Skrillex was blaring when Miles, Kamen, Gould, and I walked into Riddle—one of two BDSM clubs in the city, and the only one we bothered hanging out at anymore. Riddle’s owners had a real hard-on for dubstep. Even tonight, at the Kink by Candlelight party, which had the potential to be a wonderfully atmospheric event if someone would just swap the violent sub-bass for some monastic chanting or Vivaldi. Or Enya. Bitches love Enya.
The place was already packed. The couches were full, so we had to stand. Most people weren’t even using the changing area; they just peeled off their street clothes there in the lounge and put on their harnesses and corsets and . . . capes? Yep, someone was definitely wearing a cape. Candles had been set up in the three playrooms as well as the lounge, and we were just waiting for the DMs to light them and turn off the overheads so we could get to the fun. Or at least what I hoped would be fun, though I was already starting to doubt it.
At the very least we might get to see a cape catch fire.
I glanced at the entrance to Tranquility, then made myself look away. Checked out the dry bar instead.
There was a guy standing at the end of the bar, rocking a glass-bottled root beer. In his forties, probably. Big-boned, a little paunchy even. Fucking pornstache, which normally would have been a deal breaker, but his was combined with some additional rugged facial hair that mitigated the situation. And he was mountain man-ish enough that the ’stache seemed not only right, but also necessary. His face was wide, his jaw square, and he wore his light-brown hair in an uneven crew cut. I was digging the long-sleeved polo, jeans, and loafers in a yeah, daddy kind of way. He caught me staring, and his pornstache twitched slightly. Then he turned away with a vigorous sniff, rubbing under his nose with one finger. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why. He looked up again. Made eye contact.
What da fuck, Pornstache?
“It’s been seriously forever since we were all here together,” Kamen said over the music. I turned away from Burt Reynolds Stars in Boogie Nights and faced my friends.
“Uh, yeah.” I scratched my neck, which was inexplicably warm. I’d never met a mustache that made me feel this way. “I know.”
It wasn’t the first time we’d come to Riddle since Hal, but it was the first time we’d attended an event, and the first time we’d wordlessly committed to trying to enjoy ourselves. I felt responsible for how the night went, like an enthusiastic dad overseeing a lame family vacation. I’d hustled everyone into the car this evening and sung along too loudly to the radio and pointed out a new special on the Golden Corral billboard as we’d driven by. But now that we were here, my gaze kept finding Tranquility’s doorway, and I could tell Gould was having the same problem. So I focused on the other attendees.
“Oh my God.” I tried not to point too obviously. “There’s Rachel. They’d better keep an eye on the candles.”
Kamen’s gaze followed mine. “Wait, what?”
Miles glanced at him. “She’s the rope top who turns people into human menorahs. You’ve seen her. She does the rigging all across their arms and makes rope candleholders . . .?”
“Oh, yeah.” Kamen nodded, but I didn’t think he had any idea what Miles was talking about.
“I let her do me last Hanukkah. It was fun.” My gaze flicked back to Pornstache, who drained his root beer and threw the glass bottle in the recycle bin for plastics. This bad boy made his own rules. Rawwwr.
Yeah, I put my glass in with the plastics. Yeah, I have a mustache even though it’s no longer 1978. Yeah, I wanna put my dick in your—
Gould clapped my shoulder, and I jumped. He looked at me strangely. “Anyone want drinks?”
We all put in our orders. Gould headed to the bar. I figured he wouldn’t want to talk much tonight. Not that he was ever a social butterfly, but he’d made the most effort of all of us to steer clear of Riddle over the past year. This was gonna be rough on him.
Pornstache was wandering toward Chaos.
