Perfectly 1993 Guy Part Four: Limelight

 

 

Ohboy The Limelight. First Bitchy Gay Guy said it was the coolest club in New York City, so we had to go. The three of us drove to Hoboken and took the PATH train in. It cost *gasp* eighteen dollars to get in, but I think gay (This was before I knew about all the letters to use.) folks could go in the back door and get some kind of deal.

 

It was one of the few non- Great-Adventure-or-just-bed dates I remember having with Perfectly 1993 Guy. I was sooooooo excited! TO SEE HIM! To GO DANCING! To go be in cool New York City! It all seemed impossibly exotic and thrilling, like a really zeitgeisty dream.

 

(Pop culture sidenote: I can’t think about The Limelight without picturing Michael Alig lurking past the couch where the first season cast of The Real World were sitting and being not-awesome at clubbing. I’m re-resolving not to watch Party Monster but I may need to rewatch that episode and also consume a bunch of Club Kid content on YouTube. My quar hobbies are weird.)

 

Anyway, the outfit! Not even a little bit Club-Kid-like, but maybe the coolest I’ve ever felt in clothes. My favorite thrift store minidress was the exact same navy as my aforementioned (And afore-swooned-about!) Docs. No hose or socks. The dress was thick polyester with a sort of lacy texture. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more beautiful or perfectly dressed, but that feels like something I might’ve typed on this blog before.

 

Once inside, we stood in line again for like EVER to get onto the “gay floor” with FBGG. I remember that hallway SO VIVIDLY—wallpapered in garish orange and gold patterns—actual church meets Dee-Lite. The real sex shows were all the way on the top floor, FBGG explained—I couldn’t even imagine what that might mean.

 

Once inside the “gay floor,” FBGG sort of winked out of existence, just melted away into the scene. I was a little overwhelmed (but trying diligently not to show it) by the sight of a naked Howard-Stern-looking guy crawling around with a saddle on his back. It’s alarming, the first time you see the back of somebody’s balls in a public place! For me at least.

 

With FBGG off cavorting, Perfectly 1993 Guy and I were on our own. I was THRILLED to be holding hands with someone so beautiful and new. We decided to check out the Disco/Eighties Room, where I was certain I would know what to do! My all-the-way-raver years were a little ways off, but I’d been going to clubs since I was fifteen. Being carefree and slutty and ridiculous on a dance floor was practically my superpower.

 

And yet. The main property of Perfectly 1993 Guy was stillness. He grew up to be a psychologist, and I’ll bet he’s a good one. I don’t know if it was the pleasant inertia of him or the self-consciousness of being in such a big cool place, but I felt frozen. Even when Groove Is in the Heart came on! I just couldn’t make my body move in any kind of dancelike way. With him watching me, I forgot how to have LIMBS. I was tranced into statuary by lust, by his beauty, by being in the presence of so many people who seemed so cool as to not even be human. So we gave up on the dance floor.

 

We found and sunk all the way into a midnight-blue C-shaped couch situated in semidarkness but lofted above the main (techno even more tuneless than the kind I knew and loved) dance floor. All the while we were snuggled up kissing, I kept thinking I should make myself get up and go dance, but I never did. I’m so glad.

 

It was too loud for us to say much more to each other than briefly hollered words between kisses. We were curled up side by side, his hands on my face, in my hair. Outside of time and space, completely free from the *ahem* real world, from any kind of context at all. His very-gently-stubbled chin. His warm cheek against mine.

 

Being so innocently and mutually enjoyed felt new and strange—I’d almost felt with Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow, but that was in Perfect Aunt’s living room, that was two sweet children. This was happening in a dark house-musicy Eden where somewhere was Saddle Man.

 

My feel were up on the edge of a big industrial coffee table that was strewn with votive candles. I’m not sure where I got the idea that pouring wax on people was sexy, probably from Madonna. Perfectly 1993 Guy picked up one of the votives and dripped wax lightly onto my upper thigh. Kiss, gentle pain, kiss. With the next candle, he moved further up my thigh, closer and closer to the edge of my underwear. His hands wandered the bottom of my skirt, just grazing the most sensitive places, then more wax, and more kissing.

