Grieving for the Love of Laura

As I walked across the parking lot the rain fell on my shaven head and down across my darkened features. I stalked towards the club. My ears were assailed by peels of laughter. I gazed over my shoulder to see two girls' heads covered by a coat running in the rain. One was clothed in a white button-down shirt and plaid skirt. A naughty school girl's uniform, one of the standard costumes worn to a fetish ball. I wondered to my self if she really was a naughty girl, if she had in the total package, including the white cotton panties or even, underneath her swaying skirt, clad only in air. For a moment I felt the familiar stirring of lust rising in the pit of my stomach. I just laughed it off. I don't come to these things to find playmates; I come here just to feel normal, if only for a few hours.

At the door I bypass all the people standing in line, clad in everything from full body harnesses and smiles to full medieval garb. Some of them are here to play in public, others to see and be seen; and still others to gawk at the freaks. It crosses my mind how many of the later will leave with a new religion.

I walk straight up to the doorman who is explaining to a suburban couple out to walk on the wild side in the dark, dirty, mean city that no way they are getting in here without fetish gear on. I incline my head to him he is an old friend from my hazy, crazy days of drugs and all-night parties. He turns away from them for a second and looks at me. "Hey, man long time no see!"

"Yeah, haven't seen you since the Limp show." I give him a hug and a friendly slap on the back. "How's it look in there?"

"It's jumping! Go on in." He waves me past the couple.

"All right. I will catch up with you later then." I slap him on the arm, and slide inside, where I'm enveloped in the music, something with a dark, driving back beat and a rhythmic, almost sexy, tempo.

I hear the man asking my friend why I'm allowed in with out a costume and they aren't.

His answer is at once surprising and angering. "He's black. I don't think there are many people inside with a fetish for an overweight couple still stinking of the burbs. Now go, get a costume or get gone!" I let it slide off me. It is true after all, and I have known him for many years. I guess it's good to have friends in low places.

I hand my coat to the girl behind the counter. She is dressed as a pony girl she has a smile that lights up the cramped cloak room. I slide a five in her jar.

"Thanks! And I hope you enjoy the Ball!"

"I'm sure I will," I say as I turn the corner to see the crowd of flesh, leather, lace and lust.

This is always a strange time for me when I enter a club. I search the crowd for a familiar face, be it friend or foe. In all my years in the "alt" scene I have had few problems because of my race but the ones I have had were all bad. Fortune favors the prepared. I let my feet lead me to the bar and wait in line for my turn, as the tension of the day begins to easy out of my body. I order a whisky-and-sour, a hard drink for any bartender to screw up.

As I make my rounds of the club, silently slipping past the sweaty and, in some cases, sweet smelling bodies. I drink in the world around me. In these dark places I can relax a bit; most of the time people are more than willing to let me be. If I am noted at all it is only because I stand out, the only black face in a sea of white skin. I often wondered if it's because the people here have their own secrets or maybe things have changed, maybe people have left racism to die the death it so richly deserved. But then the couple from the door pass into my vision both wearing collars bought from one of the many vendors here at the Ball and I remember the reason I could so easily walk in with out even that much. And for a moment, I can't seem to blend into the crowd. I'm reminded of how I stand apart from the mass around me. I begin to step back trying to place my back against the wall 'til the feeling passes.

I stumble into a few people. Gone for the moment is the grace I have cultivated over years of moving through an abundance of people, be it at a club or a show. But I take no notice of them as I mumble my excuses.

I back right into a couple petting heavily on the arm of a couch. That is just what I need to relieve myself of the feeling of being behind enemy lines, to bring me back the realization that here I am home. I raise my drink to my lips and drink in the sour lemon tang and let the bite of the whisky wrap me in its embrace. I look at the face of a woman, her eyes heavily lidded, mouth slightly parted, a sheen of sweat covering her forehead. She rubs her partner's back up and down slowly. In my mind's eye, it's this woman and me who lay in the darkness. her creamy white hand caressing the ebony smoothness that is the skin of my back. Head thrown back, hair flowing, moans escaping her mouth as my lips taste her skin.

