Chasing Taboo

Judging by the choices Olivia had made and would continue to make throughout the evening’s escapade, you would think she would not be satisfied until she had put herself in the absolute maximum amount of danger. Club Lanka was located a little deeper into the Second Circle area, and while making her way through the dark inner-city paths, her curiosity placed a spotlight on the back alleys. In her pathetically short hours of street experience, Olivia thought exploring this region was a good idea.

There was a row of decrepit bars and sleazy shops down 2nd street that led to an epic Asian market on the corner. There was beautiful artwork and decorative lanterns hanging outside the entrance, attached to weather-worn walls and hanging from the wrought iron gates. A homeless guy, white-haired and clothed in a slapdash assortment of soiled rags, stood outside the gates, shaking down the passersby, all of whom seemed accustomed to this sort of nagging. Beyond this row of businesses, shining brightly and proudly was a neon sign that read CLUB LANKA, right above a row of sexually suggestive banners with barely clothed exotic models on them, accented with beautiful purples and flashy clip art.

Traveling to the club via sidewalk seemed very inefficient to Olivia. Why go the whole way around the strip mall of sin when cutting through the alleys would get her to the heart of hedonism so much faster? With her excitement about to bubble over and her Manolo Blahniks rubbing wounds into her heels, absolutely no time could be wasted.

She wandered through a hidden parking lot before traveling through a long, long, narrow alley. She took some time to admire the graffiti on the walls, most of it being Asian calligraphy that she couldn’t understand, but she did see a lot of the word “blades.” It seemed the word “dragon” also made a few appearances, but it was always either old and faded or simply sprayed over.

Her passing observation was disrupted by an angry male voice, harsh and high-pitched. “Don’t like that, do ya? Fucking punk!”

Then there was a meaty thud. It was a foot pounding into a stomach, followed by a throaty grunt, and when she turned to her right as soon as the alley ended, she saw she had stumbled onto good old fashioned beating. The two young Asian participants were by a back entrance a few yards away. One of the men was standing. One of them was not.

“Bet you gonna keep your hands to yourself now, huh?” said the keeper of the voice, a 20-something with satiny red hair.

A small, weak reply came from the beaten man on the ground. “…fuck you.”

“Fuck me?” said the redhead, throwing another kick. “Fuck me!? Fuck you!”

Olivia watched in delighted bemusement as the dominant one crushed the hurt man’s hand with his foot.

“Goddamn bridge-and-tunnel motherfuckers,” said the redhead, pressing his lips around a smoke. “We give you an inch, you take a mile.”

“I’ll give Seneka my foot-long cock, you rice-eating chink!”

“You as Asian as I am, stop embarrassin’ yourself.”

The man on the ground spat blood onto the asphalt, and Olivia’s cheeks were flush and tingly. She poked her head out further from behind the wall with wide open eyes, wanting a closer look at this beautiful act of brutality.

But the boy looked at her, his strawberry hair aglow beneath the urban lamplight and his small eyes becoming joyful slits above his lifted cheeks. He smiled and put his cigarette away.

“Well what do we have here?” he said. “What you doin’ hidin’ back there, sweetheart? Come out here and say hello, I ain’t gonna bite ya.”

Olivia gulped down her curious fever, and with a short sigh of defeat, she opened herself up to the back lot. Her heels clipped and clopped as she stepped closer to the thug, and she stopped a couple feet shy of the beaten man on the ground. She folded her arms, jutted her hip to the side, and spoke.

“You know? That’s the third time someone called me that today.”

“What, sweetheart?”

“Yeah.”

He eyed her up and down, from head to hips to heels, and grinned profusely. “I’ll call you whatever you want, sweetheart.”

She smirked. “My name’s Olivia. What do they call you?”

“Wildcard,” he said, and he put his foot on top of the guy on the ground. “This here’s Park, but I’m just gonna call him douche bag ‘cause he tried to feel up on my boy’s sister.” He looked back at her like she was transparent, quickly picking up all the signals that her posture and dress were sending. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”

“Westcliff, actually.”