 

It was probably four in the morning when we left this candleglow lust-haze and dragged ourselves downstairs to wait for FBGG. We lay on a giant round red velvet pouf under chandelier light and Baroque wallpaper, tired, so tired. So ready for bed. So many trains and Hoboken between us and sleep. I was so thoroughly sated, and greeting the grey dawn completely in love.

Things Go Haywire But Still a Good Scene, Part Four

There was a kneeling bench free and I wanted to be tied down to it. We stood around trying to figure out how to tie a rope so that it would go through my ass crack and also tie me to the loops at the bottom of the bench. Mister Hazel Eyes flagged down the DM/rope teacher, who, with a few deft loops and ties, ran the rope around my waist and through my crotch, leaving tails to tie me to the bench with. Fantastic. Except I should’ve taken my shorts off first—of course I was wearing adorable purple undies.

I knelt down and Mister Hazel Eyes tied me to the bench. The ropes made a handle so that he could pull the crotch rope back and forth, rubbing up against my clit and ass. I’ve never been vocal in a public scene before, but MHE knows how to get gorgeous moans out of me as he’d tug, spank, tug, spank. I buried my face in my blanket, on top of the  bench cushion, which smelled unpleasantly of cigarettes. He pulled and pushed and whacked all kinds of lovely oohs and aaaaahs and oofs and sighs.

A crowd gathered nearby, whether by choice or by coincidence, so I leaned up as much as I could and asked him to get my blindfold. It’s a soft, cottony light pink scarf, and before he tied it on, he ran it up and down my back, sweet and gentle. He bent his head down to kiss me and then knotted the scarf through my hair, an interesting touch.

Now, between good, hard spanks, (This was the most pain I’ve taken since Bill, although I’m sure it seems very mild to most of my fellow bottoms.) his fingers worked between my legs, over the underwear so that it was (I think) still within the party’s rules, but it was the dirtiest I’ve ever (recreationally) felt. It was AWESOME. It was PERFECT. I was being such a very, very bad girl. A hard thwack and then his fingers insistent on my clit, a stab of shame, of getting away with something terrible, the exhilarating humiliation I’d been dying for. They could all see his hands between my legs. I wasn’t sure if we’d get in trouble, but I sure wasn’t going to stop him.

“You know how much I want to fuck you, make love to you? How much I adore you?”

Make love to me? I don’t think I’ve ever had that said to me as an adult. I have a knee-jerk ironic reaction to it, but it’s really so naïve and sweet. Jeez I’m gonna miss him if he’s gone.

“You’re so beautiful; I don’t think you know how much you turn me on, how much I want you. You are so fucking hot and everybody’s looking at you. You put on a good show.”

He stood in front of the bench and pulled me up into his arms to kiss me. I was still topless so his body felt protective. We were perfectly in sync and I felt happily famous with everybody watching, a moment of true connection. I was filled up with him, humming and jittering with desire and affection. I loved feeling so attended to and cared for.

I made a little hint of a struggle, a false play at getting away. He pushed my head down onto the kneeler, grabbed my hair and held my head still. I let out a long, low groan; this was exactly what I wanted. He held my arm behind my back, pulled my hair, kissed my cheek.

“Yeah, you like that? Are you gonna be good?”

“Mmmmm hmmmmm…”

He unraveled my blindfold from my hair and used it to tie my wrists back. I checked my thumbs to make sure that my nerves were okay. He spanked some more, harder and harder, with more and more insistent fingers between my legs, the fabric making me hurt and raw. He stood against me so that I could feel how hard his cock was. He held out my wine so that I could drink it without my hands. I did feel adored. I felt his undivided attention without trouble or worry. I felt like he was mine and mine forever in that moment. Nothing can ever change what was happening, even if we never see each other again, I belonged to him and we were a perfect work of art, no matter what happens next.

Next: I think I figured out what this story is about.