For the first few days, she thought he might come back. She took a little longer to get ready for work every day, putting on a little extra makeup and wearing sexier clothes. After several days of not seeing him again, she started to wonder if he was coming. After a week, she was convinced of it.

The she got scared. She realized she had been intimate with a complete stranger, and she hadn’t used birth control. She went to see her gynecologist, and after a full examination was relieved to find that she was both disease and child free.

She lingered for a few days being deeply hurt. Why hadn’t he come back? She thought she he had seen something special in her, but not she was beginning to think that he saw her as just an easy piece of ass. Yet another man had waltzed through her life, given her a whiff of something better, and then drifted off before bringing it to fruition.

Finally, she got angry. Angry at him for thinking he had the right to treat her this way. Angry at herself for caring. Angry most of all for wanting more. For not being able to keep him out of her mind. For not being able to get to sleep at night until she brought herself to orgasm remembering how he felt inside of her, or imagining how much more it could have been. She didn’t want to wonder what it felt like to have his tongue between her legs. She didn’t want to wonder what his cock tasted like, or what kind of noises he would make as he came in her mouth. She didn’t want to wonder these things but she did, and she hated herself for it.

So she decided that she was going to do something about it.

She began to try and piece together what she knew about him. He was, of course, a reader. “The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty,” regardless of why he was reading, was certainly not common literary fare or something we would have been assigned to read in a class. She guessed that he was probably a student, because of the backpack that he carried. It had looked heavy, as if full of texts. She didn’t figure him for a biker, though. He was probably more likely to be a Generation X holdover. A thirty-something refusing to let go of his “wild youth.”

She decided to begin her search in the local clubs. Tampa wasn’t a small town by any means, but the underground scene really wasn’t all that expansive, and she figured if he was a club hopper he might be able to find him in that manner.

She tried to look up the band that had been on the T-Shirt he was wearing. Jello Biafra. At first she thought she was barking escort bostancı up the wrong tree, because all she was finding was links to a political activist and “spoken word” artist. That would make things more difficult. There were lots of bookstores and coffee shops in the area that had spoken word engagements. After digging a little farther, she discovered that Jello Biafra was the former lead singer for a band called the Dead Kennedys, an old punk rock band from the early eighties. There weren’t that many clubs that played that kind of music in Tampa, so she knew she was getting closer. A few more searches later, she decided that the best place to start would be a “gothic” club called The Castle in Ybor City.

Saturday nights were crowded in Ybor. It had been a long time since she had been down here, and it seemed like so much had changed over the years. It didn’t feel dangerous, or edgy anymore. It felt touristy, and crowded. 7th Avenue was packed with drunken partygoers, most of them clean cut and young. They looked like they had money. The last time she came here, it was different. It felt special, not commercial. Back then she would have felt comfortable in her jeans and t-shirt, but in the Ybor city of today she felt out of place. Underdressed.

That feeling didn’t change as she approached The Castle. The world suddenly changed from a streamlined, shiny money machine to a dark and gritty gothic-punk reality. She felt out of place again, but now she felt too normal. The people here were all wearing some form of black clothing. Leather jackets, trench coats, black t-shirts from bands like Marilyn Manson and Stabbing Westward. Many of them wore white make up, trying to make their pale and clammy skin even more unnatural. It seemed as though all of them had some kind of body piercing. Eyebrows, earlobes, noses, tongues – nothing was sacred. She could only imagine what else was penetrated. She thought about turning back, but then her anger welled up inside of her again, and she set her jaw and walked up to the entrance.

The doorman, a gaunt lanky man with long black hair and hawkish features, looked over her incredulously as she handed him her ID and $5 cover charge. She stared back at him, silently waiting for entry to the club. He shrugged, handed her card back to her, and stamped her hand. She walked past him and through the black doors that throbbed with the bass from inside.

