End of the Night

On misty nights I walk the Amsterdam streets alone with a knit cap pulled down over my brow. But on this clear starry night, I'll make an exception and leave my house unfettered by a disguise. Its Halloween night; my favorite night of the year, where I can go outside without people gawking at me. Children don't point and burst into tears; women don't shrink away in horror. I can go to bars and mingle, dance with pretty women and sometimes, get one to accompany me home. Halloween night is the only night where my bat face and pointed ears are admired as special effects prosthetics; the only night when I'm not reviled as a hideous creature. Even a cursed man deserves a break.

I never dress in a costume. I dress to attract women. Tonight, I paired a grey dress shirt with a hand tailored black wool suit and freshly shined black shoes straight out of GQ magazine. I looked at my reflection in a full length mirror. My body looked perfect in my natty suit. With the exception of my hairless face, I looked good. With a spritz of cologne and my signet ring firmly on my finger, I stepped out of my house and into my waiting car.

For a thousand Euros, I booked a VIP section on the mezzanine level of the VanderBund Lodge, the best nightclub in Amsterdam. I stepped out of my car and knifed my way through the waiting crowd where the doorman welcomed my arrival. The party was in full gear with bass beats and tribal drums thumping throughout the crowded hot club. The women were dressed in the skimpiest of outfits, the gays were glorious peacocks, and the straight men, they put little effort into their costumes that were either goofy or gory. The colorful lights, the laughter. The clinking glasses, the mix of bodies and smells and good cheer had by all. I was enthralled by it all. I walked up the stairs and was let into my red lit VIP section where I waited for bottle service. A scantily clad female pirate with blonde hair and a stuffed parrot on her shoulder appeared to take my order and returned with my beer and a dram of whiskey. She set my drinks on one of the small round tables and yelled above the music, "I love your makeup. Do you work in special effects?"

"No. A woman did this to me."

"She does really good work," she said, before leaving.

Yes, Esma, you did this to me you fucking witch!

I downed my beer and whiskey to rid myself of her memory before heading down to the dance floor. I've always been a good dancer; first with the Vienna waltz, then the Charleston. I enjoyed doing the Twist and am quite good at popping. Dancing helps me forget my shortcomings. I was happily dancing without a partner on the crowded disco dance floor, when a girl danced up to dance with me. She was eyeing me with big hazel eyes as though I were a prize. She was dressed up like the English songstress, Amy Winehouse. Her costume was a tight chartreuse dress with a sweet heart neckline. Her hair was styled into a black beehive with a fall of hair down the back. She had the same upper arm tattoos as Miss Winehouse though I suspect they were temporary. But it was her black cat eye eyeliner and atomic red lipstick that reminded me of a prostitute that I frequented named Zelda. She wore a bullet brassiere which is out of fashion today. She wasn't sweet or kind. She didn't cater to me out of pity. Zelda was in it strictly for the money and was the only woman who wasn't afraid of my cock. She disappeared from East Berlin in 1962. Shame. I loved her oral ministrations.

My little Miss Winehouse danced with her arms raised in the air before turning around to grind her perky ass into my crotch. I wrapped my arms around her small waist. My cock nestled into the crack of her ass which I truly enjoyed. We danced that way for the remainder of the song and when it melted into a faster beat, I released her. She turned around to face me and continued to tease my masculinity with her body. I matched her moves with ones of my own before asking, "Want to join me in the VIP lounge?"

"Can I bring my friends?" she asked pointing at four other girls; a Harley Quinn, a masked Cat Woman, a woodland fairy and a naughty school girl.

"Sure."

She motioned for them to come and the giddy women followed. I gestured for them to climb the stairs. They tittered with laughter as the club man unlatched the red velvet rope for us to enter. And as I walked behind my little Miss Winehouse, I delighted at the sight of her legs as she teetered in shiny black stiletto shoes. The ladies settled onto the couches while Miss Winehouse sat beside me.

I asked, "Would you ladies care for champagne?"

"No!" replied my dance partner. "Tequila!"

"Tequila!" the ladies exclaimed.

When our server appeared, I ordered two bottles of Don Julio 1942. As we waited for her return, I introduced myself. "Hello, ladies. I'm Gustav."

My dance partner leaned into me and said, "I'm Delphina. That's Lina, Kiki, Sabrina and Jaina."

