Big Chicago

Big Chicago Part 12...by Samayel


Another day in paradise. The only kind I ever have…now. I’ve read books and played the piano, painted pictures and eaten like a king. I finally started exercising, since I noticed a certain softness near my middle that wasn’t there a week ago. Nothing overwhelming, since exhausting myself any way other than dancing or sex isn’t quite my style, but it should be enough to keep me fit for Harry. Especially for some of the outfits I picked up. I love showing midriff again, now that I only want to show it to one person for one reason. In the pen I always went shirtless or wore my issue shirt hitched up to create the illusion of breasts. Now I have the simple ’falsies’ that slip into place and let me make some of these outfits look as good as they should. I have developed an serious aversion to pink though.

I think it’s because pink, in prison, was a symbol of femininity, and there was a bitter implication of being less of a human being that came with it. Insulting to me both as a queen, and as a person who believes that men and women are equals. Only where the majority is comprised of genuinely un-evolved, thoroughly subhuman bastards, could one envision a world where being feminine is a failing, or a shortcoming. My nails were pink for seven years. The sliver of ribbon in my ponytail was pink. Pink meant pussy…property…slavery. It meant cheap grease fingered into my ass so that I could take a fucking whenever I was told to. I used to like pink, but I think it’s something I will never be able to completely get over. Now I like black. Or white. Or metallic blue. Or the silvery gray that I think compliments my eyes. Anything but pink.

Harry has been gone for days. I stopped watching the TV…nothing but Daddy running off at the mouth and the usual nonsense that people call news. The latest scare-mongering over a flesh-eating virus that one person in a million ever catches. Sound bites from politicians and other criminals. Advertisements flogging away at why we desperately, frantically, urgently need to BUY THIS NOW! What a fucking joke. The right pimple cream won’t get you a date with a cheerleader, the right cologne won’t make you a celebrity, the right soda won’t make you an athlete, and the right beer won’t make your boss stop being an asshole and conjure up a beach full of sun-worshipping female volleyball players. It’s enough to make you puke, but it pays the bills, so that stations can keep broadcasting material handed to them on scripts, or quote ‘research’ handed to them by special interests, in between ‘reality shows’ that are spectacularly unreal.

It would be a dangerous thing if anyone in the news actually used the scientific method or carefully investigated anything…which is why it’s now legal to sue broadcasters for saying anything ‘harmful’ to a company. To stay safe, news shows stick to well rehearsed scripts of pseudo-news. Nice and safe. No blame cast at the direction of anyone powerful enough to fight back. This is the country of freedom. But we’re also free to intimidate, bankrupt or bully journalists, and the corporations that employ them, into silence. Only when something has been so blatantly exposed that no doubt is left, do the networks take a gamble on airing anything controversial. Can you blame me for hitting the off switch on the channel changer?

I have just enough money left for one good night at a club. Nothing too much, just a chance to have a couple of drinks, make some men drool, and dance until I feel better. Dance is primal, and along with the voice, the creation of the drum, and cave-painting, it was one of the earliest forms of human artistic expression. From the moment we leave behind our mother’s heartbeat above us, and venture out into the world, we search for rhythm. Of course, some of us search in vain, and find polka or Lawrence Welk. I don’t think I could have survived the era when such things were considered the height of ’cool’. I still suspect that Hell is an elevator, where the greatest hits of Lawrence Welk are played through eternity…as Muzak. That notion still makes me shiver. Still, all I want tonight is to forget that Harry is gone for a little while, and to remember that I can break hearts easily when I want to.

I used the computer, since the nightclub landscape has changed since I was free, and I need somewhere other than Pansy’s hangout. I’m not honestly sure if I could resist coke a second time…with Harry gone and an empty bed as my reward for being a good boy and doing the right thing. There’s a newer club called the Fire House that’s well rated and supposedly red-hot. I’ll try it out and see if it meets my standards.