The music assaulted her senses as she broke the threshold. Loud, pulsing ümraniye escort and slow rhythm coursing through her body, so loud she could hardly think. A dark voice, chanting over and over again “I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead” while a sea of ashen hedonists gyrated on the dance floor. Everywhere she looked, she thought she felt eyes on her. Amused. Curious. She stood out like a sore thumb, and she hated it. She got a drink from the bar, and found an empty booth in a dark corner. It had a good view of the dance floor, so she figured that if he showed up she could see him from there.

She sat there for what seemed like hours, drinking the whole time, waiting for him. Her head was swimming, the music so loud and constant that it seemed like it was coming from within her. That even if she covered her ears it would be just as loud, just as invasive. This was hopeless. This was inane. Why had she even bothered? She was just about to get up and go when a woman slid into the booth next to her.

She was, of course, pale. Just like all the other people here. Her skin was chalk white, but smooth. Blemish free. She was beautiful. Raven black hair cascading down over her shoulders and across her back. She had green eyes, one could almost say emerald, and was wearing black lipstick on her full lips. She had on what could be called a cape, over a tight black lace corset, strung up in the front with black ribbon. Her large breasts were pushed together and up by the garment, and she had a black rose nestled in between them. Misty scooted back, alarmed, as the woman lifted a cold hand to her face and caressed her cheek with black fingernails.

“How long are you going to wait for him?” she whispered, tilting her head to the side as she stared at Misty.

“What…what do you mean?” Misty asked.

“You have to be waiting for a man. I’ve been watching you. You’re staring at the door as if Jesus himself was about to rise from the depths of hell and come waltzing in here to save us all.”

Misty laughed at that, the liquor making her head swim, and as she boldly replied “What makes you think it is a man?”

The woman smiled. “True. It could be a woman. But women are smart, and I don’t think a woman would leave someone as pretty as you waiting for this long.”

Misty leaned forward, looking deep into the smoldering eyes of the pale temptress before her, and whispered “Do you really think I’m pretty?”

“Oh yes” the woman cooed, and leaned forward to press her lips against kartal escort bayan Misty’s. Misty has actually been with a woman before, so the sensation was not all together new to her, but she had forgotten how soft a woman felt when she was pressed up against her. How much more intimate a kiss between women was. How tender the lips felt as the parted, how teasing the tongue was as it danced within her mouth. The woman leaned in, pressing her corseted chest against Misty, running those dark fingernails down over her t-shirt and caressing her nipples.

Misty moaned and leaned back, her head tilting over the back of the booth. The woman leaned in again, hovering over her and placing small kisses over her face, her left hand now actively caressing one of Misty’s breasts through the shirt. The woman kissed her ears, her cheek, worked her way down over to her neck and lingered there, kissing softly. Then she began to nibble. Suck. Her tongue darting out and teasing. Then, without warning, she started to bite harder. Misty squealed and jumped up, the spell broken. The woman began to laugh, her mouth opening wide and revealing prosthetic canines over her regular teeth. Misty clasped her hand over her neck and began to back out of the bar, her mind racing. As she turned, she heard the bartender yelling towards the booth she was in. Bitching someone out for pulling the vampire routine again.

She broke through the crowds and back onto the streets of 7th avenue. Enough was enough. It was time to go home, to forget he she had ever seen him, forget all of this craziness. Her face burned with humiliation and she walked back towards the parking garage, through the throngs of people. Right as she was about to turn towards the garage she passed a club called Masquerade. Violent music pulsated through the open doors of the club, a screaming guitar rift that exploded into the street. She turned and looked through the doors, and into the crowd inside. A group of men thrashed about in the middle of a dance floor, seemingly fighting each other to the beat of the music. Two men in particular spun around in the middle of the floor, the smaller of the two being swung by the arms of the first, being used as a weapon by the large, balding, tall…

It was him.

She stopped, unsure if what she was seeing was true. Sure enough, as he spun around again she could see it was the man she was looking for. He wasn’t wearing his glasses now, and his face was red from exertion and dripping with sweat. His smirk was replaced by a look of bestial joy, his mouth open and screaming along with the words, exalting in the violence of the dance. But it was him.

She smiled. Time for a little bit of revenge, she thought to herself as she paid the cover charge and entered the club.