A friend invited me to a Lesbian Rave Fetish Virtual Reality party and I assumed if I said no, another party of its kind would not materialize.  I dug into my closet for the shirt and pants I bought in East Berlin during my rubber fetish period.  After I greased them properly, I was able to pull them on, knowing later they would have to be ripped off of me in shreds if not scraped with a squidgy.  I took a cab to the abandoned warehouse downtown. Thankfully, my name was on the list, so duck-tape door lady, ushered me into the holding tank bar they called purgatory.


It’s dangerous to be aware of scents around you before you get a visual.  I couldn’t help be reminded of the dank musty smell from the Pirates of the Caribbean tour ride mixed with hints of Obsession, Angel, Patchouli and oddly a little ck1 around the edges.  I ordered a surfer on acid just as a warm body approached me from behind.  I tried to move closer to the bar so she could order a drink, but she just slid in tighter against me.  I placed my hand on her thigh, thinking she’d either give me more breathing room or the number of her hotel room.  Her legs were bare and feminine, yet muscular.  She removed my hand slowly as if to say, not yet, and not ever.

Long legs, I thought, must be easy for her to reach the canned goods.

She leaned her face against mine and spoke.  “Nice rubbers.”  She said as she grasped a piece of rubber from my ass and released it to snap back and sting me.

I tried not to flinch or encourage more of that behavior.  Again, she whispered into my good ear.  Both my ears are good, but this one felt particularly good.  “Do you wanna take this to the next level?”

I suspected this was a double entendre, but I was nervous and said the first thing that came to me.  “I don’t know.  What’s your name?”

“Names would just complicate things.”  She responded.

“Wow, you must have a really hard name.”  I said.

She placed her arms around me and spun me to face her.  I could feel her breath about to reach my lips, when she spoke, breaking my trance.

“You are now invited to the VIP room in Hell, here’s your stamp.”  She said as she pressed a henna soaked block of wood against my wrist.  She grabbed my hands forcefully while leading me like a punished child to a door she opened, pivoted out of the way and shoved me out.  I felt sort of abandoned by her after all we had meant to one another.  I propelled my way down some slow turning aluminum rotisserie hallway where I passed two nose rings and a tongue piercing.  I stopped to talk to them.  “Hey, do you chicks know where the Hell is?”  I asked happily.

They glared at me as if I were establishment trash, rolled their eyes and walked on.

“Obviously you’ve just come from there.” I said.

Instinctively, I headed downward to where I thought hell would be located and my intuition wasn’t wrong.

I showed the door ladies my stamp that had saturated my skin so deeply, I was now contemplating tattoo removal.


I figured I’d be easily admitted into hell if for no other reason then that I had been wallowing, obsessing and generally not living in the present for the past six months over my past break-up.  They opened the doors into a large ballroom filled to the brim with over a hundred attractive women standing and dancing before me feigning naughtiness, guilt and exclusivity.  I directed my sights on the bar, a location I’m drawn to when feeling overwhelmed by physical beauty that’s not my own.  That or I go to bed with the person.  But there were too many people, and from what I could see, not enough beds.  I ordered something stiff, then followed that with a drink.


I noticed a large round red couch beckoning to me so I put it out of its misery.  It was about as comfortable as a couch could be without sitting on itself.  I figured someone would come looking for me and my assumption was met with an immediate virtual reality response.  Into the cushions next to me fell a girl with a velvet choker that hid her entire neck.  Chokers convey straight-girl-on-a-testing-mission to my cerebral cortex.  It has been my experience that unless the choker is made from leather with metal dangling rings, it belongs to a breeder.  You may get lucky and discover she’s Bi, but she’ll never love you like she does the boys.  You have to ask yourself if you’ll always want to fly with hardware in your carry-on.

“How do you like hell so far?”  She said as she reached toward my hand, grasping it lovingly and slipping a note between my fingers.

“Its great, unless you’re handing me a bill.”  I lifted the note to read it.  She lowered my hands.

“Don’t read that until I leave. I don’t want your girlfriend to know about us.”

Her terminology took me off guard.  “I have a girlfriend?”  I said wondering if my memory was faulty and I was lying to get laid, yet again.

“Well, whatever you’re calling her these days is not my business.”  She put her hand on my inner thigh and gave me a squeeze. “I’m almost more turned on that she is your girlfriend.”

“Well, I guess she is then.” I said as I began to dissolve in the vortex of her light blue eye, the green one was another story.

“That’s what I thought,” She said, “Anyway, just read the note, it will explain everything.” And then Girl-with-Eyes-Clashing gave my leg another squeeze and walked away.

I opened the note.  Inside I could barely read the phone number or the foreign scrawl that would take a bottle of French wine and a sexy translator to decipher.  But alas, all I had was my own freezing hand grasped tightly around a pink drink with some plastic mermaid gripping the rim for dear life.  I was starting to get a burning sensation rising from the couch and I was pretty sure it was coming from me.  I had teaser burn from all the unrequited attention.  I had to get some action and Hell was feeling counter-intuitively tame.  I moved on.


I didn’t get to see every room in that giant throbbing rave, but I did find Christa-belle soaking in a bathtub in the “Bathroom.”  It was a giant room filled with every style tub from the claw foot to a modern deviled egg shape.  Some tubs were filled with sand, others with pebbles, flowers, fabric and the one Belle was immersed in smelled distinctly like coffee grounds.

“Care for a nib?”  She said in an English accent as I passed.

Thankfully I knew that a nib is the outer shell of the coffee bean and probably had nothing to do with her being deliciously naked underneath beans. A bare introduction is a bold statement, especially when you can work in the word nib.

“I hope you are speaking to me.”  I said, “I’ve had a hard night, and I want it to get softer before it gets hard again.”

“Jump in.”  Said she.

I joined her in her tub and before long I was scrubbing her back with my teeth, since I couldn’t seem to find a loofah.

People say you only meet someone when you’re not looking.  You can meet people when you are looking; they just tend to be peculiar.  Lucky for me I like the fringe players.