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You know how it is in clubs sometimes? You keep catching glimpses of someone, but you never actually run in to them, or you try and point them out to someone, by the time you're friend has turned around everyone's moved and they've vanished again. The first night I saw him it was like that. It was the weekend of my twenty eighth birthday, so we hit Salome, and I kept catching glimpses of this guy. I think the reason he stood out so was that he was all in white. White boots, white pants, white skin, short bleach blond white hair. Believe me, in Salome, that'll make you stand out. So I kept catching glimpses of him, didn't think much of it.
The Saturday, a bunch of us went to Gia's. Now, that's not like me - two clubs in two days, but, hell, it was my birthday, and I think Kell was dancing or something. Gia's not like the city centre clubs - it's basically this warehouse, except the club's been there for a while, and they've got the facilities sorted. It's basically this one huge room - the dancer's cages are hung off of the walls, and the dj's have this sort of tower thing. Anyway, we're in Gia, dancing away, getting into that trance state - no drugs, just moving and the bass beat and . Well. ok, maybe a couple of tabs, but - I'm dancing, my friend's are dancing - a little bit loved up - that's all.
Only I turn around, and the crowd does that parting of the waters thing that happens every once in a while, and he was right there, just standing. Did I say he was beautiful? All in white again, with this wide red ribbon wound around him, like he was gift wrapping that six pack and those hip bones for someone. Standing in the middle of this heaving dance floor, stock still and looking right at me. Dark dark eyes and red red lips. Did I think that gift wrapping was maybe for me? You bet I did. So I took a step or two forwards, slipping round the beat, dancing his way, and the crowd sort of swirls back together, and I loose him, don't see him for the rest of the night.
Sunday was chilling out, and Monday back to work, trying to pretend like I'm all excited about trying to fill advertising space in some wannabe glossy. Now - I'm no saint, and I'm not going to pretend that I didn't devote a little time here and there to thinking about that guy. What if I hadn't lost him, what if I'd gotten to untie that ribbon and re-tie it around his wrists, his throat, so it looked like blood holding him down while I kissed him. Believe me - if you'd seen him, he'd be staring daily in your own little fantasies too. That's the way it goes sometimes, you see someone, nothing happens, so you imagine instead, and move on.
I think maybe it was a couple of weeks after that that I caught sight of him again - in Hell of all places. More to the point, in the corridors that lead you to the private rooms. Had that same snapshot feeling to it, with him walking away down this corridor, long pale bare back, sweet ass and long legs in loose white pants, and dark red ribbon wound around him flowing out as he moved.
When me and my friend were done with our engagement, I had a word with the maitre de - described this guy. She was as polite as a very polite person, but he wasn't on their staff, and it's not their policy to discuss clients with other clients. I guess I can see why, but it still drove me half crazy, to be so close and yet so far from discovering him.
I'll admit, I was getting a little obsessed with the guy - Dan and Jennet in the office dubbed him 'the ghost' - it's just every time I thought I was forgetting about him, I'd see him again. Sometimes, like, three, four times in a day, and then sometimes not for a week. I tried talking to people I knew in the clubs where I saw him - see if maybe anyone knew him. Without exception everyone just looked blank, didn't think they remembered seeing anyone fitting that description. It was strange. Personally I'd have thought there were one-eyed nuns who would have noticed this guy. So I chased up some of the people I'd been with in Gia - they didn't remember him either. They remembered me wittering on about some beautiful stranger, but none of them remembered the dance floor parting for him.
The thing is though, after that, I just kept seeing him. I'd catch glimpses of him in the shopping mall, or across a dance floor, or I'd be driving and he'd be walking down the street, but never in the same area twice, and he was always wearing the same outfit : topless, loose flowing white pants, white boots. Only the ribbons that he tied around his waist changed - the reds shaded into purples, then it would be blues darkening into greens. I didn't realise there was a sequence at first, but I did later. At the time I noticed that it was getting into Fall and I was still seeing this guy walking the streets with no shirt. I don't think I ever saw anyone checking him out or looking at him strangely in the street either. I know this is a very open minded city, but that still struck me as strange once I realised it.
And then there was this one night at Gemma's.
Gemma throws the most wonderful parties, and I'm not even sure why I was out in the stairwell of her apartment block half way through the night. Oh - Jason and Nathaniel having words again - that was it. Sometimes the best thing you can do if just not be there, you know? So me and my cocktail took a little walk, and I say stairwell, but in this block, that's practically a rainforest. It's got one of those big glass atrium things with balconies and gardeners to make sure the greenery reaches the penthouse. It's a bit much, if you ask me, but then maybe Jennet's right and I'm just jealous. So I'm strolling around the landing, and I see the ghost guy, just going down the stairs. Still beautiful, still all in white, still topless even though this was October. Deep gold ribbons that made his skin glow like gold dust around them. I followed him. I called out too, just 'hey' or 'excuse me' - I don;t remember. I remember that he stopped and turned round, and that he smiled up at me, and that he had a beautiful smile. When I took a few more steps, started to get closer, he winked and turned and carried on down the stairs, running a pale hand over the gold rail with his ribbons fluttering. It made quite a picture, and no matter what I called he didn't stop again. By the time I reached the doors he was gone.
