April 30, 10:00pm
It was Fetish Ball at Area 51. Cosplay theme. It was getting packed. I was sitting at the electric play station with Lana and her friends N and J. N and J were married and they were the only ones certified to use the mild electric devices on anyone. Lana was learning, but since it was all fun and games for the Fetish Ball, there wasn’t any reason for her to be taught. We all had arrived three hours earlier to set up the station, get “demo” passes and start drinking and smoking earlier than everyone else. When the doors opened at 8, only a few trickled in. A Pikachu, some go-go dancers and a androgynous ninja who walked like a man, but had the body and danced like a woman. I sat for a long time, until N and Lana wanted me to get zapped first. To entice the others coming to the floor. I laid on my back, shirtless, on the massage table used for the delightful torture. N proceeded to use several different plug-ins for some kind of electrical wand. Small ones with tips no bigger than a rosebud that glowed green and purple; larger, hot dog length ones that for me gave me the most jolts. Later, I’d be told that its usually the least painful, but apparently N had the juice up at the time. I’d been electrocuted by choice before, so the pain was nothing new, but the sensation afterward was something interesting. Burning, yet mild. Like I’d been wrapped in a very caring electric whip.
Around 10:10pm, my two co-workers M and C showed up. I had never hug with them, or really anybody else from work, outside of the site, so this was new for us. C had convinced M to come out for her birthday party, also at Area 51, earlier in the month and he mostly sat and watched the fun. A shy 29 year old Utah native. We wanted him out of his shell so he could enjoy life a bit more and a bit further away from the video games he loved so much. We made our way to the bar and I filled them in on the short list of rules in Area, all ones I had been told not an hour before after faux paus-ing. No drinks on the dance floor (the one I discovered), no touching anyone who doesn’t want to be touched: guy or girl, no smoking inside and if a big guy with a earpiece says to do something: do it!
C was dressed in jeans and a dark shirt that hung below her shoulders with some kind of gold painted in what looked like a heart-ish shape. She had a very in your face personality for the most part, which I liked a lot, but she was also very standoffish. I never really knew where I stood with her other than being friends, and I was happy with just friends M looked like he had walked right out of Brigham Young’s Clothes for Men and Mormons. Dark beige zip up sweater, khakis and the look of a man out of his element. He stood out like a Jew in Japan. I was in my black Snakes on a Cane shirt from House M.D., straight black army jacket with sleeves rolled up to keep my new tattoo airing, my black red lambda hat, jeans and kind of worn black steel toed boots that have become my own pair of footwear. I told my friends if anyone asks, I’m Dr. Gregory House in college.
After getting drinks and waiting around ten minutes for a table to open up, C, M, and I moved to what Lana called “her corner”. It was one of two places where you could get a really good look at the dance floor. There was a counter for your drinks and stools to sit on. We all sat and talked and C finished up her Jack and Dr. Pepper. I had downed my rum and coke as soon as it was in my hand. Not long after finding our stools, two girls I had noticed on the floor in the earlier deader part of the night walked into the corner. One was skinny, had three giant old school punk spikes for hair, glasses and a blue plaid dress. She looked very nerd. This was Spike. Her friend, her very drunk friend cradling a bottle of Raspberry Smirnoff Ice, Seasons, was a chubby little thing but not in the recoiling way. Her tits were masterfully displayed through a white shirt with all the right rips in it, the holes which she played constantly with. On her pelvis was black pleather short-shorts which attached to thick, spaced out fishnet stockings and very furry white shin high boots. Her face was alright if she didn’t show her teeth, which were a little off. I gave her a 4.5, but was later told each tit deserved a point, so she was bumped up to 5.5.
Seasons sauntered, well, more like stumbled, over to C and said straight up, “I like shiny things. Can I swoop?”. She was pointing to the gold on C’s shirt. C tentatively agreed and Seasons started to swat at the shirt, her hands softly smacking C’s tits hidden under the drooping top. We all started talking to this new entertaining girl. Soon, Seasons, with Spike at her back watching her with laser focus, then asked C if she liked girls. C said no. The girl’s attention focused to M and I. After some small talk, she asked if we were gay. I said no as did M. She continued on about us being gay, not specifically with each other, but just in general. This is where change came to fruition.
It started with my body heating up. I felt flush and aggressive. My heart was beating and my fingers began to tingle. My mind had only one thing on its mind: sex. Touching. Kissing. Females and mating. Females and their lips, their skin, their smell. I looked to C, going back to thoughts of taking her home on a day we were to hang out, but never happened. She didn’t return calls. Busy. Bad times. Such is. It didn’t matter at that moment. My entire being needed to attack. But, when I looked at her, she was looking at Seasons, disinterested and far. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t ready. So, my eyes turned to our new friend. The energy coursing through me was overwhelming. It was power I had never felt before. It was anxiety, but reversed. Everything said GO! GO! GO!
I motioned with my index finger to Seasons. Come closer, it said. She leaned in. I looked at the slut, her head slightly tilted to hear me, and I said, “I’m not gay. I’ll prove it.” In the split second she turned her head to put her eyes on me I kissed her. Her lips felt amazing. Soft, wet and smooth. They were new. Four years of the same woman. The same lips. The same old shit day after day, and now there was something different. It was what my animal brain wanted. I could feel her pull from the kiss so I pressed in again, keeping it lasting for just a bit longer, then let her pull away. C and M had dropped jaws. Spike looked surprised, but really wasn’t. Seasons licked her lips and had a wry grin, saying “Wow.”, like it was unexpected, but it wasn’t. This girl knew what she was and so did I. My last night in Salt Lake was about to get a whole lot better. “Since I kissed you, I should get your name,” she said, slightly slurring the darling words of the hamster. I gave it, then she moved to M and and he gave his name. The tingle ran through my entire body, the heart pumped, the brain was on fire. The GO! GO! GO! Had become the complete opposite. Now, my body was saying what just happened? Why did you do that? Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! Chuck Yager must of felt the same way when breaking the sound barrier.
Soon, she was next to me constantly, swooshing shiny things and pressing up on me. Spike took her away at least once to see other people and to generally get her away from the man who just stole a kiss or two. My friends still looked at me wide-eyed and I gave back a shit eating grin. When the two were away, M and C talked. Of the costumes. Of the ticklish man on the electrical play bench, N enjoying his spasms every time she laid the sparks on his body. I told them I needed to practice. Practice what, they questioned me. “It’s not like I can take her home,” I replied. I was staying with Lana and her fiancée Adrian. That afternoon I became officially homeless. Moving out of my apartment, all my stuff packed tight into the car. I had no place to take her. Lana had planned more partying after Area 51. I could of brought Seasons along, taken her up to somebody’s bedroom. I could of snagged a condom from somebody and headed towards one of the bathrooms. Yet, two things weren’t there, the most prominent in my mind being I just didn’t want to. The second, and the one I made excuses for when I asked why it didn’t go any farther, was Spike. Spike was the good friend. The watcher of drunk sluts. The preventer of strange men inserting their penises into young, stupid Seasons. I could of tried to sneak Seasons away. But, instead of a thousand ways to get caught or have awkward looks or things of that nature, I decided it was best to keep it easy, keep it simple and work my new found, body-wide, being-integrated game.