“Westcliff!?” cried Wildcard. “What the fuck is a white Westcliff girl doin’ in a back alley in Second Circle!? It’s dangerous down here, bitch! You gonna get yourself hurt—” Park’s groan interrupted him, so he kicked him hard in the ribs. “Shut the fuck up, I’m talking!” He looked back up at Olivia. “Why was you watchin’ me anyways?”

“I wasn’t watching you.”

“You was too, you was watchin’ me.”

“I was not watching you!”

“Don’t front, girl.”

“I am not fronting,” hissed Olivia. “I cut through the alley because it seemed quicker and saw you taking care of this gentleman on the ground here…” Following Wildcard’s lead, she kicked Park in torso. “…so I hid.” Park grunted.

Wildcard looked down at Park, back at Olivia, down at Park, then back to Olivia. He parted his lips, but was unable to find reactive words. He was aghast—and he wasn’t the type to be baffled by anything.

“What?” Olivia asked after reading his face. “You were kicking him, weren’t you?”

Wildcard, after measuring his options, decided to laugh. “You somethin’ else, Olivia. Where you trying to go? I’ll escort you.”

“Club Lanka.”

 “Bitch, you do realize you standin’ right behind the place, doesn’t you?”

She looked up. He was right. She must have gotten disoriented in the alley.

Wildcard shoved Park away with his foot. “You get the fuck out of here.” Then he smiled at Olivia. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

He turned around and opened the back door.

With the rush of energy he released from behind that brick wall, it was like he was dumping an aquarium tank, but instead of water and sea life pouring out, it was a face-slapping wave of relentless liveliness and noise. And a unique smell. As Olivia’s eyes transitioned from back alley street lights to the blackness of the club, she tried to place what smell she was smelling. It was a mixture of clashing colognes, cigarette smoke, and body odor. Delightfully pungent. It made her smile.

The further she went, the more she felt like she was in an alien dimension. The spiraling laser lights, the pumping beats, the buzzing bass, the gyrating bodies, the flat-screen displays – the girls! The endless, unabashed, flailing girls! Girls in bikinis, standing on tables! Girls in fur boots, swinging around poles! Naked girls with big naked boobs in cages! Cages! A flurry of sex kittens, all cleverly obscured by the flattering black lights. Never in her life had Olivia seen such a blatant objectification of her gender. She felt like a stranger in a strange land.

Nearly immediately, someone had stolen Wildcard’s attention. Someone in an Affliction T-shirt with too much gel in his hair. He swung his arm around Wildcard and introduced him to about five other guys, and somehow under the ear-blasting volume, they managed to speak to each other. Olivia, in respect for her desperate lack of familiarity with this environment, stood there patiently, waiting for her friend to continue his job as her escort.

For about five seconds. Then she got bored and wandered away.

Within seconds, Olivia found herself asking, what were these people doing here? What was the goal? To get laid? One clique of boys stood around a lit table, gawking silently out into the hip-pumping crowds like they were at an art gallery. A group of girls with backless glittery shirts huddled into alternating groups of three to take MySpace  pictures so they could, like, prove what a totally awesome time they had tonight… taking MySpace pictures.

But the place was cool. Dirty, stupid, and useless, but cool. Olivia could feel the cool – it emanated from the dance floor and oozed from the walls. The idiocy surrounding her was undeniable, and yet, somehow, she felt compelled to be liked by these people. How did Club Lanka pull it off? Where did the magic come from?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” shouted the DJ over the loudspeaker. “Go ahead and put your hands together for Seneka!”

The whole club turned toward the center stage, thundering with applause as the lights went black. A moment later, the booming beat exploded with a barrage of colored lights, welcoming Seneka to the stage. Seneka was five feet of sensual fury, as agile and flexible as a cat, and as commanding on the stage as Achilles on the battlefields of Troy. She threw her body around that pole in ways that challenged physics, her legs virtually unchallenged by the bother of gravity, her tiny hands lifting her body by grasping nothing but air. The shine on her creamy brown hair reminded Olivia of plastic wrap over fresh brownies. The girl was like the unchallenged, undoubted, champion sovereign of strippers.

And some douche bag at the end of the table couldn’t agree more. Shirtless, displaying a big garish tattoo that read BLADES 4 LIFE across his excessively pumped chest, he yelled and shouted and cat-called at Seneka, cupping his hands around his mouth and making a relentless series of loud, annoying noises. If there was such thing as love-at-first-sight, Olivia felt the opposite for this guy. And his stupid do-rag.

