I prowl around the club in Florence. I need a release. Something warm to tease, taunt, titillate, tame, and tear up. It is not only the lifestyle I portray, it is truly who I am. It has never been my MO to waste time chatting up some romance novel junkie, saying all the things I know she wants to hear to get laid.
That is why I came here. It’s not one of my places. I won’t lose the respect of my girls, or my clients.
Tonight, I seek strange.
I’ve come to exactly the right kind of place. I know this because I planned it. I plan everything. I take in the leather clad wait staff with piercings and tattoos—some of whom are holding whips—this is a no-last-name kind of scene. All fetishes are welcome here. My eye catches on a tall redhead with a nose ring that’s chained to her nipple ring—totally exposed, for all to see.
Make that welcome, wet, and waiting.
Nothing good happens on today’s date. Hell, nothing good ever happens these days, aside from orgasms and creating desire. If not for causing the slow buildup to release, and the inevitable double-edged climax, I would feel nothing. But then, usually I like feeling nothing. For too many years, I felt too much. Rage, sadness, jealousy, obsession, more rage...it was fucking exhausting, caring that much.
Nowadays, I am a shark, coldly calculating without allowing anything to touch me on a personal level. Ironically, this seems to make me irresistible to the opposite sex. It also makes me notice things that most people are too nervous, too excited, too full of desire, or scared to notice.
In one corner of the club, there’s a man whose facial expression gives him away as a first-timer to the BDSM scene—eyebrows raised, wide shoulders cocked back defensively, and a scowl on his face that will likely keep any subs from approaching him. The way his eyes flit from side to side, it’s as if he’s trying to figure out how he got here, and what the hell is going on. I follow his gaze, more slowly and casually, expecting someone who works here to greet him, at least help the poor bastard feel welcome. But no one does.
As a businessman, it bothers me. But as an anonymous club patron—which I am tonight, I remind myself—I couldn’t give less of a fuck.
I saunter over to the bar, sit down, and order a drink. Manhattan, with rye whiskey—the only kind of Manhattan that counts. When my drink is in my hand, I turn and continue scouting the crowd for talent.
The majority have not picked their poison yet, and the ones who have are clearly all about being dominated. It seems like the place is crawling with prey, but not so many hunters. Good, I like those odds.
The ‘out of his scene’ guy comes up to the bar and sits right next to me. He orders a glass of wine, cheap wine. I almost snort into my drink. Rookie move. Feeling generous, I turn to him and offer my hand. “I’m Sabato, how are you?”
Immediately, his shoulders go up. “Dude, I like pussy. Okay? I’m not sure what the fuck about me screams I’m willing to swing that way, but—”
“It’s definitely the clothes.”
“Excuse me?” His attitude is one I am not accustomed to. But then, after all, this is not one of my usual haunts.
I decide to cut the guy a break, since he’s obviously clueless. “Look around the room.” I gesture vaguely with my drink. “Tell me, what do you see?”
He shakes his head, looking confused. “Pussy.” He snorts, shooting me a glare. “And a bunch of guys who want to tag my ass.”
My patience is very quickly running out. “And, what else?”
He shakes his head again, more loosely this time. The wine must be getting to him already. What a light weight.
“Honestly, man, I feel like any second, half of these guys are gonna bust out doing the fucking YMCA. I mean....” He gestures agitatedly around the room. “You got the cowboys, the cops, the gay bikers—fuck, we’re just missing the Indians in here.”
I almost want to laugh, because he is right. “And if they see you checking them out, wearing...what you’re wearing...how do you think they will approach you?”
He shrugs, looking offended again. I signal the bartender to bring him another wine, before he really gets his skirt in a twist.
“What the hell is wrong with my clothes?”
“Nothing,” I tell him. “If you’re going to a different kind of club.” I gesture to his shiny, black silk shirt. “I mean, you have your dancing shoes,” I can’t hold back a mocking smirk, “that match your cute little dancing shirt.”
“Fuck you, dude.” His eyebrows push together, and he stares at me for a few seconds like he’s seriously thinking about kicking my ass. Then, slowly, he smiles. Shakes his head. Holds his hand out for me to shake. “Zandor Steel.”