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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 illegal bahis 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 pulls you close, making sure you’re alright, and your heart goes a-thumping at the kindness of this woman who, God knows, in a million years, you would have never thought was capable of that kind of consideration, let alone love, because you most certainly wanted to clock her, preferably with an aluminum baseball bat, that very first night you met her. Looking back, sometimes you wonder if you should have. But then again, maybe not.

Back then, you didn’t know. Didn’t know that beneath the aggressive, loutish exterior — much like the troll masquerading as the human bouncer outside — she had a sensitive side. Didn’t know that there was a brain in her head or a dancer in her heart. Didn’t realize that the asshole you saw was the wall she put up, just like the bitch she saw was the wall you put up. And you sure as hell didn’t know about the absolute raw pleasure she was so proficient in providing, or the worlds she could open up for you. But, then again, maybe some of them should have stayed closed. But you didn’t know.

It was so different then, the two of you, such total opposites, arguing over anything and everything, to the point that the people who had insanely introduced you worked like hell to keep you apart, lest it come to blows. Her arrogance made you crazy, just as your stubbornness drove her nuts. You didn’t know how that fire could burn you up inside, with just a need to quell her, to shut her up, and when you finally connected, seeing past the protective layers of obstinacy and ego, any and all resistance went up in flames, consumed with the need to be with her.

At the club that still uses stupid code words, she takes you out into the humid summer air, exhaust fumes from the kamikaze cabs on Houston making dark halos around the street lights, and the sidewalk so hot you could, as Mama used to say, “fry an egg on it.” You catch your breath from what she’s just done to you on the dance floor, and she lights two cigarettes, passing one to you in a manner of long habit, as if you’ve been together years, not months, and either of you have even a glimmer of a thought in your head as to settling down. The spicy, pungent smoke from the clove cigarettes of the kids who think they’re the first ones to go to the Goth club down the street gives you the feeling that Houston is almost sacred tonight, the way it used to be, years ago, before illegal bahis siteleri the yuppies took over, and maybe schiavo isn’t so stupid after all.

Back into the blissful air-conditioning. It cools the sweat on your body in an instant, and you’re grateful to the inventor of that, at least. Hang New York in the summer. And the hell with wearing leather in New York in the summer. What the fuck were you thinking? Of her. Always and only of her, which is why you’re following her sexy, leather-clad rear-end to the bar, even though you don’t drink, and why you’re drinking the beer she hands you, even though you haven’t had a drop of alcohol in more than two years. And it goes straight to your head.

Three cups of water later and you’re fine, but no more alcohol for you. There’s a reason you stopped drinking, dammit. If you’re here at this damn schiavo club, you’re gonna have a good time, and not spend the night praying to the porcelain goddess because your ulcer decided to wake up and say “fuck you.” If you’re gonna spend the night on your knees in worship, you’d rather it be at her feet, taunting her, tasting her, drinking her. So there.

Her breath faintly tinged with Southern Comfort, she kisses you as you walk back from the ladies’ room. She tastes of bourbon and beer and sex and cigarettes, and you know your knees are getting weak as she tangles her hands sweetly in your hair, moaning and gasping her own need into your mouth. She breaks the kiss, looks into your eyes, and gently pulls you through an ornate iron door – abbandoni la speranza, tutto il ye che fornisce qui, it says over the doorway, and your Italian sucks — into another room, a room filled with a soft, red light, a room that gives off the distinct smell that leather and sex and vinyl and latex produce when they mingle together, a room overflowing with a cacophony of sounds that you pray to the Virgin Mother are coming from a Trent Reznor or Rob Zombie CD that another DJ is playing. Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The crimson glow of the room gives her eyes a haunted hunger you’ve never seen there before, and she pulls you to her, feasting on your mouth as if she might devour you from within, her tongue dancing with yours, your wrists held firm in her grasp and your legs buckling beneath you. You wonder, even amidst the passionate longing of her kiss, if you’re truly going to fall when suddenly there are hands. And they’re not hers.