I could just have a nice dinner out. Maybe Charlie Trotter’s. It isn’t haute cuisine, but it’s one of a handful of restaurants in the U.S. that actually merited a Michelin rating, and they are some of the most guarded critics in the world. A rating from Michelin is a fast ticket to fame, and Charlie Trotter’s prices reflect that. Dinner and drinks for one is about all I can afford, and with a couple hundred in my purse, I’d be leaving with pocket change, but I’d leave with a smile. This is all assuming I can even get reservations. Nah…Charlie Trotter’s can wait. I’ll drop a hint to Harry and see what his clout can do. Tonight, my ass will shake like Harry is watching, and I’ll sweat and shimmy until I look forward to the AC in the car on the ride home.

One of the cuter outfits Harry bought me will do. A gunmetal blue-gray, shining silk, Oriental wrap with a hand stitched dragon rampant that rides just high enough on my legs to give a great show. With a little black thong and some careful tucking, when I bend over, one of my best features is nearly visible. Just enough of the bottom of my ass cheeks to make every cock nearby pound like a bass drum. Very drool worthy. There’s something about a hot blonde in an Oriental outfit that just makes men crazy. I’ve got earrings that will match well, smoked crystal sunglasses, just the right makeup, and stiletto heels that are perfect for an evening of deliberate, cock-teasing ‘bitchery’. Maybe I’ll get my tongue pierced sometime soon. Harry would probably love that…once I show him it’s not just for decoration. Not to flatter my own ego too much, but…no…what the hell…it isn’t flattery! Whatever my other talents are, and I do have others, it remains that I am a singularly amazing cock-sucker, and I’m am rightly proud of the fact that I can make a man come in my mouth a hundred times and every single one will still be unique in his memory. Drake or Dee, it doesn’t matter…I’m damn good in bed…or anywhere else…and I fucking well know it!

It isn’t an insult to my self worth to admit this. It takes skill and originality to make sex stay interesting. Any half-baked slut can spread his legs or open his mouth for his boyfriend or his trick. I have a lot to offer Harry, but I also have this. He will come home, and when he does, I’ll make him remember that I’m good at more than reading books and playing piano while I look good. Dancing is one of the things…aside from coke…that makes me feel sexy and hungry and alive. My only lament is that it will be a toy waiting for me when I get home…not Harry. Still…I don’t want anything more than this. I want to be here, and I will wait until Harry comes home, and I will give him the benefit of all my many talents when he gets back.

I call Ron early, so he knows that we’ll be out late. He’ll pick me up at eleven. I think I’ll call it quits by one. That ought to be just enough time to work up a good sweat and unwind a little…if the music is right. It all hangs on a DJ. A good man in the booth is worth a million dollars easy. You have to read the crowd, feel the mood, adapt when the people do…not just sit there and spin song after song by memory. The best DJs own the crowd, making you feel what they want you to, pulling you back to the floor for just one more song, making you want to move just a little more, until the night is gone and you wish the house lights would go back down and let you shake it just a little longer. This…this is what I want tonight.

Maria loves my outfit, and I’d bet just about anything that Therese wishes she could get away with wearing something like this. They’re headed for bed before I get finished with my makeup, and while I didn’t really mean to, I wind up keeping Ron waiting while I finish my primping before we leave. My ass is already shaking in the bathroom while the satellite radio pipes in some dance music. Poor Ron. He probably hates the music, and I’m pretty sure I have the usual effect on him in this outfit. I’m small and soft and pretty, and his gut instincts cry out, ’It’s sexy…try to fuck it!’ while his brain is shouting, ’God damn it! Cancel that boner! That’s a boy!’. I’ve seen that uncomfortable look on a thousand straight men before. It’s just adorable, and it’s exactly the ego boost I need to start the night.

He goes over the rules for nightclubs. He’ll enter just a little after me, so that we aren’t associated as a couple, then he’ll case the place and check the exits, watching me the whole time. He won’t intervene unless I’m in physical danger, or if I make a scene and endanger myself. He gives me a hand signal I can make if I want to be extracted from the building quickly, and that’s all there is to it. He’s wearing a sharp suit that will blend well anywhere, so he’ll be buying himself non-alcoholic beverages and sticking near the walls until I’m ready to go. Pretty simple stuff. Combine that with his usual instructions to obey him implicitly if he needs to swing into action, and our rules are in place for the evening.