For a moment I'm lost in my mind's eye as the chaos of where my body is falls away. Flashes cross the screen in my mind, the top of her head nestled between my thighs as my hands grip her hair. Hair falls across her back, sweat pools in the curve of her spine. She lies beneath my arms. My hands grip her shoulders as I drive myself into her, grunts forced from between my lips as I lead us both head-long into that most exquisite of places.

My reverie is broken as I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn my head in a flash to look at the owner of the hand, only to stare into the eyes of someone I would never have expected to see in a place like this. And in those eyes I see the look that put a gulf between us that it seemed nothing could span, not even love. It was a look of fear. It was a look with which I have become familiar. I see it almost every day. Coming around the corner, when the elevator doors open, any time I startle anyone, they don't see me a man like any other, just passing, like the hundreds they have passed that day, and how can they? All they see is a six foot; shaven headed, black man, earrings studding his ears, coal dark eyes hovering over a perpetual scowl. In short how can they see me past the thing that stands out amongst all the other things I am? How can they see the man past the buck?

The look fades with a practiced speed to be replaced with one of joy. "My God it is you!"

Her mouth wears the smile I remember; eyes of the deepest green, so green I can even see the color here in this dark smokey club. Her rosy cheeks are flecked with small red freckles and dimples to die for shine with blush. Her long dyed-black hair is splayed over her shoulders and down her back.

We embrace then she presses her cheek to my chest. I hope she can't hear my heart pounding. I fold her in my arms, remembering how she felt, and the slow swell of her hips. The smell of her perfume wafting in my nose makes me heady. How her mere presence used to send my spirit soaring.

God how I miss her.

We stay like that for a moment, longer than a hug for a friend not seen in a while. And just before she let go, I felt as well as heard her sigh. In that moment I realize that she too, has missed me.

We make small talk, both ignoring the stinking body that lay in the middle of the floor between us. I slide between the mass of humanity around us and get a seat not far from where we were. She went off to powder her nose and get us a couple of drinks.

I am once again alone; I can't seem to focus on anything. My mind keeps slipping back to the last time I laid eyes on Laura.

She and I were leaving a restaurant after a wonderful romantic dinner, my head swimming with wine and the excellence of her company. Her hand in mine, we were passing another couple as obviously in love as we were.

I stopped, letting go of her hand to open the door them and wish them a good day. It started with a look, moved on to an accusation, then came the words.

"No, I wasn't staring at his woman's ass. No I didn't care who he was." I told him what my name was and that it wasn't pronounced nigger.

Finally came the insult that took away any chance I had of walking away from this without a fight. He insulted Laura, my escort for the evening, and the woman I loved.

No warning, no mercy, no escape.

When it was all over, I straightened my jacket, bowed to the lady friend of my vanquished enemy, and turned to my own companion. And the hit I took then was worse than any I took in that or any fight. It was the look.

With her hand held limply in mine we walked to the car. We drove in silence and she left me alone in the car without our traditional good night kiss.

After that night she seemed to be too busy with one of her two jobs to see me. That lasted for a week or so till I finally got up the courage to suggest that maybe we were better off friends.

Friends.

To this day I wonder what hurt worse, the look of fear or the fact that we both let it dig a hole between us.

I down the drink that I am swirling unconsciously in my hand in a single gulp. It was watery, though still a bit cold, and the warmth I felt from it was different than it had only a few moments ago. Instead of sour it was bitter.

I see her weaving through the crowd heading straight for me, hips a-sway, short black leather mini so tightly covering her hips it looked painted on. Her red lacy bra barely contains her breasts, leaving her shoulders bare in the colored lights of the club, giving way to her swan-like neck. So different from the neo-conservative dress she wore when we dated so long ago. And for the first time I noticed her collar, scrolled across it in shiny letters was the word bitch. This Laura was so different in every way from the woman I knew maybe she had grown in the intervening months since we last saw each other. But then I remember the look.

It is still good to see her.

She plops down next to me on the couch as we toast to our past. The pleasantries continue. Then she asks me a question that I guess has been burning in her mind for some time, though not the one I had expected.

"So hon, what are you doing here?" she asks a bit tentatively.

