Sneak Peek Redux: Clubbing (Patreon)

Huh, I should've waited a day before posting the sneak peek for this week.  Had another pass at the clubbing scene, and tightened it up a bit.  Trying to capture the booze- and drug-fuelled euphoria of it all, and the swirl of experiences: more rambling and fragmented with the drink, long paragraphs of disjointed images; short, choppy sentences with the drugs along with the shift in PoV.  

In any case, here's the rewrite - hope you enjoy! Hopefully, I'll have the rest of the scene to share by the end of the week. It's meant to be a short one--the chapter's already reaching 20k words and I want to keep this one much shorter than the interlude.  Previous chapters were almost all around 20k in length - now, I can't seem to keep them that short!

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Two: The Story of the Dress

Imagine a dress.

Imagine this specific dress: short—very short; panty-flashing with the slightest bend at the waist. And tight; very tight, hugging curves like a second skin, like a sausage casing, a sheer strapless painted-on tube reaching from tits to thigh. Barely clearing the nipples, a built-in bustier top pushed C-cup tit-flesh upwards in a lewd, jiggling display.

Black sheer fabric embroidered with myriad silver, sparkling sequins in a swirling pattern of stars, veiled and displayed with tantalising hints of naked flesh beneath. Wearing it made of me a fishing lure, dancing and flashing to draw in those primal forces surging beneath the water’s placid surface, sleek, serpentine predators seeking prey. Prey, like me: fresh meat, vulnerable in heels, towering platform sandals and tottering, trotting steps, body shimmering with glitter, silver and steel and pink flashing at wrist and ankle, neck and ear.

Now imagine me dancing: how I swayed and hugged my curves and languidly slid crystal-encrusted nails along iridescent flanks and reached for the ceiling with bare arms, slender shoulders dipping, hips swaying, bangles gleaming, head thrown back and hair glistening like gold under strobing lights to throbbing music. The only thing brighter than the flashing lights was the gleam of gloss on my lips.

Boys orbited us like sharks in the ocean, like pilgrims at a shrine. They circled ever closer, driven by the scent of sex in the air. They circled ever nearer, desperate for a touch, a taste, a moment’s contact with the divine incarnation of their lustful worship. I was the boys’ epiphany, their miracle made flesh; a Madonna on a pedestal; chum in the water.

They circled me and they circled the girls who were with me and they circled our purses and drinks on the floor at the centre of our shifting, sweaty, exultant band of feminine indulgence, concentric rings of beauty and flesh and desire. And I was part of it, me, a man and yet the brightest glittering star of them all, all tits and ass and makeup and minidress and heels, a manifest dancefloor fantasy of youthful vigour and female sensuality.

For all the dresses worn over the past six months, I’d never worn anything like this. Scandalously short, tantalisingly revealing, and tight—perfect for clubbing—worn with platform heeled sandals and hoop earring and glam makeup—dangerously braless, paired with a scrap of lace, g-string panties flossing my ass with each shimmy and shake. Sheer willpower and the outrageous cost of it all was the only thing keeping the whole package veering from ‘sultry’ to ‘slutty’.

It wasn’t a dress many could wear with confidence. Hell, most women I knew would’ve felt insecure in this thing, constantly tugging at hem or neckline, or awkward in the heels, self-conscious at the exposure, embarrassed by the expanse of flesh on display, their whole body and posture betraying their discomfort.

And for David Saunders, wiggling into the tight little thing was like an act of ego-suicide. Wearing this was humiliating. The way it flaunted my assets, shameful.

But fuck me if I didn’t look great in it.

I felt pride in my own sexiness wearing it, and pleasure too. Yes, pleasure: felt as a heat in chest and groin as I primped in the mirror and painted my lips and marvelled at my own audacity, and felt as the hot gaze of men lingered over my flesh. The pride was rooted in youthful sexiness, my ability to draw the admiring gaze, the lustful desire.

However, pleasure and pride stood in agonizing tension with the shame and humiliation. Shame, at the debasement of displaying myself in this way for the enjoyment of men; humiliation, at the utter effacement of masculinity in this girlish presentation. Six months, yes, living this life; but is that all it took, really, to wipe away all presence of the man? Looking in that mirror, I only saw the girl; but there was still a man staring out those eyes and he felt—afraid, at what was coming.

And that dress, and the girls who chose it for me; the shame and humiliation; and the night that carried us to Tartarus, the waterfront club at the edge of the city where I met a boy and what happened after… all of it proved as much a nail in David Saunder’s coffin as anything Julia ever did.

The emphasis on the dress simply highlights, of course, how it stands in for everything that led up to me wearing it that night. Wiggling in musical ecstasy with a thousand other bodies pressing up against me, ensnared in the throbbing swell of bass and the DJ’s craft, tits and ass and abs and strong arms swirling in this bacchanal of youth and fleeting touches: David Saunders, drowning in feminine sensuality.