The beauty of Ron’s working with me is that I’m not a legitimate target. No one really knows I’m connected to Harry, so no one is after me personally. The rules would be much different if I were a target. Ron is only a bodyguard for me because Harry values me enough to make sure I’m safe. For Harry, Ron is just a friend and an expert driver for mission support, but for me, Ron is someone who makes me know that, even when Harry is away, I’m still looked after and protected from harm. Ron is a professional, and he’s wonderfully discreet, so all he does is keep his back to the walls so he can watch the crowd and exits. He doesn’t really crimp my style in the slightest…bless his big, goofy heart.

At least, since this is a gay club, I won’t be hassled just for being gay. That’s why we love them. It’s the one place you can go where there are no secrets about your sexuality, and we are truly free when we walk in the door. It’s intoxicating in a way that most people will never understand. A gay bar can be fun for anyone, but it’s different for those of us who can never be truly free anywhere else but home.

I remember people asking me questions in school about being gay. Why would I do it? Like it was a carefully planned form of entertainment. It isn’t like waking up and deciding…hey!…today I’ll ride a roller coaster instead of walking! I was flirting with the knowledge of it when others were just beginning to notice girls. I knew I was different, and I just can’t hide it as well as some people do, so I made my differences into my armor. I forged my shame into my pride.

While other boys stared at pictures of girls or panted over stories about which famous women were the hottest, I was just starting to notice that I liked older boys and men. Athletes with strong muscles and serious bulges in their pants. You don’t need pornography to figure out what you like. Straight boys gravitate toward nice breasts and pretty faces, and I gravitated toward handsome men with hard bodies and a nice package up front. It didn’t take long to figure out what I wanted, and I just happen to be the type that men will make the extra effort to have.

Being a queen, even before I found out I looked good in my best girlfriend’s clothes, was the natural flow of events for me, and it was better than pretending anything different. Some guys can pass as straight…and even get married and have sex with their wife and raise kids. I’m just not one of them. I can look at women and admire them artistically, but I don’t feel sexual attraction toward them. They’re like a beautiful painting, a piece of art that I can judge from a certain safe distance. A man is different. The right man is very different. Harry is exactly the right man. When I think of him…God…I’d better not! This thong isn’t big enough for thoughts of Harry while I’m on the way to a club!

The Fire House still has a modest line outside when we get there. The staff walks up and down, picking people out as they go. Good thing Ron has that suit on, or he’d never get in. If I know him, he’ll palm the bouncer a fifty and be in right after me, but I get picked out of the line in less than a minute.

Fire and firemen have a special place in Chicago’s collective heart. The Great Chicago Fire put a huge hole in this city a long time ago, back when most of it was built of wood instead of steel, stone and glass, and because of that, the concept of firemen as models of heroism is embedded in this city’s soul. This place reflects a little of that. The walls have been painted with murals of flame, and the go-go boys dance on brass poles like the ones inside of fire stations. One boy is even dancing in a cage on top of a converted truck ladder. Old firefighter’s equipment is under glass or decorating behind the huge bar, and red strobe lights fire off regularly while sirens slash through the ambience. The drinks have catchy little names like ‘Old Sparky’ or ‘Where There’s Smoke…’, drink specials kick off when the sirens sound, the bartenders are wearing fire helmets and very little else, and the place is packed to capacity. A little kitschy, but perfect for what I want tonight.

The DJ is playing the right stuff, and Ron is finally in and moving along the walls the best he can. This is the place where the pretty people enjoy themselves at their leisure, and there’s enough security visible here in staff shirts to make sure people behave. Of course, quite naturally, I can’t get my first drink without getting three phone numbers shoved into my hand, and I do love the way the few other queens in this place get that pinch-faced, tight-lipped look of irritation when I stroll by them. There’s nothing like the envy of my ‘peers’ to make me smile the smile of a cat with an endless supply of cream.

I finish my shots, which were purchased for me by who knows who and who cares, and head for the dance floor, feeling the first faint tickle of booze warming my skin and face. My crowning glory…my moment of triumph. I get picked up by one of the go-go boys, a bronze skinned and muscled hottie wearing a thong so tight I can tell what religion he is, and he carries me to the top level of the stage on the dance floor, where only the people they want to ‘represent’ the bar get to go. I am what they all want to be, and I fucking love it! Bow down, bitches! Worship this! I…am…your…goddess! And not the loving mother kind, either! We’re talking Black Kali, die in my name, bitch-queen from Hell, you fuckers!