And apparently someone agreed with Olivia, someone who was more powerful in this realm of strobe lights and alcohol. The do-rag guy looked up, and while following the direction of his eyes, Olivia discovered the balcony above their heads. The man she saw up there, who looked at do-rag boy with heavy paternal disapproval, was beautiful. His tan was such a lovely shade of gold you couldn’t even miss under distracting club lights, and his highlighted hair had a brilliant glow to it, like a halo around his head. He threw down a T-shirt, and with a sneer, pointed firmly down at do-rag. Do-rag caught the shirt, and as dejected as a disciplined schoolboy, slipped the shirt on and gave golden boy the finger.

Olivia wanted to see what was going on up on that second level, but there didn’t seem to be a visible staircase anywhere. There was only one corner she hadn’t explored yet, so she pressed between some drunk, sweaty dancers to check it out. It was a hidden hallway, divided from the rest of the club with a mere beaded curtain, so the only thing offering privacy was deep shadow. A small, reddish glow came from deep within the space, putting a ruby halo around a petite Asian girl who had her face between a man’s open thighs. She was, no doubt, performing fellatio on him – in public. Her head bobbed, and Olivia laughed, covered her face and turned away. No longer finding private corners appealing, she headed for the bar.

There was a small space between a couple people where Olivia could fit to get a drink. She had never bought a drink at a bar before, but she had never seen someone receive a blowjob either. It was a night of firsts.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” shouted the bartender over the blasting beats. He was handsome, wearing a slick, black suit and a charming smile.

“Vodka and orange juice?” yelled Olivia.

“A screwdriver?” yelled the bartender.

“No, vodka and orange juice?”

“Huh?”

“Vodka and orange juice!”

He laughed. “That’s a screwdriver, sweetheart!” He made preparing the drink look like a delicate dance, grabbing glasses and twirling bottles, and in the midst of this, he managed to return a check and credit card to another patron. If this wasn’t enough to prove that he was the king of multitasking, he also seemed to be communicating with someone through a radio clipped to his collar.

“Here ya go,” he said. “It’s on Hero.”

“I’m sorry, what do I owe you?”

“I said it’s on Hero.” And he pointed to a black orb on the ceiling, and Olivia had worked enough retail jobs to know it was a security camera. But who the hell was Hero? Some creepy guy in a security booth somewhere, watching her?

“Tell Hero I said no thanks,” said Olivia, sliding a ten dollar bill down the bar.

The bartender, with a deep cutting frown, slid the ten dollars right back. “Seriously. It’s on Hero.”

The confusion in his eyes was unsettling, but she shoved the money back down the bar anyway. “Seriously, if he’s not going to get his ass down here, he’s not buying my drink.”

The bartender was about to try it again, until someone intervened. A man’s hand joined Olivia’s, took control of the money, and pushed it away for her. She looked up at him, but his pretentious hat made it hard to see his face in the darkness.

“She wants to pay, let her pay,” said the man. “Don’t worry about Hero.”

The bartender nodded, looked at Olivia, and let them be.

“I’m Ace,” the man said with a warm, charming smile. He was good-looking, his look falling somewhere between pretty boy and slick Casanova type.

She told him her name before enjoying a sip of her screwdriver. “Thank you. I didn’t want some creepy old security guy buying my drink. My dad always says nothing’s free.”

Ace busted up laughing. “Hero ain’t old. But he’s got his creepy moments.”

He kept his eyes on her, taking in her image not unlike the way Wildcard had. “You having a good time tonight, chag’ya?”

“What’s chag’ya?”

“Means sweetheart.”

She chuckled. “That’s the fifth time someone’s called me that tonight.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No,” she shrugged. “Well, it kind of did when the first guy did, but I got him to leave me alone.”

“How did you do that?”

“I told him I had a penis.”

He laughed again. “Careful, that one won’t work all the time.”

She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “How do you know I really don’t?”

“I’ve been in this business for a while.”

“You work here?”

“I own here.”

