Thursday night – Conquest of a Goth

Aidra Fox

Thursday night

Conquest of a Goth and a Punk

Every Thursday night I go dancing. Although I like my job, when Thursday comes I know the week is nearly over. It’s not quite Friday, but most of the work week is behind me. I love music, and working in a record store is about the best job someone in my position can have. I have all the music I can hope to listen to at my finger tips, and the store discount doesn’t suck either; especially for someone like me who has a raging habit for collecting vinyl. Hands down, I’m the resident music authority and everyone comes to me. That’s exactly why they hired me. Well, besides the fact that I’m an edgy dresser and not too hard on the eyes. So I’ve been told. But the music is only half of it. I love the music, but I also love to dance. I can say it’s exactly what my body’s built for, and I do it well.

My haunt is a small alternative club. Just a long narrow slice of a room between two store fronts. All the walls are dingy black, with a post apocalyptic decor. There’s one bar, and a respectively large dance floor. Sometimes I like to dance on one of the large boxes they have scattered around the room. On or off a box, my dancing often draws attention. It’s not limited to attracting the interests of men. Even other women are drawn to me and I often find myself dancing closely with them. Most are dressed in second skin club dresses or variations on the gothic club theme.

Dance clubs are sleazy places by design; even the alternative dives that I prefer to go to. With the intensity of lights and the pulse of the music it’s common to have other women physically drawn closer while I’m dancing. Sometimes due to lack of floor space but sometimes just by the chemistry. It can evolve into something personal and subtly sexual but never crossing over into physical contact. It’s fun and if you’re psyche is prone to attention-seeking and flirting with trouble.

I feel safe around these females and my interactions with them help me avoid being dogged by horny men who attempt to dance with me and hope to get my clothes off and fuck me. With a woman, sometimes I’m close enough so that I can smell her perfumed hair and feel the heat coming off of her body. Heat that is intensified by the wearing of shiny non breathable clothing. Sometimes I even get close enough to catch the scent of alcohol on her lips.

Notwithstanding, these subtle exchanges promiscuity are short-lived. Always ending with my female counterpart receding back into a dark corner of the club. There’s a certain thrill in the anonymity and presence of those watching. It’s almost like stripping for a stranger on a web-cam. An experience you can end simply by closing the laptop. Ironically intimate, but with no lasting obligations, accountability or even guilt. Much like random sex, as you’ll see.

When I dance, I’m able to engage in a way that doesn’t come off as lude or openly sexual. At the same time, I’m keenly aware that I always have a number of male admirers who watch me from the dark unlit sidelines. A gaggle of clumsy voyeurs who come each week to ogle sweaty females dressed in PVC, faux leather and quasi bondage attire.

My clubbing experiences have given me insight into a man’s thoughts and fantasies. I’m acutely aware that each will imagine any number of pornographic scenarios between me and my dance partners. I can accurately construct what they’re thinking and it’s always something like this….

He watches me and “Ms. X” as we dance and imagine that there is a side door off the dance floor. Through that door there would be a narrow stairway leading up to a dark room above the club. My hot bitch and I finish our dance and slip away. Yes, he would envision that each of us had been through that door many times before with other random partners. What sluts we are!

He would imagine that as the door closed behind us we would climb the stairs and the music would fade into the background. At the top there would be a short hallway to a dark little room. The hallway would be covered with old band flyers and graffiti. As she and I enter the room there is the sound of swishing plastic skirts and the shuffle of heels and boots on an old checkered linoleum floor. The floor is filthy and littered with cigarette butts and used condoms. It probably hadn’t seen a mop since the 70’s. Muffled dance music still vibrates the floor.

There is a badly worn mattress on the floor in the center of the room. It had no sheets or pillows. It dominates the space and there’s no other furnishings. He creates the metaphor for the dirty sex that will happen there. The mattress is a stage for sex and nothing more.

Yes, he imagines that the two little skanks (who earlier turned him down to dance) will make good use of it. We’ll waste no time closing the physical space between us and will begin to satisfy our base urges. A performance scored with a dark pulsing soundtrack emanating through the mattress and up through the spine of my bare back. A perfect gothic porno movie complete with orchestration. She ulus escort will hungrily eat my pussy, and I hers.