The concierge was not pleased with me, and Gemma was positively disgruntled at me for causing a scene, but I'd seen him - smelt his cologne even - and the concierge must have been dozing to have missed him, he simply must. There's no other way out - just the stairs and the desk and the doors. It took many apologies, and a reservation for dinner at the Carolingian to persuade Gemma to forgive me long enough to tell my tale in full, and a rather extravagant basket of out of season roses - white and gold, even - to persuade her to ask for the security tapes of that night. The enthusiasm
verging on mania with which I persuaded - and that is her description, not mine - did me no favours when it turned out that the camera's showed nothing and no one in the hall for a good twenty minutes before and then after my running down the stairs and appearing.
I still saw him though - a flash of legs walking up stairs ahead of me in the theatre, a glimpse across a crowded restaurant - odd moments here and there with no rhyme or reason to them. Nearly every day now.
There were rumours that I was having a nervous breakdown, and it has crossed my mind more than once that perhaps I am imagining things. I've started seeing a counsellor, a Dr Phelps, who mostly sits and listens and nods sagely. His theory is that my lifestyle to date does not fully satisfy me, and I am projecting an image of my externalised desire. He may be right. It's been weeks - months - now since I've brought anyone home and my membership at Hell has lapsed.
Perhaps he is right and in the New Year I should push myself to go out more, renew my memberships and friendships and resume my indulgences. Probably he is right, even. I couldn't face it tonight though, all those pitying understanding hypocritical faces. Perhaps writing this account will let me set the ghost to rest, to move on.
This is probably the first New Years Eve I've spent alone since I was in high school. It has been quiet, and I am being unashamedly maudlin, writing letters I will never send to people I no longer know. One or two of these letters are addressed to myself. I wonder if that too is a sign of madness.
Cassandra - that's my cat - is curled up under my knees, I have a fire going, a French press and all the trimmings on the side table, and I mean to spend the night here, perhaps watch the fireworks from the window.
*****
I just went into my bedroom to find a throw. I went in to my bedroom in my fifth floor apartment with it's locked doors and windows that I have not left once today, and I found an envelope on my pillow.
I should be scared, shouldn't I? I am not scared. Somehow I'm quite looking forward to the fireworks and the bells and the new year arriving, bringing whatever it brings.
The envelope is heavy white linen paper - the kind you don't see very often, thick and heavy and soft. When I opened it my hands were filled with a rainbow of ribbon snippets, slipping through my fingers onto the bed, and amongst them a white card. There is no signature, no name, no hint of how it got there.
The card has a single word written in an elegant calligraphy script.
Love.
**************
Hell, like the rest of the city of Eden where this is set, belongs to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cicirossi. Many thanks to her for letting me play there.
Originally posted 2nd June 2003
The Saturday, a bunch of us went to Gia's. Now, that's not like me - two clubs in two days, but, hell, it was my birthday, and I think Kell was dancing or something. Gia's not like the city centre clubs - it's basically this warehouse, except the club's been there for a while, and they've got the facilities sorted. It's basically this one huge room - the dancer's cages are hung off of the walls, and the dj's have this sort of tower thing. Anyway, we're in Gia, dancing away, getting into that trance state - no drugs, just moving and the bass beat and . Well. ok, maybe a couple of tabs, but - I'm dancing, my friend's are dancing - a little bit loved up - that's all.
Only I turn around, and the crowd does that parting of the waters thing that happens every once in a while, and he was right there, just standing. Did I say he was beautiful? All in white again, with this wide red ribbon wound around him, like he was gift wrapping that six pack and those hip bones for someone. Standing in the middle of this heaving dance floor, stock still and looking right at me. Dark dark eyes and red red lips. Did I think that gift wrapping was maybe for me? You bet I did. So I took a step or two forwards, slipping round the beat, dancing his way, and the crowd sort of swirls back together, and I loose him, don't see him for the rest of the night.
Sunday was chilling out, and Monday back to work, trying to pretend like I'm all excited about trying to fill advertising space in some wannabe glossy. Now - I'm no saint, and I'm not going to pretend that I didn't devote a little time here and there to thinking about that guy. What if I hadn't lost him, what if I'd gotten to untie that ribbon and re-tie it around his wrists, his throat, so it looked like blood holding him down while I kissed him. Believe me - if you'd seen him, he'd be staring daily in your own little fantasies too. That's the way it goes sometimes, you see someone, nothing happens, so you imagine instead, and move on.
I think maybe it was a couple of weeks after that that I caught sight of him again - in Hell of all places. More to the point, in the corridors that lead you to the private rooms. Had that same snapshot feeling to it, with him walking away down this corridor, long pale bare back, sweet ass and long legs in loose white pants, and dark red ribbon wound around him flowing out as he moved.
When me and my friend were done with our engagement, I had a word with the maitre de - described this guy. She was as polite as a very polite person, but he wasn't on their staff, and it's not their policy to discuss clients with other clients. I guess I can see why, but it still drove me half crazy, to be so close and yet so far from discovering him.