But in the then and there, in that heaving press of hedonism, I danced. I danced badly and awkwardly at first—very much a man in a dress ashamed and aware of his mincing steps and clown-painted face. And so I drank. I drank so that I could dance, and the liberating weight of drunkenness descended. And then:

Body pressed up against body; hair tossed and gilded, flashing in syncopation with sequins; bums bumping; a flash of nail, lip, eyes wide, pupils dilated, a spray of sweat, the exultant cry and twist and then a boy—not the first, hardly the last—moving in, the grin, flash of white teeth and hungry eyes roaming, lips and tits and legs. Reaching; then interception—thank God for Mel, sliding in between us, the cutting remark and fuck-off body language and a sudden lull in the music….

Hand-in-hand, scooping up purses, a momentary retreat. Standing at a table—no sitting in these outfits!—another round of tiny white tabs dissolving on the tongue—then “Drink up, bitches!”: lick the salt, knock back the shots, suck the lime, grimace. Blossoming warmth and sidling glances at the next table over, grinning boys, not bad looking, what d’you think? Shit—he’s coming over? You look great. He’s looking at you—no, you. Fuck me, look at the size of him—those arms!—think he’s the same below?

Then Emma’s gone with her boy, flashing a smile back over her shoulder, one-half thrilled to one-half panicked. Three of us left—the Slut-keteers?—diverting from dance floor to toilets. Primping in the mirrors, jostling for space: “hey, watch it!” “fuck you,” “love that colour,” “she’s such a tramp”, “may I?” “here, let me” “he said what?”—an ecstasy of fumbling, lipsticks and brushes, and skilled precision, the eye pencil wielded under the influence, mascara, feathering and blending. Unceremonious hiking of pantyhose, twisted skirts, fixed suspenders, tits hoisted back into position and adjusted straps on sandals, then—out again, into the heat and sweat, noise and energy, holding hands threading through the crowds.

Past a couple pressed up against the wall; a trio of guys catcalling; a girl, vomiting against the wall, hair held back by a friend. Past an archway opening into a vaulting chamber filled with foam and shadowy fingers, ivory-lit from beneath; another sloping downwards into darker, heavier music; and back into the rhythmic, pounding beats of our dance floor. Back to short skirts and tight shirts, bared midriffs and tight abs, gleaming lips and finelly stubbled chins.

“Shit, where’s Willow?” “There!” “She’s fine.” “But—” “She’s fine—” and she was dancing with some guy, tossing her head, romper suit and pink bra, arms coiled around his neck. Mel had me by the hand drawing me along, smiling, teeth flashing like fangs, nails digging into palm, and she pulled me close: “feel it yet?” Her voice and breath hot in my ear, tit to tit, arm around my waist. “What?” “Feel it?” “No.” “No?” “Nothing; you?” “I’m—”

And then it hit: a flick of the switch, circuit sparking, the pills kicking in and then the music sparkled, the lights thrummed and her touch flared in ecstatic lines across bare skin. And I grinned: at the impossibility of a thirty-five-year-old man in a tight dress consumed in this frenzy of youth, this agony of hope: all this pointless, wasted, beautiful energy and I was part of it, it was my energy too and I felt connected, I felt blessed, I felt—like a girl, in my flesh and in my soul.

And I felt that dress—that gorgeous dress—and how wonderful it suddenly was, the tightness a loving caress, constriction an exhilarating extension of my femininity, so slick and soft against my skin, and each shining sequin a little sparkle of bliss. Even the pinch of arched feet and towering heels became a projection of my girlishness: precarious, poised, pretty and—coveted. Whatever doubt, fear, or shame I carried with me that night fizzled and faded in that moment, burned away in the fire of an over-heated mind. In that moment there was only room within the diminutive dimensions of my female frame for euphoria, for pleasure and joy: for Cindy.

And Cindy’s chest nearly burst with her newfound freedom. She felt unburdened. She felt loved. She felt wanted. Desire flared in the swirl of eyes around her. But their look was hungry. Their gaze was lustful and masculine. The surge of male bodies nearly overwhelmed her. Darkness nipped at the bubble of her joy. Then two cooling hands found her face. The touch focused her attention. It was Mel. Her grin brought Cindy’s smile back. Her touch brought Cindy to the dance floor. Mel held Cindy close. They held each other under ephemeral light as the music swelled. The music shifted. Suddenly it was Sin-DI. “I know this song!”. Happiness fluttered through her like a shower of pleasant sparks. In her joy she looked at Mel. Cindy saw the passion there, the echoing joy, and again the desire. And wonderfully aware of her own enflamed passion, riding the surrounding sweat and sound, Cindy surrendered to Mel’s advances.

The girls kissed. Berry gloss and peach lipstick and the scent of passion and perfume. Breasts pressed together, hands at waist and hands at neck, and both swayed and Mel spun the smaller girl around so Cindy’s ass ground her crotch. Mel massaged the other girl’s tits and then they were kissing again, stumbling on stilts. “I knew you weren’t such a prissy bitch,” she breathed heavily in Cindy’s ear. “You little slut.” Cindy moaned, lost in the moment, skin on fire with her touch and the sudden, impossible need for denied release.

“Here they come,” Mel said, triumphant.