As his fever dream creeps forward, he will make his way up the narrow stairway and to the room. He will stand and simply watch. She and I aren’t unaware. Our heavy breathing will quiet for a moment as we look up at him with wet and swollen lips. Still, we will not protest and will simply return to gorging on each other’s soft dripping slits. He will stick his hand down his pants and begin to masturbate.

Once his girl-on-girl fantasies are been fully satiated, she and I will collapse together on the damp warm mattress. A tangle of sweaty tits, dilated pupils and swollen pussys. His fantasy continues……………             

Obviously we will want his cock. He will make his way through the haphazard pile of discarded clothing, boots and dried-up condoms. Proceeding without delay, he will take his place with us on the stage. No introductions necessary. By his reckoning, she and I will be wet and ready. His fantasy will be fully realized only after an hour or more of intense three-way fucking; fueled by alcohol, hormones and the intoxicating smell of sex. In the end, she and I will feast on his cum and savor it with long sloppy kisses. In his mind anyway….And yes, there’s still the music pounding away underneath.

After closing time, he will lay in bed alone thinking, “you wouldn’t let me dance with you….but I’ll fuck you just the same”. He’ll conjure up this fantasy and initiate foreplay by pumping a large bottle of hand lotion.

For me, these are not unusual thoughts. In fact they are thoughts that intrude on me every Thursday night. Not so often that it becomes mundane. But it’s often enough to remind me of the depravity that’s around me without causing me to fear it. After all, I have a choice not to make that part real. The dancing and music are the only real parts for me.

Enough introspection. Let’s continue. Every Thursday night I begin getting ready around 9pm. No one ever thought of hitting a club before 11:00. Looking through the pile of clothes on my bed, I pick out a short black and red plaid skirt. It’s little more than a swath of latex material. It’s one of my favorite pieces because it moves with the breeze and reflects the light. I love the texture. It’s shiny and slick to the touch and gets sticky when I perspire. It’s just long enough to cover all the necessary places so long as I don’t bend over too far.

Up top I put on a sheer black bra and a sleeveless mesh halter top. The mesh is translucent and provides a smokey curtain for my bare body. Over the top I throw on my leather jacket. I compete the look with fishnet stockings and a pair of industrial Doc Martin boots. At 10:45 I take my short walk down to the center of town. It’s a warm humid night and there’s no one else on the street. The jacket’s hot, but style isn’t always comfortable.

I can hear the beat pulsing from a block away. I can feel the excitement in the music. Jane’s Addiction was playing. As I pull the door to a wall of music along with the smell of stale beer and clove cigarettes. As I make my way through the crowd I get hugs from a few regulars and some quick catching up with friends. There’s a superficiality in friendships made at clubs. I’m only minimally interested in what they’re telling me and I don’t want to waste a lot of time getting to the dance floor.

The night starts like any other Thursday. Being a hot summer night in a club with poor AC, dancing is hot work. In between my time on the dance floor, I make frequent trips to the bar for cups of water and meaningless chats with club friends. The club owner doesn’t seem to mind that I don’t spend any money. I think he’s happy to have me here. I’m a draw of sorts for guys who drink and spend money. Indirectly, I guess I generate income for the club and he’s happy to give me all the free water I want.                                                        

With each trip to the bar, I like to flirt with the bar-back as he walks back and forth clearing bottles and dumping buckets of ice. These interludes last a song or two. Not only do I find him attractive, but I also consider the flirtation as insurance. His presence would be helpful if I run into any trouble with any male patrons or drunken bitchy women.

He has a spiky bleached blond haircut dyed an intentionally unnatural color. The type of haircut that’s popular still in that social circle of retro punks. He’s wearing a pair of stressed black jeans, combat boots and a midriff cut-off white T-shirt. The T has a DIY spray-painted anarchist logo on it. The shirt was clearly chosen for consistency with the club’s motif, but also showed off several rib tattoos, a nipple ring, and a set of well developed abs.

His name’s not important. In fact, keeping names out of this serves to emphasize how inconsequential he and others are. I’ll give nick-names for no other purpose than to provide mental reference points while describing yenimahalle escort the random sex I engage in. We’ll just call him “the Punk”, and leave it at that.