“Cool. Then I should probably let you know I saw some guy getting a blowjob in that hallway down there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He took a big swig of his beer. “Then he’s having a better day than I am.” He met her eyes again. “So what do you think of the club?”

“I think these people like the music so loud because it drowns out the stupidity,” she said. “They don’t have to listen each other talk.”

He laughed once again, a big, deep, hearty laugh. “You sound just like my brother. Why don’t you come upstairs, I’ll introduce you to some good people.”

“Sure, but I have to go to the bathroom,” said Olivia, handing him her drink. “Will you hold this for me?”

“No, no, no,” said Ace, handing it right back. “You gotta keep your drink in your sight at all times. You don’t know me, what if I slip some rope in there? This ain’t Westcliff.”

“How did you know I was from Westcliff?”

He smirked. “Some snow bunny from Westcliff in a Gucci dress wandering in back alleys to get to Club Lanka? And you honestly think people ain’t talking about you?”

People were talking about her? Was she that weird? She looked around the club with fresh eyes, and she was, indeed, a minority in this place. Caucasians were few and far between.

The line from the bathroom was stupidly long. And unfortunately, the area was tucked into the corner deep enough that Olivia had to hear the intellectually abysmal drivel spilling from the excessively glossed lips of the girls in line.

Do-Rag Douche Bag got Olivia’s attention again, but this time he was wearing a shirt and wasn’t making noise. He wasn’t making noise because his mouth was busy, shoving his tongue down the throat of some pretty little pink-haired floozy near the bar. Apparently, around here it was perfectly fine to get your dick sucked in the shadows and tongue wrestle in public – but the golden boy on the second floor would be goddamned if you dared go shirtless.

“My roommate, she use that ring thing,” said a tiny girl with big round, ruby cheeks, but in her teeny tiny booty shorts, the cheeks on her face weren’t the only ones she was sharing with the world. “You know, when you shove that plastic ring up your vag once a month?”

Olivia snickered at the word vag.

“The NuvaRing,” said her tall, skinny cohort who couldn’t stand up straight.

“Right,” said Cheeks. “But she said when her boyfriend, like, fingered her? He pulled it out! And I was like, oh my God, that’s so nasty! What do you use?”

“I’m pregnant,” said her friend. Olivia tried not to laugh too audibly.

“Oh yeah?” Cheeks turned toward Olivia. “Hey, what do you use for birth control?”

“High standards,” said Olivia.

Cheeks frowned. She clearly didn’t get the joke. She relaxed, turning back to lean against the wall. But then her curiosity got the best of her and she asked Olivia something else. “Have you ever fucked on bubble wrap?”

The bathroom was interesting. For one thing, there was a little 40-something Asian lady bathroom attendant who jumped on every girl who left the toilet to squirt soap on her hands, and she was peddling everything from mints to gum to cigarettes to condoms. Condoms. Trays of condoms in the bathroom. Olivia was so dazzled by this, she took a picture of the trays with her phone.

The pink-haired girl, who entered the bathroom with an entourage of three, seemed to be walking too fast and too purposefully for a casual trip to the bathroom. While the crowds around the sinks fixed make-up and talked about nothing, Olivia watched the girl as she and her three friends huddled into the handicap stall. No one else seemed to notice this, which made it all the more intriguing.

What was even more intriguing was when the door swung open and Olivia saw the girl pulling a plastic baggy out of her mouth. One of the other girls gasped and slammed the door shut, making sure to lock it this time. Hm. Seems that pinky’s kiss with the Do-Rag Douche Bag wasn’t just a kiss—it was cargo transfer.

After she did her business and got attacked by the bathroom attendant, Olivia got sucked back into the drunk amoeba of the dance floor. Ace nodded at her, so she followed him into that very same hallway where she saw the oral antics. They trailed down a long row of leather-cushioned benches and lit poster transparencies with Asian artwork that created the exotic, intimate mood. As they trekked deeper and the impact of the music was diminishing, she noticed the series of closed doors they were passing—and the thumps and moans coming from behind them. She was getting nervous, but Ace kept his hand on her lower back the whole time, and it felt pretty nice.

They got to the staircase that she had been searching for earlier, and she was getting excited as Ace led her to the elite second floor. She might get to meet golden boy.