Each of Riddle’s three playrooms had a name. Chaos was the largest and loudest, and had equipment for intense scenes—medical table, crosses, cages, ladders, stocks, and a dentist’s chair. I usually made straight for Refinement, which was quieter and smaller—spanking bench, bondage horse, rope frames. Tranquility was the smallest room and contained only an elegant, multipurpose bench and various steel rings on the walls and floor. There was no music, and the doorway had curtains and a velvet rope to keep the space private for whoever was doing a scene there. For some reason it struck me as strange that Tranquility still existed. It seemed like everyone should refuse to play there, out of respect or fear or whatever. Like it should have at least been repainted, the furniture rearranged . . . something.
Some girl was talking to Kamen. Of the four of us, Kamen got the most attention when we were out. People generally assumed he was a dom because of his size. I gave it about twenty minutes of chatter before Kamen—friendly as a golden retriever and often completely oblivious to what people wanted from him—figured out this girl was trying to get him to tie her up.
Miles, Kamen, Gould, and I were like a nineties’ boy band. Kamen was the heartthrob—six foot four of hulking, WASPlicious, buzzed-headed jock. I was the boy next door—silken of hair and blue of eye and straight of teeth. Gould was the shy one—short, a little stocky, huge mop of curls. Adorable. And Miles was sort of a weird combination of the bad boy and the middle-aged, straitlaced accountant who got pulled up onstage to dance during a concert and was mortified but secretly thrilled. He was smart as hell, and he was the only pain slut in our group. If someone asked him to try pulling a barge through the Erie Canal with a chain attached to his PA piercing, he’d probably do it. But you’d never know that about him, because he dressed like a minister’s daughter and behaved like the easily scandalized maiden aunt in a British drawing room play.
Cardigans in muted colors aside, he was gorgeous. He looked like a young Mos Def. I’d told him that once, and he didn’t know who Mos Def was. He did, however, know the difference between a fish fork and a fruit fork. So WTF?
I nudged him now. “Bowser. Ten o’clock.”
He followed my gaze. Bowser’s scene name was DorianGreat, though everyone called him Bowser. He was mostly into medical play. Like hard-core, let-me-speculum-your-ass-until-I-could-drop-a-grapefruit-in-there play. Miles was the only one of us who’d scened with him. His laugh was exactly like Bowser’s in Mario 64 when you tried to open a locked door in the castle and didn’t have enough stars. It was, in a weird way, kind of a turn-on.
Bowser caught Miles’s eye. Smiled at him. A surprisingly intimate smile given that the two of them had only played once.
At the door, a girl in a feathered tutu and a man in a red sequined devil costume were filling out the first-timer paperwork—a ten-page contract full of confidentiality agreements, disclaimers, and house rules. It made me long for the leather bar I used to frequent on 6th, where you could walk in, drink actual alcohol, then get your ass reamed and suck some daddy’s cock without having to sign a goddamn waiver.
Heterosexuals. Seriously.
I immediately felt guilty. Because Hal. Because rules were a good thing—if people fucking followed them.
Looking at you, Bill Henson.
Gould came back from the bar, two cups in each hand. “Sprite. Sweet tea—” He handed Miles and me our drinks. “And Kamen, they were all out of Mr. Pibb. So I got you water.”
“Aw, no! I hate water.” The expression on Kamen’s face was tragic.
Gould grinned and handed him a cup of Coke. “Kamen, you’re so easy.”
“I don’t know about easy.” I took a sip of tea. “He turned down a play date with Maestro last week.”
Kamen was stabbing ice cubes with his tiny straw. “He’s not my type.”
I snorted. “Is any human being not your type? You love everyone.”
“I hate Bill.”
None of us spoke. Skrillex continued thumping.
Kamen was engrossed in stabbing ice and didn’t seem to notice the rest of us exchanging glances. During all the shit that had gone down over the last year, I didn’t think I had ever actually heard Kamen say Bill’s name.
I drummed my thighs. “So are we gonna stand around taking attendance, or are we gonna go get some action?” I searched for Pornstache. I was anxious about being here and caught up in thoughts about Hal, and so the less sophisticated parts of my brain had latched on to the least appropriate, most obviously heterosexual person in this club and had decided it was this man’s destiny to bend me over and scrub my asshole with that mustache.