With a flirty little wave of their hands, they replied, "Hi, Gustav."

"Are you German?" asked Delphina.

"Yes."

"I can hear your accent. So am I. I mean my parents are Greek but I was born in Munich."

I nodded at her revelation and we spoke for a while before our conversation was interrupted when the server returned with a tray full of shot glasses, lemon wedges, salt shakers and four hundred Euros worth of premium tequila. I poured the shots, splashing liquor as I filled the row of glasses. They happily picked up their glasses and with a toast to me, they knocked them back like pros before licking the salt and sucking on the lemon wedges. They shivered before smacking down their glasses.

The blond girl dressed in a green corset with lime green gossamer wings leaned forward and said, "I love your costume. The Gentleman Monster; so chic. And your make-up is amazing. Are those silicone prosthetics?"

"They're not prosthetics. They're real."

"Really?"

"Do you believe in fairy tales?"

They remained quiet.

"When I was a little boy, my governess read fairytales to me. I came to realize that most fairytales did not have happy endings. I asked my father, 'Why do fairytales end so badly?' He told me, 'People think fairies are magical little women with wings when, in actuality, they're monsters.' I never believed in fairytales until I became trapped in one of my own making."

The girls exchanged confused glances and when a popular club song pierced the mood, the naughty school girl jumped up and exclaimed. "Oooh, I love this song."

She jumped up to dance and the rest followed, dancing at the railing to show off to the crowd below. They danced wild and free, preening and flinging their hair about as they gyrated to the beat. And the people below watched these wild women. Men stood at the bar staring up at the red lit section on the mezzanine floor. I, like the men below, enjoyed watching them, giggling and thoroughly enjoying their freedoms. And when the liquor ran dry, they departed like locusts, taking their party down to the club's main floor where people were eager to meet them. All except for Delphina.

"So your face is for real?" she asked, in German.

"Yes," I replied, pleased that she was speaking our native tongue.

"I'm into body modification. People pay good money for your face."

I ran my hand over my hairless chin. "Believe me, this was not intentional."

"Were you born this way?"

"No."

"What happened?"

"It's too noisy in here to explain. Come back to my place. I'll tell you the whole story."

"Where do you live?"

"I own a house on Prinsengracht."

"Nice," she said, impressed that I owned a house on a street of posh homes overlooking a picturesque canal. "Let's go."

"You don't find me creepy and repugnant?"

"I'm into oddities. You have an old world charm about you that I find....intriguing."

She wasn't frightened. She was curious.

I texted my driver that I was ready to leave. Delphina and I downed the last of the tequila. She rubbed her hand over my thigh. Her big hazel eyes and full lips added to her seduction. When my ride buzzed it's arrival, I took her hand and together, we departed the VIP section. We stopped at the coat check to retrieve her black leather biker jacket before leaving the club for the cold autumn air. My driver was waiting in my obsidian black Mercedes-Maybach with tinted windows. He opened the door for Delphina. She slid across the plush leather seat before I took a seat beside her. When my driver shut the door, we were instantly cocooned in warm luxury.

She looked around the car's interior and said, "The car, the house; what do you do for a living?"

"Nothing. My father had an import business and owned a rubber plantation in Ceylon back in the early 1900s. Through some careful investments, I've grown my family's wealth to where I can live comfortably without many cares."

"So how do you spend your day?"

"I exercise every day, watch tv, study economic markets around the world."

"That sounds kind of lonely."

"I rarely feel alone. I may be a hermit but I have internet friends all over the world. And you, what do you do?"

"I'm a student. I'm working on a dual degree in psychology and art."

"And how do you pay the bills?"

"I'm a barista at a coffee house."

We talked about her interests and the weather and speculated on who'd win the next World Cup. My car pulled up to my house at little after midnight. My driver opened the car door for Delphina as I exited on the other side. The rising mists from the canal's water obscured the square house lights of moored houseboats and homes across the canal. It was the perfect backdrop for a creature of the night.

"It's so beautiful here," Delphina said, as she joined me on my front step.

We walked into my fully renovated home. It was stylish yet comfortable with a mix of modern furniture and my treasured possessions collected throughout the years. I led her to my cool green sitting room in the front parlor lit by recessed ceiling lights. She looked at my art collection, lingering at a Picasso, as I poured two snifters of cognac. I handed her a glass and she settled onto a couch. I sat in a plush chair across from her. She looked comfortable, unafraid, waiting of what may unfold. I hit a remote control and turned on some sensual Arabian music. I pressed another button which started a fire in the fireplace. We listened to the music for a while and sipped our cognac before she said, "So, tell me your story. What happened?"