This is my little slice of heaven. The wicked, hedonistic, naughty minx in me revels in this, and with the fire of alcohol in my belly and speakers that shake the building behind me, I can move my ass and roll my hips and let the adoring masses just wish they were me. The best part is…it isn’t a dream…and I don’t have to wake up! Dee is back in town, and this town is mine!

What a way to kill time! I don’t know where the time went. Buff boys bring me water, and good looking guys dance with me, every one imaging that he’s going to be the one to take me home and give me the deep, savage, down and dirty fucking my body language screams I need. They’ll all go home wishing they had, or pound into someone else, wishing it was me underneath them. Hours peel away and I just don’t care. I finally need a bathroom bad enough to slither off the stage, and there’s a drink waiting for me when I come down.

I am good. The owner wants to introduce himself when I get back from the bathroom, and the cute boy in the helmet will guide me to his private table. No doubt they want me here every weekend. It’s the usual offers I’m sure. The kind of thing I heard a lot at eighteen. Free drinks, free drugs, whatever you want, just hype the crowd and be gorgeous for us. The right person can be a star without lifting a finger, and it’s all in the attitude and the look. A hasty piss in the unisex toilet, which is quite the vogue in gay clubs, since some people don’t like to be defined by gender, and I’m sucking down a well-mixed drink that didn’t cost me a dime and following a well-muscled and oiled back to the table of the man that owns this slice of heaven.

Blaise fucking Zabini.

“Welcome back to the world, baby. Looks like you haven’t lost your touch.”

The world freezes, and it’s all I can do not to lose my composure here and now. How may million poisonous thoughts crossed my mind in seven years? How many revenge scenarios to keep my mind occupied while I rotted away in that abysmal fuck-hole? How many drinks did I throw into that handsome face? Thousands upon thousands. The insults I dreamed for years die on my lips before I can say them. He’s sitting there, flanked by the help, with a slutty little Filipino boy next to him, wearing short shorts and a black halter top. The little tart has gorgeous lips and nice eyes. Probably nineteen years old or a little younger if I’m any judge, but he has attitude. How dare the little skank even think of looking at me that way!

Blaise looks good…but older. I can tell he probably still does coke, and I’d bet anything that he drinks more than he ought to. Still and all, he’s fit and clean, dressed in a suit that compliments him, with dark hair that curls as handsomely as I remember it. He only wears a couple of rings, and some quality earrings in his ears, and the cufflinks and watch say ‘money’. Very stylish. He’s bigger than I remember, and his shoulders have broadened over the years. Makes sense…we were just seventeen when we met. Memory floods. I also wept because I missed him. I dreamed about him, waited for him, hated myself for not meaning enough to him. I have to say something…anything.

“As if I ever could?”

The miserable little man-mattress beside him shrugs and lips up.

“Blaise, honey. this is an old flame of yours? And let me stress the word ‘old’. You really have moved up in the world since then, because you have oh-so much more class now.”

Blaise is chuckling, but I lean over the table and pluck the cigarette from his hand, then take a deep drag.

“Tell the penis-parking lot to make tracks, love. We need to talk, and I don’t waste time with small words for the junior high set.”

I blow the smoke into the little bitch’s face, and drop the cigarette into his drink with a lazy flick. The look of outrage is all the reward I need.

“BLAISE! Did you see-!”

“Open your mouth again when I need a place to park my dick! Dee and I need to talk business. Get scarce for awhile.”

Watching him sidle off in a huff, reminded of his place as a fuck-pet and nothing more, is as satisfying a feeling as any I’ve ever had. I slide into the soft leather chair my ersatz rival left behind, smirking like the little demon-bitch I am. I can do this. I can talk to Blaise Zabini and keep my cool. Fuck it…I’m doing it right now!

“Thank you. Nice club, Blaise. I like it. You look good.”

Always a cool customer, my Blaise. He doesn’t look shocked or stunned by my appearance, but then he never did. He does look amused and interested though. Nice to know I still have some clout.

“So do you, baby…but then you never looked any other way. Been a long time.”

“We both know why. Anything else to say?”