I throw back my head and laugh. "I've been in 'the life' on and off for a few years now, I came out tonight to relax."

I can see confusion in her eyes. How could I come here to relax with all the sex hanging in the air, pressed in so tightly with the bodies and loud music? But she just accepts it and I let it stand.

"Well, that said, mind if I ask you a question?" Her voice is hesitant, almost unheard against the backdrop of the conversations and driving music.

"Have I ever minded? No? Then why start now? Go right ahead."

"Why didn't you ever tell me about this side of you? Or were you going to let it be a surprise?"

I let that one sink in, trying to find the right way to answer it. But before I can answer, she hits me with another.

"And are you Top or bottom?" There it is. I can see by the look in her eyes that was the question she really had for me.

I answer them in order. "Firstly, I'm not in the closet. I'm a freak and I don't care who really knows it. But unlike a lot people, I don't go around advertising it. And as to when I was going to tell you, well it is only a small part of who and what I am. If we ever got to the place where it had been important I would have told you."

She is quiet for a while taking it all in. I guess she understands I had no idea she was into the life as well. Maybe she is wondering if I would have said something had we ever ended one of our many romantic dates in her or my bed. Maybe I would have, maybe not. We never got that far. so I guess it doesn't matter. The looked at me to answer the last question.

"And?"

Before I can answer some girls come and rush her off. They saying she will be late and her saying we will talk later.

I finish my drink, trying to drown out the taste of anger rising in my throat. At whom was I angry? Her, for letting our love go the way of the dodo? Me, for the same? What was I angry about, her, for not telling me about herself? Me, for the same? Or us both, for not even making love when we had the chance, when we were in love. I guess it doesn't matter. I just sat and watched the freak show play on past me.

After another trip to the bar to down a shot of 151 rum to drown out the yelling in my head, I walk away with another whiskey sour. Then the DJ announces it is time for the "Live Entertainment." I make my way to the stage, pressing my way right to the front. It had become a tradition to put on a fashion show/public play. Nothing too rough or even intense, just a teaser to titillate the crowd. I am lost in my own thoughts. I must admit, if I hadn't been, I may have noticed what was going on in front of me. I hear a voice I recognize; it cuts through the fog of the drink and my own thoughts like a knife. When I look up there stands Laura in all her glory, majesty, beauty and charm!

"On your knees!" She yells in a commanding voice, shrill with authority. To punctuate her point she cracks a wicked looking whip.

I watch the show with my heart pounding in my chest, I see things in a new way. The show takes on a shine with a savage beauty it never had before, at least the parts I saw. I can't really say what's paraded on the stage because I have eyes only for her. I also see her a new light as well. I feel my blood rush in my veins, my breath deep and raspy in my chest. And for a brief time I fall for her again.

We lock eyes several times during the show. At the final bow, she rushes to the edge of the stage and, sliding to her knees she bends down to me with a wild fury in her eyes and a desperation that can come only from lust. She grabs my shirt collar and pulls me forward and plants a hungry kiss on my lips. Our tongues slide past each other, battling. First her mouth then mine. My hands reach up into her hair, grasp it and pull her to me. A kiss to end all kisses. When we both break the kiss reluctantly, we are breathless, our sweat mingled on our skin. I look into her eyes, those eyes I loved, need with a hunger that feels insatiable. I see the fire of passion that won't be easily quelled. In those eyes I see me, my feelings for her, hers for me I see the hunger of a predator, I see my own reflection. I see a fellow Top.

The gathered crowd erupts in a frenzy of jubilation maybe to them it is all part of the show. Maybe they had it right and figured the energy had gotten too much for us and we had to show it. It doesn't matter one way or another. They don't care and we don't care what they think. Laura is pulled away from me then by the hands of her fellow performers. As distance is put between us I yell to her, I answer her question, the answer you already know.

"I'm a Dom!" Then I see a look from her, one that sends a pang to my heart almost as bad as the one from that fateful night so many months ago, her face falls.

When I see it I turn away to hide the pain and disappointment. I won't give her the chance to see what I saw in her eyes, a reflection. In the middle of the slaps on the back and hand pumping I stalk to the bar, it has been a long time sense I have tied one on but I figured I am due.