I make these trips to the bar throughout the evening. Closing time is 2:30 AM. However, around 1AM he mentions that he can leave early and asks if I would like to go back to his apartment to hang out and talk where it’s quiet. This worked out well because I had tomorrow off from work, so I’ll have a long weekend and no early morning. So I agreed. I’m aware that there’s sub-text to the offer but I don’t want to over think it. I’ve always been a risk taker.

The walk to his apartment was short and conversation was natural and did not feel awkward in any way. In all of 5 blocks we reach a door with peeling green paint and a rusty “

” on it. His steps slow to a stop. I could hear the jingle of his keys in the faint light and made out the door opening. We began a second floor walk-up. The apartment was small but relatively clean. I looked around, the living room was small but functional with a couch and worn easy chair. There was also a small TV that looked like it was ten years past it’s prime. The dining area was really part of the living room with no point of demarcation between the two. There was a basic round table with a take-out food container on it. Two kitchen chairs completed the room.                                          

Upon entering, I was a bit startled to find that his roommate was there. Somehow I just assumed we would be alone. His roommate also worked the door at the club from time to time. Over time I had also had a few conversations with him that were pleasant and mildly flirtatious. He was more slightly built than his mate, with jet black hair, faint presence of black eyeliner and black finger nail polish that appeared to have been picked-at by nervous habit. He also wore black skinny jeans and black T with the words ” Bauhaus” on it. Clearly more of the Goth. variety than post-punk. He was already there sitting on the couch and smiled at me and said “hey, I know you!” as I entered the apartment. Yes, we’ll call him “the Goth”.

The Punk went to the fridge and opened a bottle of Rolling Rock and handed it to me. I’m not normally a beer drinker, but I took it as I looked around the room. I still have gum in my mouth, so I pushed it up under my cheek. I didn’t think he was trying to get me drunk. He was only trying to be a good host in what could devolve into an awkward situation. I make my way to the big old arm chair and sit down. I sink into the worn cushion in what I assume is an unflattering position. I feel like my ass has dropped into a bucket, but they didn’t seem to notice.

I tried to look cool even though my feet were sitting higher than my ass, so I took a few casual sips. I was still feeling slightly light headed and hot. Not from any alcohol but instead simply from a full night of dancing, heat and likely mild dehydration. Despite the informality of the meeting and my awkward seating, I’m also aware of an element of tension in the room.

In contrast to the high volume of the club, the only sounds in the apartment are street sounds coming from the partially opened second floor window. Thus usual sounds of passing cars and occasional sirens in the distance. The apartment’s hot, but not uncomfortably so. The quiet room and street sounds are conducive to small talk and it’s quite pleasant. We exchange stories about things that have happened in the club. I talk about my job at the record store and the new record releases that are coming out. The Punk and Goth have taken seats on the couch off to my right. After 15 or 20 minutes I begin to relax more and enjoy the company. As I put the bottle to my lips, I notice with some surprise that it’s now empty and I find myself looking down the neck of the bottle.

Both men joke about losing girlfriends in the past few weeks. I myself had kicked a recent boyfriend to the curb just a few weeks earlier. All he wanted to do was play video games, smoke weed and screw me in the shower. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a good hard shower fuck as much as the next girl but he would always make me late for work. He, on the other hand was unemployed and found the concept of time difficult to understand.

The Punk went on to comment about how his level of frustration was increasing by the day. In fact, he confesses that his frequency of masturbation had increased as had his trips to the adult bookstore. I look at the Goth who just smirks and nods while looking down shyly at his shoes.

The Punk isn’t shy. As he speaks we make eye contact for what seemed a long time. I’m not looking away I thought. Since his comments haven’t created nervous silence, he pushes ahead. “So……there’s always guys at the club drooling over you”. I acknowledge with a shrug. More silence…… He then asks me what my situation is. “So….. what about you? Are you dating, just fucking or masturbating?”

I’m caught off guard. I’m not expecting this, at least not yet. I manage to show no sign that I’m flustered. I keep my composure and simply say “I like iety…..variety’s good”. I crack a faint smile while looking at my finger nails.

Now I’m feeling the temperature in the room rising. I also feel a slight ringing in my ears. I think I need another beer.