Gould’s gaze was on the door. GK, one of Riddle’s owners, had just walked in. Ohhh boy. I snapped my fingers in front of Gould. Nothing. I patted his curly hair, and he whipped around, looking embarrassed.
“You’re drooling,” I whispered.
Kamen crushed his cup in his fist. “We gotta wait for the lights to go off before we play.”
Kink by Candlelight was a twice-yearly event where Riddle turned off all the lights in the club and everyone played . . . well, by candlelight. It was awkward as fuck, and people inevitably fell off spanking benches or got sensitive bits caught in body bag zippers. But it was a tradition I never wanted to see die.
“I’m definitely not going to be graced with a suitable partner,” Miles grumbled.
I plucked at his cardigan. “Well, maybe if you didn’t come to a fetish party dressed like Mr. Rogers. Are you here to get your ass beat or catch a trolley to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe?”
Miles straightened his sweater. “I can work a damn cardigan. But I’m in the mood for knives and the only one here right now who can do a decent knife scene is Bowser.”
“So play with him.”
“I am most certainly not in the mood to feel like I’m running toward a transmogrifying painting of Princess Peach. Besides, if we play with his scalpel, then he’ll want to get out the rest of his toys and do a full exam. Before I know it I’m leaving with a lollipop and a prescription for prednisone.”
I started singing the castle theme from Mario 64. “Doop. Doop. Doop. Da-doo-DOOP. Doop. Doop—”
Miles whacked my arm. “Stop.”
“C’mon.”
Miles joined in, and we started moving our heads back and forth in unison like meerkats. “Doop. Doop. Doop. Da-doo-DOOP. Da-doo-doo-doodoodahdoodoodoo-da-DOOP-DOOP. Dah-nah-nah!”
“Well, well, well,” came a sardonic female voice. “If it isn’t the fab four.”
Miles and I stopped abruptly and turned, along with Kamen and Gould.
Behind us stood a woman—about thirty, tall and fit with bright red hair and a long, thin nose.
“Cinnamon.” I made no attempt to hide my distaste.
“David.”
Cinnamon was apparently a big deal in the pony world. She’d won a bunch of awards at shows and stuff. But as a human, she sucked. I hadn’t seen her since Bill’s trial, and I’d been hoping never to set eyes on her again. “Where’s all your horse shit?” She was wearing a black leotard, but no pony gear.
“I haven’t changed yet.” She rocked on her stiletto boots—because yes, nothing made me think “pony” like a set of heels that could impale a man of substantial breadth—her hands on her hips. “Surprised to see you here. I didn’t think you were members anymore.”
“Still members.” Miles regarded her coolly. “We’ve just cut back on the amount of time we spend here.”
I was sure Cinnamon was going to say something sarcastic. Instead, her expression softened and she hesitated before she spoke. “I heard the memorial service was really good. I would have gone, but—”
“You threw a shoe?” I said sarcastically.
“Dude,” Kamen whispered beside me.
“I’m sorry, but if she’s gonna talk about the service being ‘really good,’ like it’s an episode of True Detective—”
“I cared about him too!” Her voice broke. And were those . . . tears in her eyes?
“Then how come every fucking thing you said in court helped Bill Henson’s case?” I demanded.
Gould stepped in. “It was a nice service. Dave’s just being his usual charming self.”
There was a time when any mention of Bill’s name—or Cinnamon’s—would have made Gould damn near hysterical with anger. But now here he was acting like I was the one who needed to be monitored.
Cinnamon wiped under one eye with her finger. “I know,” she said in a small voice.
And the fucking SAG award goes to . . .
“Sorry.” I shrugged. “I didn’t mean to stirrup trouble. It was nice of you to come over and say hay.”
She rolled her eyes and sort of laughed. “Oh my God. Really?”
“Why so annoyed? You mustang out with the wrong people.”