He‘s swirling his drink, playing for time. I know him enough to know the little gestures. He always looks cool, but he’s always thinking on his feet. I give him the time he needs.

“It was you or me. I chose you. Didn’t really want it that way, but that’s how it is. Looks like you came through it all okay.”

“Not a word. Seven years, Blaise. I stayed silent. I did it for you. Don’t even make me say why. Just tell me what happened.”

“No beating around the bush with you, is there? Okay…I’ll bite. I owe you this one. I had competition. I was young, they were jealous, and they wanted to see me spend a little time out of the loop. Not really my style, and I had enough connections to get a warning about it, but the deal still had to go down. You were the only person I really believed in enough to take a gamble on your silence. It paid off. The cops had enough information to make you radioactive. No one could get anywhere near you without winding up tailed for years, and as it was, I still had to go legit and find a new line of work for awhile. What else can I say? I’m not sorry it wasn’t me…but I am sorry it had to be you.”

He isn’t lying. I can feel it. It makes my head spin. Blaise Zabini set me up, knowing what would happen to me, knowing I’d try to protect him. And he’s sorry. He wasn’t happy about how it played out, but fuck him! He had seven years that I can never get back! I hate him…I love him. Harry…I love Harry now, but that has no place here.

“So that’s what happened. I wondered for a long time. I picked at it like a scab. I guessed a lot, but it’s good to know. I missed you. You can’t even imagine how much. Those are nice words, Blaise, but they don’t mean much anymore. You know what it must have been like for me in there.”

I watch him sigh and nip at his drink.

“Yeah. I do. I guess those words wouldn’t mean much...even if they’re true. Are you all hooked up now? You look great. I can get you work, entertainment, chemistry or cash. Need a place to stay, connections? You name it…I can get it. You paid your dues. I can make sure you’re taken care of right. Like old times…but this time no hassles.”

Ideas are turning in my head. There isn’t much I can say without spoiling them, but I need to make a peaceful exit from here and think about this when I’m calm. There are possibilities.

“You know me…I always land on my feet. I was fresh out of the joint when I picked a nice daddy. The rich kind. Too old to get it up, but he loves to keep me around. I already have the easy life. What I don’t have is you. Got a phone number? I can come and go as I please, and if I wanted to get a little something Daddy can’t provide, I could swing by your place sometime and make you remember what you’ve been missing.”

Blaise flips me a card. I got a number. This one I’ll be keeping. The two dozen others that men pushed into my hands will be in the trash before I go home, but this one I’ll be keeping.

“My place is always open to you. Especially you. Give a call and I’ll make sure the boys let you in. It’s good to see you, baby. Glad you made the scene.”

I stand, making sure I make every motion sexy in its own way, and cock my hips while smirk at him. I can feel that gaze slither across my skin. Up legs that are long and clean, past a narrow waist and a tight little stomach, along shoulders that are slim and a neck that begs for a man’s lips to touch it. I still own him in my own special way. I wondered for a long time, but now I know. He can’t see the scar. A scar I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for his cowardice.

“You should ditch the tart, Blaise. You can do better. Lots better. Who knows? When we get the chance, show me if you’ve still got what it takes to keep me, and maybe a change of address is worth my while.”

“What can I say, Dee? There’s something sexy about Filipinos. Just enough Spanish blood to stay horny all the time, just enough Asian to stay small and cute for a good long while. It took a lot to keep my mind off you for this long, but I never forgot, even when I couldn’t say it to you. Don’t lose that number, and be good to yourself…you deserve it.”

Truer words were never spoken. I will be good to myself. Don’t doubt that, Blaise. You, however, might not be so lucky.

“See you around, Blaise. Sooner rather than later.”

I stroll toward the door, making sure my strut sets his loins on fire. I always did it then, and I know I can do it now. The night air makes the sweat on my skin feel cold, even though the last faint hints of summer heat are still here even at night. The silk sticks to my skin and the breeze tickles. I feel so alive! Ron will take me home, as soon as he catches up, but I have my private moment of victory now.

It takes him a little longer to make his way out than I expected. His face is flaming when he joins me down the street.

“C’mon. Let’s roll!”

His voice is tense and full of barely contained irritation. I just have to ask.