Two more shots later the fire is quelled, I have gotten enough of a buzz and enough time has passed to let the intensity bleed from me. No I'm not going to drink myself into a stupor. It's not worth it. I just got caught up is all, yeah that's it, I let the show get to me.

But it wasn't the show that got to me it was Her.

I spend the rest of the night in a fog, I can't tell you what I did or saw. The next thing I know I hare the DJ yelling out for "Last Call." I have had enough, I slink out to pick up my coat.

When I look up I once again find myself looking into the eyes I have fallen for twice in my life.

"Hey." She says. Dropping her eyes to look at her shoes.

"Hey yourself. Heading home?" I ask, somehow managing to keep my voice level.

"Nah, just getting out of here." She looks up at me. "So what did you think of the show?"

I smile a rueful smile. "Exciting. I really loved the curtain call." I say, trying like hell to lighten the mood.

I fail.

"You BASTARD!" She spits at me from between clenched teeth. And whips around, turning her back on me.

"Laura, listen I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it I loved it and much as you did." I gently rest my hands on her shoulders. "I just got caught up in it like you." It all comes rushing out of my mouth of its own accord. "I needed it as much as you did." When I say this I feel her stiffen. We stand there like that for some time. I have no idea what is going through her mind or her heart. Before I can let her go she turns to me, I see tears in her eyes, those damned eyes of hers.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. Listen, I think we need to talk but I have to get out of this get up. Why don't you follow me to the dungeon so I can change?" She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Then we can go have a cup of coffee and talk. We never did and I see we both need to."

I let my hands slide along her arms lovingly. "Yeah I'd like that."

I follow her to the warehouse district not far from the club to a nondescript building. Following her up the stairs, I began to wonder just what the hell I'm doing. I mean how many times do I have to let her step on my heart. Not that any thing she did I can blame her for, but this is getting silly.

She opens the door to one of the set aside office spaces, and motions me inside. It is dark, no windows to the outside. I have the feeling of a lager space but say nothing. She steps in and turns on the light.

It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light. I am amazed by what I see. X-racks, chains hang from the ceiling, an array of whips, cats, floggers, and assorted other toys line the wall. Without thinking I walk to the wall and slide my hands across them letting the material caress the skin on the back of my hand. I turn to her, she just stands there staring at me.

"This is sick; there is so much I wanted to say. So much I want to say," she says as much to herself as to me.

"When have you ever held your tongue with me?" I ask. Then we both look around the room and see where we're standing and what has brought us here all comes flooding in.

I look at her, for a moment it seems that I have said the wrong thing again. But we both laugh.

"Present situation excluded," I say finally.

"The foremost in my mind is the biggie. It's the one that all the others hang on. Answer that one wrong and the rest don't matter." She says avoiding looking at me.

"The dead bodies in the middle of the floor?"

"What?" She asks, confused.

"Nothing. I'm listening."

She takes a deep breath to steel herself. "Why?" A simple question with more than one not-so- simple answer.

"Ah that one. Well it's complex, and long. Can we sit?" I ask trying to get time to get my thoughts together.

On the couch we sit an arms length from one another, closer than friends and farther than lovers. I turn to her.

"Remember the last night we were together?" She nods. I continue, I let it out. I tell her about the look, her look, the look in general. How it hurt me how I hated it. How in many ways I was disappointed by her of all people giving it to me. How she was the last person I ever expected to let my color affect her.

When I finish, we are both silent, and the air in the room is pregnant with tension, apprenticing, accusation, pain and anger. Hers and mine. And when she speaks her voice is again a harsh whisper.

"When we first met I was struck by how gentle you were, your compassion and the ease and grace you showed for someone your size. You seemed submissive." She gives a little laugh to herself as if there is something funny about it I can't see. I guess there is. Soon she looks up and into my eyes. But it is only for a second that she graces me with her gaze of bottomless green before she looks away then continues. "I'm not going to insult you, I won't deny it. In that moment I was scared of you. When I saw how savage you could be I was scared of that bestial side of you. I mean what would happen if it was ever turned against me? That was what put me off that night. So I guess that was the fear you saw, not of what you were but of who you were."