I move farther away to give Max and Grace a moment’s privacy, scanning the booths. In the first, a couple of people appear to be discussing the merits of two different cages. Beyond that, a few people watch someone climb up on what is possibly a chair made for sex. It’s an attractive, sculptural piece, covered in shiny leather or vinyl.
My attention slides a little farther on to a set up with two people trapped in a wooden device that looks like those old-fashioned stocks. Stockades? The device has been set up perpendicular to where I stand, so that I can see their heads and hands on one side and their naked asses on the other.
I look up, surprised to see none other than Lamé, in a glittery, low-cut wrestling singlet, fishnets, and rainbow roller skates, swooping up and back, slapping their bare asses with a crop one way and then the other.
Lamé’s movements are languid and graceful, their hair flowing out in a silky wave behind them, in contrast to the sharp, quick flick of the crop. With each hit, the men twitch and grunt or moan or shriek. It’s kind of sexy and kind of silly and quite the spectacle.
I watch, fascinated by this window into Lamé’s world. They’ve been so kind and helpful with me, full of advice and opinions, but not particularly forthcoming about how they spend their time at camp.
I guess I’m not all that surprised to see that Lamé is dominant and charismatic and more than a little theatrical in the way they play out their scenes.
Max and Grace come up beside me.
“Aren’t they amazing?” asks Grace.
I nod, entranced as the two prisoners squirm and shift against their bonds, their responses so different it’s like watching two different scenes at once. With every pass, Lamé hits a different part of them and, with every pass, they seem to like it more. The groans turn to grunts, one of them goes silent. The blond. A partner of Lamé’s, I remember them saying.
At one point, he stiffens and curls in on himself, the pleasure so blatant that I’ve got to look away.
“Whoa,” I say, breathing a little harder now.
“Hot, right?” Max wiggles her eyebrows. “Lamé’s so fun to watch. Such good flow.”
Lamé glances up, catches sight of us, and gives us a wink and a bow before bending to stroke the face of their person. The move is tender and unexpected. There’s a mastery to their movements. A confidence that speaks of experience and the deep joy they find here, as well as obvious affection. The connection between Lamé and their play partners is obvious, even from a distance.
“Twy?” Grace nudges me with her elbow, drawing my eye from Lamé’s scene. “See anything you want to try?”
“Tonight’s the night,” says Max.
“You two good?” I look from Max to Grace and back. “I understand if you want to hang just the two of you. Please don’t feel like you need to babysit me or anything.”
“Nope. We’re good. Just needed to catch up.” They look at each other and smile with such complicity that I gulp back a sharp pang of missing Gigi. It’s like homesickness when I don’t see her for so long.
“Come on,” Max takes my arm again. “It’s fun showing you around. What’ll it be?”
I shrug. “I’ll know when I see it, I guess.”
“So, I have a theory. If you want to hear it.”
“This’ll be good,” says Grace. “Max’s theories are gold.”
“About what?”
“Zed.”
My breath leaves me in a whoosh and I slow down. “All right. Go ahead.”
“I think there might be a little bit of a Madonna-whore complex happening.”
“Whore. God, I hate that word,” Grace grumbles.
I say, “Me, too.”
“Yep. Love slut though.” Max puts on a fake British accent. “Why is thy lord so sluttish, I thee pray?”
“What is that?”
“Chaucer,” she says, with an impish smile. “Anyway, I think what we’re talking about is more a Vanilla/Kinky thing. Zed’s thing with you, I mean.”