She shook her head and started off. “Bye.”
“What, are you bridling at my criticism?”
Gould clapped a hand over my mouth.
“Good-bye, asshole,” she called over her shoulder.
Gould slowly took his hand away. “You’re so pleasant, David.”
I swirled my tea around in the plastic cup. “How can you of all people defend her? Besides, I can’t stand furries.”
“She’s not a furry. Ponies are different.” Miles, the walking, talking BDSM encyclopedia. I didn’t care about the distinction; any kind of animal play made me uncomfortable.
“She might as well be a furry.”
Kamen tossed his empty cup into the wastebasket several feet away. “Why do you hate furries so much, man?”
“They just weird me out.”
“I always think one of these days you’re gonna break down and tell us some crazy story like in Team America: World Police, where the dude’s talking about how he doesn’t trust actors because of that time the cast of Cats gang-raped him.”
“I promise I was not gang-raped by furries.” I looked around for Gould, but he’d wandered over to talk to GK and Kel, Riddle’s owners.
God, why did I feel like I had to keep him in sight? We were all big boys.
“Look at that,” I said to the other two. “Look how happy GK and Kel are to see Gould. He’s like their favorite nephew. Any minute now they’re gonna pull a twenty and a Werther’s out of their pockets and ruffle his hair.”
“Pardon,” came a voice next to me. “I couldn’t help overhearing.” The accent was British but sounded fake.
I turned. A man with a weasel face and a waterproof jacket was grinning at me, showing off long, yellowish front teeth. “I’ve never understood the furry subculture myself.”
Really? Cuz you look like you’d fit right in, Sir Ferret of Windbreakersham. I stared him up and down. “Who are you?”
He held out a hand. “Dennis.” He laughed. “Regina said I ought to introduce myself. Said you and I might have similar interests. Discipline?”
I glanced over at the bar. Regina stood behind it. Sweet girl; biggest hair I’d seen outside of a Winger video. She knew everyone’s name and what they liked, and was always trying to Hello, Dolly! the shit out of the club. She waved at me. I forced a smile and waved back.
“Dave.” I shook Dennis’s hand grudgingly. I glanced at Miles, who sipped his drink and raised his eyebrows at me.
“So what do you say?” Dennis the all-weather weasel asked. The accent was definitely fake.
I gazed around the club. Come save me, Pornstache.
I thought I glimpsed his crew cut through the doorway to Refinement.
But, I mean, don’t, because I’m not attracted to you and I’m not here to have fun. I’m here to reflect on how stupid-lonely I am, and how I prefer meaningless sex to relationships, and meaningless spankings to meaningless sex.
I took a deep breath and flashed my weasel familiar a smile I didn’t feel. “Yeah. I can be a real pain in the ass. I like a guy who’s willing to do something about it.” I’d said shit like this a hundred times before, but for some reason the words put a bad taste in my mouth tonight.
Dennis nodded. “Ahh. Okay, okay. I like to give a good spanking. To a boy who deserves it.”
This was going to be a disaster. Dennis seemed like the kind of guy who spent an hour and a half waiting for a pizza delivery because the restaurant had forgotten his order. The kind of guy whose wife had divorced him by changing all the locks in the house while he was at work and just counting on him not to protest. He couldn’t credibly have told a dog to sit.
But I was horny. And destined to die alone, so gather ye rosebuds and whatevs. At least Dennis didn’t give off a danger vibe.
I exchanged nods with Miles—he’d look out for me. Then I turned to Dennis and jerked my head toward Refinement. “In there?”
He followed me through the doorway. A year ago, I’d never have played with someone like him. I’d have picked a guy who would know to grab my arm and march me over to the spanking bench, swatting me along if I resisted. Who would tell me that if I whined, he’d rip off my underwear and gag me with it. But tonight, I was almost grateful for Dennis’s bland passivity.