There’s a body supporting your back as hands that feel curiously like your own snake around to the front of your body and begin to caress the soft flesh of the flanks of your stomach, making your insides shake and quiver. Startled, you break from her and turn, and are, in some weird way, grateful for the support, or you really would’ve been knocked on your ass. Because there’s the other one, and you can’t believe it, and how could you have been so fucking dumb, and how the hell are you going to get out of this?

You start to squirm, twist, pull away, try to run, but she holds you fast, your wrists manacled in her grip, her Kim Carnes voice whispering to you to relax and go with it. The other one has gone from stroking your stomach to gripping your hips with a strength that surprises you, running her tongue and teeth and mouth along your neck, bare shoulders, the bare skin at the open back of your tank top, your flesh responding to her caress, places low on your body tightening with desire, and you feel like you suddenly stepped into something out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Give yourself over to absolute pleasure. But what happened to Brad and Janet once the aliens went back to Planet Transsexual? No one knows.

But in this red room, in this schiavo club, she and the other one, each gripping one arm, maneuver you on to a flat surface, and the canlı bahis siteleri only thing that you can think of that it resembles is a gym mat, except this one is covered in black leather, and has things you’d rather not see attached to the four corners. You’re still trying to block out the sounds of the room, and trying to wrap your brain around the idea of what the fuck you’re doing here and how the hell you’re going to get out of there.

And then suddenly the three of you are lying comfortably on this mat that makes you think of Mary Lou Retton-meets-Elvira, and she and the other one are fondling you, your breasts, your stomach. And they’re touching each other over you, because for some reason you can’t fathom, they’ve placed you in the middle, and you still can’t figure out why you’re still there, why haven’t you fought them off, why you haven’t gotten to your feet and run for dear life, away from this debauchery that you’ve always thought of as some kind of mental illness, because being gay is one thing, but group sex is another thing altogether, and you are NOT a freak.

But slowly it dawns on you. There has to be a reason you’re not fighting this, that you’re not running from this vermillion room, screaming in terror. In some small corner in the back of your brain, you’ve realized you’re enmeshed in this, you’ve surrendered to this play of passion and fire, this dear-God-don’t-let-it-stop, otherworldly drowning in desire and lust. You realize that your hands have been moving of their own accord, following the pattern of their touching, causing them to cry out your name in the heat of their longing. Realize that many of the moans and gasps and screams of pleasure are coming from your own throat, and you don’t want it to end, and you know your cries haven’t all been evoked by her. It’s the other one who’s got her fingers inside you now, causing your body to shake and spasm, and you’re tossing on that black mat to face her so you can feel her, taste her, drink her in completely. Until she pulls back and you’re left wanting, because she looks to her, her eyes requesting approval, and permission, to touch you, and your body is aching, after so much stimulation, for completion. And she’s just watching.

And on that black mat, in that red room, you crawl, on hands and knees to her, and pay your dues, the ones that have been a long time in coming, and you whisper over and over, as she cums over and over again under the ministration of your tongue at her most sacred part, Please. And she smiles as you beg, supplicating to her, and she returns the favor, in a manner of speaking, pushing you back on the mat, and making you scream her name as she reminds you that no one can or will ever make you cum like she does. And, even as your body is still quaking in the midst of orgasm, she finally acquiesces, and then the other one is eagerly pulling your tank top over your head, and your skirt off your body, and your hands are exploring every inch of each other’s bodies and your sense of shame has flown out the bloody window, because what the hell could possibly be wrong with this? Why would you want to get away from this? So you follow Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s advice and succumb to passion, and desire, and pleasure, made all the more exhilarating because she’s there now and the three of you are drowning in each other, for hours and hours, until it is exhaustion that takes you away, and you sleep, ensconced between her and the other one, bracketed by their protection, the newest member of the pack, and safe.

Later, as you slowly wake up and clear your eyes of your post-coital haze, you finally see what’s stamped on her hand. Maestra. Your Italian sucks but its not that bad, and the light bulb goes on above your head. Maestra. Master. Schiavo. Slave. And you look in her now-wide-awake, sparkling, knowing eyes and you know that you never had a choice, and you never truly wanted one. She pulls you closer. She whispers. Mine. You are hers, both of you, you and the one now working her way down your back with butterfly soft kisses; you both belong to her.

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