Chapter One
Nike
Their strict dress code at Vamps warned curious passersby away: “No jeans, no sneakers, no baseball caps. Leather, vinyl and fetish wear highly encouraged. If in doubt, wear black.”
I looked at the stone gargoyles that flanked the entrance as if they were old friends. Perhaps they were hung there to appear creepy and warn visitors away from this underground club. I preferred to think they signaled protection for whoever entered.
Maya pulled the aged-bronze door handle.
“Ladies, you look ravishing as always,” Byron, the bouncer/ID screener, said. “Like you’re ready to break some hearts.”
“That’s the plan,” I said.
“Except yours,” Maya said, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“You’re such a flirt,” Byron said. “Go on in.”
“This is going to be a great night,” Maya said, grabbing my arm and pulling me along. “I can feel it.”
“The only thing I feel right now is your death grip.”
“Sorry,” she said, letting go. “Maybe we’ll meet someone special.”
“Ha! In a fetish club?” I answered. “Come on. I’m only here to dance, not date. You wouldn’t seriously date some guy you met while wearing a tiny schoolgirl outfit, would you?”
I followed her down the dark tunnel lit by candelabra attached to the stone walls. The flames were powered by electricity so as not to violate any fire codes, yet they still emanated a fiery glow.
“No. Ugh. Do I ever?” she asked, giving me her incredulous look. “Doesn’t mean we can’t meet interesting people,” she said. “Remember those guys from England we met a few months ago?”
I nodded.
“They were a blast.”
I shrugged. “They were okay,” I said. “I don’t know how they found out about this club. All I know is I’m hoping for a good night. It was such a shitty week at the firehouse and I’m more than ready to let off some steam.”
“And it’s not often we get a Saturday night off. Definitely the best night of the week here.”
The general public would consider Vamps freaky Thursday and Friday as well, the other two nights it was open. For some reason, Saturday was extra special . Maybe it was DJ Mistress Mona putting on faster, more exciting music that worked the crowd up to a dancing frenzy on the three platform stages and dance floor. Maybe the bartenders put an extra kick in their smoky concoctions. Or maybe it was the Saturday night regulars, decked out in their most outrageous and scanty outfits, who made Vamps their own.
When we made it to the main dance area, the floor was packed. People appeared free to be themselves, wearing whatever suited them—from fishnets and corsets to kinky cowgirl, from steampunk to punk rock—in an environment where they could be uninhibited and unjudged. And they wore black—lots of it.
I often asked where the regulars came from. Vamps seemed like it would fit better in downtown Boston or at least eclectic Salem rather than this little artists’ village tucked in the North Shore. Most of the regulars came from Gloucester, Salem, Portsmouth, and some even drove up from Boston. They attributed it to a more authentic local flavor than the city clubs often frequented by gawking tourists looking for a freak show.
Maya and I slinked our way through the dance floor. The crowd pulsated around us in an orgy of black, leather and skintight vinyl while gargoyle statues looked down upon them from their protective perches on the walls. Maya and I maneuvered into an empty space and quickly were entranced by the crowd’s energy, dancing to the beat.
A remix of Rob Zombie’s Living Dead Girl came on. Even though I didn’t have a drink, I lost myself in the music, trying to shake off work-mode Nike. When a couple guys started to dance with us, I barely noticed and I didn’t mind.
Maya and I would dance with them, maybe have a drink, but we’d never give out our numbers. Besides, how do you interact over coffee with some guy you met who had been
Nike
Their strict dress code at Vamps warned curious passersby away: “No jeans, no sneakers, no baseball caps. Leather, vinyl and fetish wear highly encouraged. If in doubt, wear black.”
I looked at the stone gargoyles that flanked the entrance as if they were old friends. Perhaps they were hung there to appear creepy and warn visitors away from this underground club. I preferred to think they signaled protection for whoever entered.
Maya pulled the aged-bronze door handle.
“Ladies, you look ravishing as always,” Byron, the bouncer/ID screener, said. “Like you’re ready to break some hearts.”
“That’s the plan,” I said.
“Except yours,” Maya said, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“You’re such a flirt,” Byron said. “Go on in.”
“This is going to be a great night,” Maya said, grabbing my arm and pulling me along. “I can feel it.”
“The only thing I feel right now is your death grip.”
“Sorry,” she said, letting go. “Maybe we’ll meet someone special.”
“Ha! In a fetish club?” I answered. “Come on. I’m only here to dance, not date. You wouldn’t seriously date some guy you met while wearing a tiny schoolgirl outfit, would you?”
I followed her down the dark tunnel lit by candelabra attached to the stone walls. The flames were powered by electricity so as not to violate any fire codes, yet they still emanated a fiery glow.
“No. Ugh. Do I ever?” she asked, giving me her incredulous look. “Doesn’t mean we can’t meet interesting people,” she said. “Remember those guys from England we met a few months ago?”
I nodded.
“They were a blast.”
I shrugged. “They were okay,” I said. “I don’t know how they found out about this club. All I know is I’m hoping for a good night. It was such a shitty week at the firehouse and I’m more than ready to let off some steam.”
“And it’s not often we get a Saturday night off. Definitely the best night of the week here.”
The general public would consider Vamps freaky Thursday and Friday as well, the other two nights it was open. For some reason, Saturday was extra special . Maybe it was DJ Mistress Mona putting on faster, more exciting music that worked the crowd up to a dancing frenzy on the three platform stages and dance floor. Maybe the bartenders put an extra kick in their smoky concoctions. Or maybe it was the Saturday night regulars, decked out in their most outrageous and scanty outfits, who made Vamps their own.
When we made it to the main dance area, the floor was packed. People appeared free to be themselves, wearing whatever suited them—from fishnets and corsets to kinky cowgirl, from steampunk to punk rock—in an environment where they could be uninhibited and unjudged. And they wore black—lots of it.
I often asked where the regulars came from. Vamps seemed like it would fit better in downtown Boston or at least eclectic Salem rather than this little artists’ village tucked in the North Shore. Most of the regulars came from Gloucester, Salem, Portsmouth, and some even drove up from Boston. They attributed it to a more authentic local flavor than the city clubs often frequented by gawking tourists looking for a freak show.
Maya and I slinked our way through the dance floor. The crowd pulsated around us in an orgy of black, leather and skintight vinyl while gargoyle statues looked down upon them from their protective perches on the walls. Maya and I maneuvered into an empty space and quickly were entranced by the crowd’s energy, dancing to the beat.
A remix of Rob Zombie’s Living Dead Girl came on. Even though I didn’t have a drink, I lost myself in the music, trying to shake off work-mode Nike. When a couple guys started to dance with us, I barely noticed and I didn’t mind.
Maya and I would dance with them, maybe have a drink, but we’d never give out our numbers. Besides, how do you interact over coffee with some guy you met who had been
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