“No.” I pause. “Yes. But, she’s not.”
“You of all people know you can’t tell by just looking at someone.”
“No, but, she and I…”
I shut my mouth.
Lamé’s head tilts to one side as their attention narrows and focuses. “You what?”
“Nothing,” I say, fast and a little frantic. I can’t dwell on the things I feel when it comes to Twyla. I fucked up. And it’s over. That’s my focus. Fix and forget.
“Was it worth it?” Liev’s voice cuts right through me.
“Huh?” I blink.
“The woman.” All three pairs of eyes watch me closely. “The video.”
Not in a million years. The worst goddamn decision I ever made. “Fuck, no,” I spit out, harsher than I intended. I swallow back half the drink, hoping it obliterates everything in its path.
My friends agree in silence.
7
Twyla
Early in my career, I learned that if I wanted to be taken seriously, I needed to play the part from the second I walked into a casting call or an agent meeting. I’d dress for the role I wanted and act like the person I’d be portraying…and then I’d stick to it. It’s not method acting exactly. I didn’t talk to the crew ofA Midsummer Night’s Dreamas Titania or anything annoying like that. But I definitely held myself straighter when I played that part. It helped to channel her unerring self-confidence.
I do the same thing the next evening as I open the door to the kink camp dungeon and step into the hot, loud, crowded space. Except I’m not Titania here.
I’m a seductress.
And I look the part, too, although I can’t say the confidence has fully set in quite yet, despite Gigi’s multiple pep talks.
I wish she were here, holding in giggles and strutting her stuff beside me so I didn’t feel like such an outsider.
No. No, I belong here. I can do this, I decide, throwing my shoulders back, letting my vinyl-clad breasts lead the way.
The space is a massive barn, converted into what looks like a permanent play area—or rather, areas. The door slams closed behind me, forcing my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light and I’m assailed with new sights and smells and sounds. At first, it could almost be a club in here, or a big party, with music and laughter, low overhead lights hanging from a cathedral ceiling. But then specific noises pop out of the morass—flesh slapping flesh, moaning that’s too long and loud and low to be anything but sex. Or pain.
I shiver and look around. Most everyone’s in dark, sexy clothes, or few clothes, or none. Some wear nothing but a collar, some are in full, head to toe vinyl, even their faces covered.
I send up a quick prayer to Gigi for ordering my outfit, take another deep, nervous breath, and forge farther inside.
My high-necked bodysuit, while blessedly full-coverage, is the most blatantly sexual thing I’ve ever worn. It zips from the top of its mock turtleneck, down my front, under my body and then back up to the top of my butt on the other side. My body’s like a suitcase waiting to be opened. I added a flippy faux-leather miniskirt, which at least makes me feel dressed, and went for mid-sized heels instead of the massive spikes Gigi ordered. Up top, I’ve got on a sort of Cat Woman mask with a zipper at the mouth. Only my eyes are visible.
A huge, mostly naked, very, very hairy person bumps into me on their way out the door. I automatically tense up, ready for some kind of clash.
“Oops. So sorry,” the person says, smiling under their mask. “Need some air.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I jump out of the way of the door, feeling foolish and awkward.
What am I doing here?
I consider turning around and leaving, but I’d regret that. So, I grab ahold of the jitters, try to pretend it’s just stage fright, and walk deeper into the big space.
Carefully, I look at the few faces I see close to the entrance. There’s a tiny white woman dressed as a sexy fairy.
Okay. Not Zion.