They made it to the top, where the view over the balcony offered a clear cinemascope view of the shenanigans going on downstairs. The walls were decorated with an assortment of plastic, glow-in-the dark stars, making the room feel a little otherworldly and glamorous. There weren’t many people up here, just a tight clique around a big, round, polished oak table to the side of the open space. Seated there playing cards, she saw Wildcard, a thin pretty boy with short, shaggy hair, and that beautiful golden boy. Seneka was standing nearby, her arms folded, glaring down at Wildcard as the golden boy put a fat stack of chips in the center of the table.

“Olivia, this is my crew.” He smiled at her. “That’s my sister, Seneka,” she waved weakly, “that’s Mixer,” the shaggy-haired boy grinned and nodded, “that’s Stone,” golden boy nodded but didn’t smile or look at her, “and you met Wildcard.” Wildcard grinned a big toothy grin but then went right back to his poker game. “Y’all, this is Olivia.”

“Don’t tell me you did it for me,” Seneka said, her focus directed solely at Wildcard. “I didn’t ask you to do nothin’ like that!”

Wildcard was barely acknowledging her. “The dumb fuck was tryin’ to stick his fingers in your coochie right there, while you was on the stage!” He put his cards down. “I fold.”

“Why you gotta be so hard on everybody?!” she cried. “Just kick him out, you don’t gotta beat people up all the damn time. Is that the only way you boys can solve your problems?”

“No,” said Stone with a cigarette stuck to his mouth. “It’s just the most effective way.”

“I fold too,” said Mixer.

Expressionless, Stone collected the chips as Mixer started shuffling the cards.

“I’m tired of people getting hurt because of me,” pressed Seneka.

“Well I’m tired of you runnin’ your damn trap after we help you out instead of sayin’ thank you,” said Wildcard. His back was facing her, and he seemed to be looking at her feet to avoid looking at her face.

Now clearly realizing she was getting nowhere, she turned away and headed for the door. Olivia stopped her before she could get away.

“Sorry, I just wanted to say I think you’re an amazing dancer.”

Seneka, taken back by the random compliment, gave a genuine smile. “Thank you.” She looked back at Wildcard. “And one other thing. You shouldn’t have folded—Stone only had a pair, you dumb fuck.” And she left.

Wildcard glared at Stone. “You fuckin’ cocksucker! I had two pair, you bitch!”

“Dude, she’s pissed,” said Mixer.

“She gonna get over it,” said Wildcard. He looked up at Olivia and Ace with a big fat grin. “How you doin’ sweetheart! Have a seat, make yourself at home.”

She did. Mixer gave her a smile of welcome, but Stone didn’t even make eye contact with her.

“So who’s the guy downstairs?” she asked.

“There are lots of guys downstairs,” said Stone. “Be more specific.”

“The one with the big tattoo.”

Wildcard snickered a little. “Oh, you mean Crash? That fuckin’ dickhead. What, did you feel up on you or somethin’ cause we can deal with him if you want.”

“No, I was just asking.”

They talked bullshit for a while, and continued their poker game, but there really wasn’t any room in their conversation for Olivia, so she wandered toward the balcony to watch the people on the floor. She resting her hand on the railing and sighed. She was bored. But she had an idea—a very bad idea.

Wildcard swaggered to her side. “What’s on your mind, snow bunny?”

“Wildcard…” she said, gripping the railing a little tighter. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

His eyes popped out like someone had inflated his face. “Um, what?”

“I don’t know, I’m just kind of bored. And your friend with the hat doesn’t seem to care about people having sex here, so… I don’t know. Just kinda want something to happen, I guess.”

He lowered his chin. “You for real, girl?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

He took her hand and pulled her toward the door.

“Wildcard, where you going?” Stone shouted. “It’s your turn to deal!”

“Gotta go good things are happenin’ bye!” And he and Olivia disappeared down the hall, leaving jet trails behind them.

He guided her down the stairs, rushing to the hallway. He tried to open as many of those closed doors as he could. Knock, knock. Knock, knock. All locked. Or occupied.

“Goddammit,” he muttered. “Wait. I got another idea.”

And then they were back up the stairs again, rushing down yet another hallway. This place never ended; it was like a lust labyrinth. When they got to the door at the end, Wildcard was in a trembling hurry to get it open.