"I was once a handsome man."

I picked up the framed yellowed black and white photograph of me dressed in my best suit and handed it to her.

Her mouth widened. "Oh my God. You looked like a movie star."

"Thank you. I'm flattered."

She set my photo on a nearby table and asked, "How old are you?"

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "One hundred and twenty two."

"Seriously? You're immortal?"

"I don't know. I've never challenged death. Like I said before I'm in a nightmare of my own doing."

"My father died when I was twenty three. I had just graduated from university so being his only child and my mother deceased, I took over all of his business dealings. After I confirmed that the import business and plantation were running well, I turned my attention to my family's country estate in Bavaria. I relocated to our country house for the summer. I was reviewing the estate's tenant books, seeing how much the tenants pay in rent and if anyone was delinquent. That's how I discovered a house on the books I'd never seen before. I knew everyone who lived on the estate, every building, every drinking water well. There was only one name listed as a resident: a woman named Esma Bashaldé. For reasons unknown to me, Esma was living on our estate rent free. She paid no taxes, provided no services, produced nothing. I asked the village locals about her at the beer garden. They claimed she was a gypsy who became lost or banished from her tribe, whoever you're inclined to believe. So one day, I saddled my horse and rode into our woods looking for Esma's house. I followed a faint trail on the forest floor and a hand drawn map. A short time later, I found her hovel set amongst the trees. She opened the door as I dismounted. Esma was an older woman, at least twenty years my senior. She had white streaks in her long black hair, but her beauty was undeniable. She had a trim figure and high cheek bones. I informed her that she had to pay rent. She offered me the same arrangement she had with my father; the occasional sexual tryst in exchange for being left alone."

I got up to pour more cognac into my glass. She presented her glass which I topped off before sitting once more. I warmed my cognac by swirling it before continuing my saga.

"I must admit, I was an entitled brat back then; a rake, a playboy. Anything I wanted was mine. Such was my logic that Esma being on my land made her mine. So I made that deal with her; sex in exchange for paid rent. Her lovemaking was truly a wonder as she licked or touch every inch of me. But after a few weeks, I tired of her and demanded rent. When she refused, I returned the with my estate's caretakers while she was out, threw her possessions out of her shack and burnt it to the ground."

"Well that was a dick move."

"Indeed."

I sipped my cognac but it was hardly relaxing as my mind returned to that horrible night.

"A week later, I was asleep in my bed when I felt a presence in my room. Something malevolent was watching me. I turned over and there in the moon light stood Esma. The windows were shut but a wind brewed about her and when my papers began to swirl around the room, she began to shriek at me."

I pointed a finger at Delphina and imitated Esma's screeching voice. "'You are a monster inside so I will make you one on the outside! That handsome face of yours will be no more! Sloping brow and bat-like ears and cock will be so big, no woman will ever want to fuck you! You will be shunned and hated and never be released from your misery by the sweet kiss of death! This I curse upon you!!'

"She spat in my face and when I turned to ring for a manservant to escort this mad woman from my room, I looked back to see that she was gone. I thought I'd dreamed her, as there was no spittle on my face, and dismissed my worried manservant. The next morning, when my maid entered my room with my breakfast tray, she dropped it and screamed in horror before fleeing the room. I looked into the mirror to see my hideous reflection. I had been turned into monster. I've been this way ever since."

Delphina began to laugh. "You know, I almost believe you, but it is Halloween. That's a good scary story."

"It's true. I wish it wasn't. I don't want to look like this. I don't want to live like a monster."

The mirth left her face. She clearly saw my distress.

"What about plastic surgery? Have you tried to correct it?"

"Plastic surgery was still in its infancy at the time of my...transformation. After the first World War, I could walk the streets with a sack cloth hood or a bandage mask over my head for so many men had been disfigured in the war, that seeing a man in a false face was common place. Doctors told me there was nothing they could do. I had to wait until plastic surgery advanced. And when plastic surgery techniques finally evolved, I thought my prayers had been answered. I had surgery. Twice. Once in the 1995 and then in 2015. They chiseled down my brow bones, reconstructed my nose, bobbed my ears. And after weeks of suffering a painful recovery, they took off my bandages to see that my face hadn't changed one bit."

