, but unfamiliar. So deep and masculine!
The door opened, or rather puckered, and grew a hole which quickly broadened enough to allow me to enter. The sphincter shut behind me and straight away I found myself in the brothel's warm and luxurious reception room. Perfumes of all kinds wafted into my nostrils, their aphrodisiac properties immediately making themselves apparent to my cock which twitched in my pants.
I stood in a large hall dominated by a huge staircase which wound its way up and up, bifurcated, and continued spiralling in two directions, far into the myriad upper stories. The stairs stopped at balconies and galleries and continued on for as far as I could see. The décor was overwhelming with red, pink, orange, black and occasional touches of deep purple. There were soft velvet and leather furnishings, velvet drapes, a red carpet and soft pink lighting provided by enormous chandeliers. These resembled inverted fountains of strawberry milkshake and hung from a ceiling, painted by an artist of incomparable skill, that depicted nymphs, naiads, satyrs and beautiful, naked angels sporting amidst clouds and ocean waves.
I nearly threw up.
However, I was not here for art. I turned my attention to the people around me, all of them male and all of them beautiful, lounging together on the floor or on chairs and sofas. I was drawing interested glances from many and was glad that I had chosen a dark skin to conceal my blushes. I was approached by one of the waiters and I asked him for a Southern Comfort with ice. As he walked away I admired the movement of his tight bum beneath his hot pants. Those, and the matching white dicky bow were all he wore.
I found a comfortable poof to sit on and smiled shyly at the other guests. I felt a little overdressed. Many were shirtless already or even naked. I felt a little nervous as I had assumed that people would find private rooms before enjoying themselves that much. I saw no one actually doing it yet, so I tried to relax and enjoy the drink the waiter had brought me and the admiring looks I was receiving.
I felt a familiar tap on my shoulder and turned to see Megahard Mary's ever smiling masculine face regarding me in that over familiar manner I so detested. Dressed as ever in her smart pastel pink skirt suit and her blonde hair immaculately coiffed she had never looked so incongruous.
"Irma, there is someone at the door," she told me in her bright and businesslike voice. "Do you accept or decline?"
"Fuck it!" I told her.
Mary smiled in such a way as to demand physical violence be visited upon it.
"Accept," I sighed and was immediately chucked out of my fantasy, back into my one bedroom flat in Deckard House.
The Hypnozap I had taken made me extremely groggy, so I popped an upper to counter its effect. I pulled the wire roughly from my left nostril, left it hanging from the laptop on my bedside table and stumbled to the door. I knew who it was. God, she was a bitch!
Alexi greeted me with her black lipped, ring pierced smile. She was wearing her khaki vest and combats, had left some of her rings and studs out, but only some, and was sporting a new hair style. It was maroon, spiky on one side and flat on the other. Her laser tattoos had spread and now covered much more of her than when she had last bothered me, five hours before. She looked sweaty and unkempt. I found her utterly repulsive and she made me ashamed to be a woman.
"Hi, Irma!" she greeted me chummily in her northern English accent.
With so much black mascara she looked like a shaved panda. I marked the telltale redness around her left nostril. I tapped my own nostril. She seemed to get the message and rubbed her nose self consciously. We stared at each other for a long moment. I wondered how long it would be before I could get back to my fantasy. Eventually I shrugged in bewilderment and shook my head in irritation.
Alexi coughed and asked coyly, "Would you like to come out for a drink with me, Irma?"
She raised her innocent eyes inquiringly. I could hardly believe it. This was the third time today.
"No, Alexi," I said firmly, but not without a faint tone of sadness, just to be polite. "I've got some paperwork I need to catch up on."
I thought an apology was unnecessary, and also likely to give her encouragement. She smiled broadly, masking her disappointment well.
"OK, I understand," she said, blew me a kiss and went into her apartment.
Fuck's sake, I thought, and slammed my door. Won't that fucking dyke ever get the message?
In the bathroom I splashed water onto my face to dispel some of the scumminess I felt Alexi had transmitted to me. In the mirror I noticed with wry amusement that my own nostril was looking sore. I was hardly in a position to make censorious judgements on others about that. My boobs were also sore due to my period. I went back to bed, took another Hypnozap pill and plugged myself back in.
A floorshow was in progress. Naked boys with their faces altered to resemble movie actresses were riding pink poodles the size of horses in between the guests. One rider with the face of Marilyn Monroe was operating two turntables balanced on the poodle's back. Another poodle, apparently ridden by Elizabeth Taylor, carried a huge PA, but seemed to be able to cope easily with the load. A mash up of Lady Gaga's 'Poker Face' and Vivaldi's 'Agitata Da Due Venti' blasted from the speakers. People were dancing and clapping. Some were rubbing the poodles' thick hair until their forearms were buried in it. The dogs were well trained and only barked occasionally, but each bark was a roar that easily drowned out the music. The poodles passed close to me, forcing me to lift my feet onto the chair beside me. When they had passed I felt my eyes drawn to the other side of the room near the bottom of the staircase.
A Greek god, complete with laurels in his hair, stood with one foot on the bottom step, proudly thrusting out his chest and ample genitals for everyone's delectation. I decided that here was no place to beat about the bush, so I stood and approached him as casually and as coolly as possible, sipping my drink and slipping one hand into the back pocket of my pants. I admired his noble profile, the rudder nose, the jutting chin, while I waited for him to notice me. He continued to gaze into the middle distance, seemingly at nothing.
I cleared my throat, but then, realising that would hardly be a loud enough signal under the circumstances, I shouted, "Hello!"