The room was centered with a large, glossy, hardwood desk, the color of dark chocolate, and the chair behind it wasn’t some ordinary swiveling Ikea piece. Its frame was hand carved from fine wood, boasting its elegance. Stunning bookcases behind the desk had lights built inside of them, illuminating a humble library. Every item in the room was meticulously arranged—an ebony letter tray, an intricate classically-styled lamp, and sophisticated pottery holding a lovely arrangement of flowers. It was like an oasis in hell.

“Something tells me this isn’t your office.”

“Fuck no,” said Wildcard. “This is Hero’s office, but don’t worry, he’s in VIP downstairs doing business, he ain’t gonna bother us.” She was clearly worried, so he put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, I got you girl.” He pointed to the wall. “See that? This is the one room in the joint where there ain’t no cameras, it’s the safest place for this shit.”

The wall was covered in a series of security monitors from corner to corner. Apparently, every detail of the club was under constant surveillance. She saw the girls taking their MySpace pictures, she saw sleazy guys shoving dollars down strippers’ thongs—she even saw inside of the locked rooms where girls were being touched, fondled, and fucked. As Wildcard propped her up onto the desk and spread her legs, she wondered—was this place a brothel? The restroom was being watched too, but it was just the men’s room, not the ladies room. Why watch one and not the other?

Wildcard started to kiss her and his mouth was warm and tasty. It was much more pleasant than she expected it to be… but if she didn’t expect it to be pleasant, why was she doing this? His mouth moved over to the side of her face, tickling her ear and trailing sweet, soft kisses down the side of her neck. It made her smile.

As he started to undo his pants, she looked over the surveillance video. It helped her get wound up, knowing she was at a public place, knowing she could get caught at any second. She bit her lip, scanning the monitors until she saw a group of suits huddled in a private space. She thought it must be VIP as she enjoyed her voyeurism. She gazed on, peaceful and dream-like. Until one of the men looked up.

Deep, almond shaped eyes on an angel’s face made vicious contact with the camera. The stranger’s lips moved as he spoke to the men around him, glancing at them every now and then, but his commitment to the camera was stiff and tenacious. His lips tensed and relaxed, his eyes unable to deny their hardened need to attach to the camera—to attach to her. Somehow, he was looking straight at her.

Wildcard was putting on a condom, and her nerves rattled as she tried to look away. She ran her fingers through Wildcard’s hair, conjuring up some excitement before his entry, but those eyes on the screen kept summoning her back. Calling to her. Putting her under their spell, and before she could run away, she had irretrievably fallen into those eyes.

Wildcard started to pull her panties down and she clamped onto him as if her grasp could slow her heartbeat. That man—that man on the screen was still watching her, his spellbinding eyes judging her, reprimanding her, and oddly, demanding her. Her skin burned, her abdomen ached, and she already knew that if she was going to do this, the man between her legs wasn’t who she would really be fucking.

“Do it,” she moaned, staring into the screen. “Come on, do it.”

But he couldn’t, because just as the moment was about to take off, the door opened. Seneka was mid-sentence, saying, “Hero, you gotta do somethin’ about Wildcard,” when the door flew back in a whirlwind rush and they were caught in the act. Olivia’s mouth went dry on Seneka’s behalf.

In a wicked hurry, Wildcard tucked himself back into his pants, his eyes jumping to and from Seneka’s face. “Baby, hold up—”

She shook, choked out a fraction of a weep, and ran away, disappearing down the hall.

Wildcard charged after her, but paused to look at Olivia as soon as he met the doorframe. “I, uh—I’m sorry. You’re beautiful. I gotta go. Bye.” And he chased the sovereign of strippers into the darkness.

And that left Olivia, alone and awkward, hopping off a perfect desk in a perfect office, pulling up her panties and hating herself—and her night had barely begun.

She looked back up at the monitor. The man was drinking and laughing, in his own world of the VIP room, minding his own business. He wasn’t looking at her anymore.

Tags: Ace, Crash, Hero, Mixer, Olivia, Olivia's Point of View, Seneka, Stone, Wildcard

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 14th, 2009 at 6:38 pm and is filed under The Story. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.