My palms are so sweaty I had to wrap a napkin around my drink to keep from dropping it. My cheeks are hot, and I know without looking that my neck and chest are probably splotched with red.
I don’t know what I was thinking coming here by myself—
No.I give myself a firm, mental shake. No more of that. I’ve thought about this long and hard—even made an Excel spreadsheet of pros and cons—and decided to give it a try. I can’t let my negative thoughts ruin something that might be amazing. I refuse to talk myself out of this.
And, if it’s not, I can always cancel my membership. I have thirty days to do so with a full refund, otherwise, I’ll forfeit the hefty fee I paid to join this exclusive club.
At the thought of said fee, my stomach twists uncomfortably. It was beyond irresponsible of me to put that much money on my credit card, but I’ve never been impulsive a day in my life, and something about this place, about that man…
I shiver with anticipation and push all negative thoughts aside.
I’m going to give this a shot.
Something tells me that if I turned tail and ran out of here right now, I’d regret that decision for the rest of my life, always wonderingwhat if.
The energy is electric within The Rabbit Hole, so much more so than that party in the Hollywood Hills. It’s like the entire club is abuzz with collective anticipation. I repeatedly find my arms pebbled with gooseflesh.
From what the desk clerk told me when she helped me with all the documents I had to fill out to join, gathering here tonight is a mix of longstanding members and people who have joined the club in the month since the last welcome night, which means I lucked out on joining tonight so I can participate in this welcome event.
Perfect timing, even though I delayed and nearly talked myself out of doing this.
As I scan the people around me, I try to guess how long they’ve been members, what they’ve experienced since they joined…
I wish Mo was here, but she’d been pretty clear about her disinterest after the Hollywood Hills party; I couldn’t bring myself to even tell her I’d come to a decision about joining.
It feels weird not to share this with her, but also, sort of exhilarating. My own little secret.
The lights in the room go even darker, then a stage at the front of the room is lit up with soft lighting. The conversations around me die down to hushed whispers and I settle onto a barstool to watch what happens next.
“Welcome,” a man says as he strides onto the stage. “I am Master Dante, the Ombudsman for the Hollywood location of The Rabbit Hole.” The crowd cheers, and I try to clap without spilling my mocktail, making a note to look up that word—Ombudsman—when I get back to my phone, which is currently tucked away in a locker room with, I’m assuming, everyone else’s cellular devices. It was unsettling at first, leaving my cell behind, but now it feels freeing, like I’ve truly escaped somewhere special.
I can experience whatever tonight has in store for me without interruption.
And the lack of cellular devices within the club adds to the overall feeling of safety and confidentiality.
Clapping makes my drink spill out of my glass, so I set it on the nearest counter. It’s good enough, but I’d hoped to be able to sip on some bourbon, something a bit stronger than pea flower tea, soda water, and simple syrup—or whatever this is. It’s a subtle lavender shade and decorated with tiny edible flowers, but not being able to drink means experiencing all of this without anything to settle my nerves. I like that, too, how, like removing cell phones, limiting intoxication is all about the safety of the guests on welcome nights. But it doesn’t make my first time here any easier.
My mind is racing nearly as rapidly as my heart.
Waving his hands to quiet the audience, the man on the small stage continues, “It’s the first Thursday of the month, which means many new faces. We’re pleased that you’ve come. Whether you are here as the guest of one of our seasoned members or you’ve received a personal invitation from myself or another Mistress or Master, we welcome you with open arms.” He waits as the crowd cheers, then falls quiet again. “We have a strict set of rules here at The Rabbit Hole, the first of which is strongly rooted in a term you might already be familiar with: SSC.”
A woman in the audience whoops.
“For those of you unaware, that stands for—”
The audience says the words along with the man on stage: “Safe, sane, and consensual!”
He inclines his head, then, motioning toward what I was told is usually the dance floor, now packed with tables and chairs full of people in various stages of undress, he continues, “As you can see, the nucleus of The Rabbit Hole is a social lounge. It is set up like this in every location, from L.A. to Manhattan. Your sponsors should have gone over the rules with you, but on the off chance someone has forgotten their responsibilities, there isabsolutelyno playallowed in this social area.” He pauses again, letting that statement sink in.
My stomach tickles with butterflies. I don’t think I actuallyhavea sponsor. I feel like I somehow slipped in without one, unless listing Dominus as my sponsor without his permission counts. The girl didn’t really say anything, just snuck away to make a phone call, then came back and told me I was good to go.
Then she set me loose in the club and I’ve done little else since then.
I’m nearly paralyzed by my own fear, but thankful that I happened to show up here on a welcome night. Even without a sponsor, it seems I’ll get a pretty good sense of what to expect while I’m here, and with all of these other—assumedly—newbies, maybe I can just linger and get the feel of this place without any pressure to… do stuff.
I gulp, then bring my chilled glass to my cheek to cool myself down, twirling it back and forth against my skin to soak up all of the condensation that has built up on the glass.
What am Idoinghere? Making the commitment to join has made this all so much morereal. Do I really belong here? Do I fit in? Am I too old? Too inexperienced?