"I'm sorry."

"I was enraged and hunted for Esma for years. Then I became depressed until, just a few decades ago, I accepted my fate that I'd be this way forever. After the war, I moved into my family's house in Berlin. Unfortunately, it was east of the wall and I became trapped in East Berlin for decades. There was a painting, that painting over there," I said, pointing at an oil landscape of my street's canal. "My parents bought it on their honeymoon. It hung in our Berlin house for years. I would stare at the painting and swore, if I ever escaped east Berlin, I'd move to Amsterdam. And when the wall came down, that's exactly what I did. Life has been good here. I'm surrounded by beauty."

"Wow. I can't imagine what you've been through."

"So you believe me?"

She nodded yes.

"I don't know what's worst, a hideous face or immortality. Just last year, my doctor told me that I have the health, mental cognition, and physique of a twenty five year old man."

"I noticed your body and your big, um, package when we were dancing. Is it monstrous too?"

"Do you want to see?"

"Maybe later."

I nodded. "I'm a gentleman. Yes, it underwent a metamorphosis."

"She gave you a big cock?"

"Yes."

"Do you have sex?"

"I masturbate. Much, much, much masturbation. But it's strenuous. It takes my two oily hands gripping as hard as I can to ejaculate."

"Have you tried fucking a watermelon?"

"What?!"

"I heard in Spain that sometimes, in the night fields during harvest, migrant workers heat a watermelon over an open fire, carve a hole in, and fuck it."

I chuckled at the absurdity but I just may try it. "No. I haven't fucked a melon."

She sipped her cognac. I sipped mine. I don't know what came over me, but I blurted out, "I want to touch your skin."

"What?"

"I miss the sensation of skin rubbing skin. You have such lovely skin. Forgive me but I want to touch it."

She got up, sauntered towards me, and stopped within reach to present her half covered thighs. She looked down at me like a seasoned dominatrix and said, "Go ahead. Touch me."

She didn't flinch when my trembling fingers grazed her thigh just below her skirt's hem. I kept staring at her thigh, enraptured by her lustrous skin. My hand travelled up her skirt to touch the crotch of satiny panties. She didn't resist. I leaned to lick her but stopped and looked up. Modern women demand consent.

"May I lick you?"

"Do you bite?"

"No biting. I promise."

She nodded. Proceed. I got down upon my knees as though I was praying at a sacred altar of petal soft skin. I sighed with contentment as my tongue received the taste of her freshly bathed skin. My hand wound around her delicious thigh as I continue to lick and suck her skin and at this vantage point, I could see up her dress where my eyes became transfixed upon the gusset of her leopard print satin panties and the womanhood of which it held.

She seductively asked, "You want to eat my juicy cunt?"

I wanted everything she had to offer. I looked up at her and replied, "Yes, but first, I have a favor to ask."

"What?"

"Can we dance together, slow, your body close to mine?"

She nodded yes. I rose to my feet to look down into her pretty face.

"Take off your dress."

She gave me a lopsided grin before turning around and lifting her hair for me to unzip her dress. I did, slowly. I enjoy the titillation of a slow strip tease. She wore no bra. With the zipper unzipped to her waist, she shrugged off the shoulder straps and the dress fell to the floor. She turned to face me. Her breast were beautifully shaped like ceramic water jugs; standing firm and high with gingerbread colored areolas. Her eyes seemed to look into my soul. Dressed only in her satin string panties and black stiletto shoes, she stepped within my space to unbutton my shirt before running her hands over my well-defined, hairless chest. My heart was beating so fast, I was afraid she'd feel it under her fingertips.

She sweetly said, "You have an amazing body."

I leaned over to suckle at her breast. That perfect mound of flesh pressed into my mouth by her arched back caused me to hunger for more. My cock began to stiffen but I wanted to prolong the evening so I released her succulent nipple to pick up my master controller and selected a slow song for our dance; a Billie Holiday song called "Solitude". When the song began, she stepped up to me and wrapped her arms around my neck. Her face pressed her cheek against my shoulder, her breast mashed into me, as we started our snuggly slow dance. The feel of her warm body against mine had a dizzying effect. It felt right as though we were built for each other. We began to sway before I led with small, shuffling steps.