“Sure…what’s wrong?”

“Nothing…no-thing! Just ready to get moving…that’s all.”

Not the answer I’d hoped for, but we head for the car and start for home. I’m not doing anything scandalous in back, but his neck is bright red. He is pissed. I can’t help but wonder why. Besides, despite the complication of running into Blaise, I had a fantastic night.

“You’re sure you’re okay? I thought it was a really nice night. No hassles, no fights, no trouble. I thought you’d be happy.”

I can actually hear his teeth grinding. “Great night. Yeah. For you. I spent the last couple hours getting hit on…by GUYS! Not really my idea of fun.”

“Oh, come on! Admit it…even if you don’t like guys, you must be flattered that they thought you were hot enough to try hitting on you.”

“Okay Mr. Wiseguy! Lemme ask you this! If we went to a pool hall, and I drank beer and ran the table and wiped out all the rookies, having the night of my life, while every chick in the place rubbed her tits in your face and tried to grope your crotch…for two hours…would you call that a great night on the town?”

Score one for Ron. I think I’ll shudder over that image for the rest of the week.

“Oh.”

“Yeah…‘oh’ is fuckin right! Man! I’ll take a bullet to look out for you when I’m on duty…but the next time someone’s hand goes down my pants, and it isn’t a chick’s, there’s gonna be trouble! Nothing personal…I’m just saying.”

“Okay. Good point. Next time I go clubbing, I’ll wait for Harry. Then you can relax while we’re out. You were a good sport about it all…considering. Thanks.”

“Good enough. Just needed to get that off my chest, y’know?”

Ah, Ron. A ladies man through and through. No loss for me, mind you…seeing as the mere thought of gingery pubes and freckled genitalia makes me cringe in horror. Still, just because he’s a straight-arrow, it doesn’t mean he isn’t a hell of a good guy.

He’s more relaxed by the time he wheels us into the under-garage at home, and he watches me every step of the way into the elevator. What a guy. I can’t help being a little pensive and rattled. I just topped off my night by talking to Blaise ’The Son Of A Bitch That Fucked Me Over’ Zabini, but I’m still in a capital fucking mood. I have plans. Wheels are turning wheels in my head. I’ll have to wait until I can talk to Harry, but that will give me a little more time to plot things out while I’m sober.

There is something pure and wonderful about coming home tipsy and tired, sweaty and sore from dancing, triumphant and happy because I was at the very top of the social ladder…because that’s where I belong. It doesn’t take but a minute to slip out of my clothes and flop onto the bed. Sooo soft. Perfect.

I am frantically horny. The endorphin rush from dancing for almost two hours. The adrenaline from seeing Blaise again and publicly humiliating that heinous little skag he was with. The aching, painful absence of Harry. The lowered inhibitions that come with a half dozen high end cocktails. It isn’t even really a choice. It’s a necessity. I could only get hornier if Harry was here with me. It stings, that I have to fumble for a towel and my toy, which was scrupulously cleaned after its last performance, instead of letting my lover sate me, but what else can I do? I am a creature of need, and the emptiness inside me is insistent and demanding. Rubber, plastic or whatever it may be…I urgently need a cock inside of me.

I’m just tipsy enough to not waste time with any frills or luxuries. It’s get comfortable, get slick, get filled. Sure it sounds tawdry, but frantic need isn’t always pretty. When I’m in this kind of mood, sex happens…immediately. The back of the car with Harry was just the tip of the iceberg. He’ll learn about moments like these once he’s been around a bit more…and I am so very looking forward to teaching him all about them. I’m sure he can handle it.

Feeling my body stretch to accommodate the thing moving into it, crushing my eyes shut and savoring the way my own prick pulses just a bit more desperately with every perfect inch. God, if only it were Harry! There’s the spot! That’s it! Fuck! If I could just feel HIM there instead of this! God…PLEASE! Get Harry home SOON! NOW! HURRY! His name is on my lips, breathy and needy, while I plunder myself, imaging him with every stroke.

“God! Harry…Harry…yesss!”

“I see you really have missed me. It‘s good to be home.”

The lesson here…while my cheeks are flaming from abject humiliation and the bitter irony of a moment like this slams into me…is be careful what you wish for.

TBC!!!