I brandish the empty bottle and say “Can I have a re-fill?”. He jumps to give me a second beer straight-away. I feel even thirstier than I had when I first got here. I take several long drinks. I notice that condensation from the bottle is dripping on my skirt and collecting in little puddles. I’m relieved knowing it will bead off the latex the moment I get up. Had I worn a more natural fabric, it would now look like I had peed myself a little. Sexy….

The conversation continues….. “sounds like there’s no commitments re….Seeing that you like variety, maybe we can help each other out?” He gives a slight nod to the Goth, who looks down and begins to pick nervously at his nail polish. More silence. Obviously the dynamic of the room has changed and the source of the tension has become identifiable.

I’m finding now that I’m in a room with two men I know only superficially; but in this moment I’m ok with it. “Maybe”, I say back. I muster my energy to extract myself from “the bucket chair” as gracefully as I can. At first I was going to leave, but instead I walked to the kitchen. I’m not sure when exactly I changed my mind and decided to stay… Damn the torpedoes….I take the chair closest to me and drag it slowly across the floor. I can hear my skirt swishing and the sound of my Docs as I walk. For some reason I think about the linoleum floor and used condoms that I mentioned earlier.

I take a position that allows just a few feet between me and my two companions. I plant the chair decisively on the floor facing them.. Before sitting down, I slip my jacket off my shoulders and let it hit the floor with a thud and a jingle. It’s a heavy jacket and if I haven’t already mentioned it, I’ve accessorized it with several cock rings which hang from the epaulet straps…… I go ahead and slowly sit down.                                                        

The tension in the room is becoming more electric. The ringing in my ears has subsided but I still feel a bit flushed. I became increasingly aware that I’m warm and damp under my skirt. Maybe it’s just perspiration from dancing, but probably not. Under normal circumstances, I’d feel dirty, but not at this moment. Life is the sum-total of your experiences; so you have to make them when opportunity knocks….. Right?

It’s clear I have their undivided attention. They’re quiet but focused. The anticipation of the moment is causing them to unconsciously inch further and further forward in their seats. They’re literally on the edge.

I can feel the breeze coming through the window as it passes through my mesh top and across my bare skin. Without the jacket I’m aware that they can see through to my bra. I like that; I like it a lot. But there’s always room for improvement. So I slowly removed my top, exposing a clearer view of myself. I let go of the halter and it floats to the floor with hardly a sound.

I drop down onto the chair. I allow my legs to part slightly and my skirt falls naturally between them to cover my crotch. I’m shooting for provocative without appearing vulgar. As I straighten in the chair mechanics of my body cause me to arch my back and push my boobs higher. At best it makes me look like a pert little pin-up; at worst; slightly pornographic and slutty. Either way, it seems to work.

I begin to move my fingers over my bra and down my bare stomach. I’m finding my own touch arousing. My fingers are making my nipples hard and clearly visible through my bra. Even more so given they’re pierced with small silver rings. My companions are taking it all in with intensity. I become aware that I’m getting a bit horny.

I begin to work my index finger up and down my lower thigh. Unlike the Goth, my nail polish is candy apple red and flawless. Both my nails and my dress shimmer in the faint light of the room. I begin to show more and more leg until my entire thigh’s exposed. I move my fingers to gather the rest of the skirt that had been covering my crotch. At last I slowly part my legs; opening them wide so that the two men can see. Minutes have past, and now it seems appropriate to show more crotch. They look a bit crazed now. If the place had caught fire I doubt they’d have noticed.

With my legs wide, the front of my panties are now in full view of my admirers. I pass my finger over the black silk covering my pussy. I know they see it. I feel the damp soaking through the silk to my finger. I guess I really was getting horny.

I begin to play with myself through my panties; four fingers to task. Although I’m not yet pressing with intensely, the wet spot is growing by the second. As I lightly polish myself I start to make cooing sounds. Some are authentic, but in all honesty some are just audio enhancement for my two voyeurs. Either way, hearing my own sounds of self gratification floating into the quiet room is exhilarating and I feel like I’m in a movie. Or more accurately, I’m a woman who is sexually acting out in a dimly lit theater while strange men leer and jerk off.