A small crowd had gathered around the spanking bench to watch a woman dressed as a cowgirl cane an older woman who was not dressed at all. The older woman was taking it quietly; she barely moved as the cane thwipped against her bare ass over and over. I shuddered, thrilled and horrified. Canes were the one implement I couldn’t do. I leaned over to Dennis. “Let’s wait for the bench.” No way did I feel like going over this guy’s knee.
As I scanned the room, I spotted the ’stache I’d never known I needed. He was watching the caning with impassive blue eyes. The more I stared at him, the more blood rushed to my dick, and the more I thought he looked like a genetic hybrid of Teddy Roosevelt and that guy who cut his arm off when it got trapped by that boulder. Suddenly I had this vision of him holding a paddle and going all stern seventies dad on me. The entire fantasy actually took place in the seventies. There was orange shag carpet, and my hair had been blow-dried and conditioned, and I was wearing rust-colored bell-bottoms that stretched tight across my ass when he bent me over. It was groovy as all fuck.
Come on, Pornstache. I know you want to spank me.
And then marry me and become my forever companion—except don’t, because relationships are doomed and marriage is an outdated and restrictive institution and hope is futile.
“Hey.” Dennis nudged me. “They’re done.”
The cowgirl had released the bottom and pulled her up into a hug. They went together to the shelf with disinfectant and paper towels and started wiping down the spanking bench. The crowd dispersed, and it didn’t appear that any of them had been waiting to use the bench, so Dennis and I laid claim to it. I was a little disappointed to see Pornstache on his way out. I wouldn’t have minded putting on a show for him.
Your facial hair is stupid, but I still want your penis inside me.
He didn’t turn back.
And then one day they’ll make our babies in a test tube and we can feed each other ice cream on the beach while our children play in the sand and then we can grow old together and fart in bed during reruns of Community.
But, like, I get it. You’re straight, and it’s cool.
Ugh, relationships. Who needed them? In my early twenties, I’d made a career out of getting fucked by strangers in bars of dubious repute. So why, over the past few years, did coming to Riddle increasingly make me wish I lived in a house with wainscoting and someone who would love me forever?
Pornstache vanished into the crowd without so much as burying his face in my ass and giving me mustache burns on my taint. Life was cruel.
To my right was a little alcove that housed a padded table. A tall, thin man was tying down an eager-looking bottom. Like my mustached hero, the thin man was familiar, and I started to wonder about my memory. I hadn’t been away from Riddle that long, and yet I’d lost the ability to put names to faces. Or, in this case, bodies. I couldn’t see the thin man’s face. He was so skinny though. It was kind of gross.
“Pants off, and get on up on that bench, boy.” Dennis’s accent was slipping.
I grimaced as I unsnapped my fly. I took off my pants and underwear and knelt on the bench, leaning forward over it. It was facing the alcove where the thin man was doing his scene. Well, at least I’d have some entertainment while I was spanked. Dennis lifted my shirttail halfway up my back. I tried to concentrate on wanting this.
A DM was going around lighting the candles, so they were probably getting ready to turn off the lights. “Safeword?” Dennis asked.
“Red-yellow. Don’t touch my dick. No canes. Paddles are fine if you’ve got ’em.”
“All I’ve got’s my hand.” Dennis patted my ass. “Okay, boy, get ready for your spanking.”
“The moment we’ve all been waiting for!” someone yelled in the lounge area.
I lifted my head. Through the doorway to my left, I saw the lights in Chaos go out and heard a cheer. I readied myself for Refinement to be plunged into near-darkness.
At that moment, the thin man in the alcove turned so he was facing me. I stopped breathing, sure that my eyes were playing tricks.
No way.
No fucking way.
All the rage and fear and bitterness that had simmered so close to the surface over the last year threatened to boil over. In a flash, I saw Hal being rolled toward Riddle’s door on the gurney. Felt GK’s arm around me, keeping me in place.
Bill Henson stared back at me, looking as shocked as I felt.
Then the lights went out.