I'll admit, I was getting a little obsessed with the guy - Dan and Jennet in the office dubbed him 'the ghost' - it's just every time I thought I was forgetting about him, I'd see him again. Sometimes, like, three, four times in a day, and then sometimes not for a week. I tried talking to people I knew in the clubs where I saw him - see if maybe anyone knew him. Without exception everyone just looked blank, didn't think they remembered seeing anyone fitting that description. It was strange. Personally I'd have thought there were one-eyed nuns who would have noticed this guy. So I chased up some of the people I'd been with in Gia - they didn't remember him either. They remembered me wittering on about some beautiful stranger, but none of them remembered the dance floor parting for him.
The thing is though, after that, I just kept seeing him. I'd catch glimpses of him in the shopping mall, or across a dance floor, or I'd be driving and he'd be walking down the street, but never in the same area twice, and he was always wearing the same outfit : topless, loose flowing white pants, white boots. Only the ribbons that he tied around his waist changed - the reds shaded into purples, then it would be blues darkening into greens. I didn't realise there was a sequence at first, but I did later. At the time I noticed that it was getting into Fall and I was still seeing this guy walking the streets with no shirt. I don't think I ever saw anyone checking him out or looking at him strangely in the street either. I know this is a very open minded city, but that still struck me as strange once I realised it.
And then there was this one night at Gemma's.
Gemma throws the most wonderful parties, and I'm not even sure why I was out in the stairwell of her apartment block half way through the night. Oh - Jason and Nathaniel having words again - that was it. Sometimes the best thing you can do if just not be there, you know? So me and my cocktail took a little walk, and I say stairwell, but in this block, that's practically a rainforest. It's got one of those big glass atrium things with balconies and gardeners to make sure the greenery reaches the penthouse. It's a bit much, if you ask me, but then maybe Jennet's right and I'm just jealous. So I'm strolling around the landing, and I see the ghost guy, just going down the stairs. Still beautiful, still all in white, still topless even though this was October. Deep gold ribbons that made his skin glow like gold dust around them. I followed him. I called out too, just 'hey' or 'excuse me' - I don;t remember. I remember that he stopped and turned round, and that he smiled up at me, and that he had a beautiful smile. When I took a few more steps, started to get closer, he winked and turned and carried on down the stairs, running a pale hand over the gold rail with his ribbons fluttering. It made quite a picture, and no matter what I called he didn't stop again. By the time I reached the doors he was gone.
The concierge was not pleased with me, and Gemma was positively disgruntled at me for causing a scene, but I'd seen him - smelt his cologne even - and the concierge must have been dozing to have missed him, he simply must. There's no other way out - just the stairs and the desk and the doors. It took many apologies, and a reservation for dinner at the Carolingian to persuade Gemma to forgive me long enough to tell my tale in full, and a rather extravagant basket of out of season roses - white and gold, even - to persuade her to ask for the security tapes of that night. The enthusiasm
verging on mania with which I persuaded - and that is her description, not mine - did me no favours when it turned out that the camera's showed nothing and no one in the hall for a good twenty minutes before and then after my running down the stairs and appearing.
I still saw him though - a flash of legs walking up stairs ahead of me in the theatre, a glimpse across a crowded restaurant - odd moments here and there with no rhyme or reason to them. Nearly every day now.
There were rumours that I was having a nervous breakdown, and it has crossed my mind more than once that perhaps I am imagining things. I've started seeing a counsellor, a Dr Phelps, who mostly sits and listens and nods sagely. His theory is that my lifestyle to date does not fully satisfy me, and I am projecting an image of my externalised desire. He may be right. It's been weeks - months - now since I've brought anyone home and my membership at Hell has lapsed.
Perhaps he is right and in the New Year I should push myself to go out more, renew my memberships and friendships and resume my indulgences. Probably he is right, even. I couldn't face it tonight though, all those pitying understanding hypocritical faces. Perhaps writing this account will let me set the ghost to rest, to move on.
This is probably the first New Years Eve I've spent alone since I was in high school. It has been quiet, and I am being unashamedly maudlin, writing letters I will never send to people I no longer know. One or two of these letters are addressed to myself. I wonder if that too is a sign of madness.
Cassandra - that's my cat - is curled up under my knees, I have a fire going, a French press and all the trimmings on the side table, and I mean to spend the night here, perhaps watch the fireworks from the window.
*****
I just went into my bedroom to find a throw. I went in to my bedroom in my fifth floor apartment with it's locked doors and windows that I have not left once today, and I found an envelope on my pillow.
I should be scared, shouldn't I? I am not scared. Somehow I'm quite looking forward to the fireworks and the bells and the new year arriving, bringing whatever it brings.
The envelope is heavy white linen paper - the kind you don't see very often, thick and heavy and soft. When I opened it my hands were filled with a rainbow of ribbon snippets, slipping through my fingers onto the bed, and amongst them a white card. There is no signature, no name, no hint of how it got there.
The card has a single word written in an elegant calligraphy script.
Love.
**************
Hell, like the rest of the city of Eden where this is set, belongs to
cicirossi. Many thanks to her for letting me play there.Originally posted 2nd June 2003
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