Anna calls and asks if I want to come with her to the Fuck Factory and there’s no one to stop me. What does Jack expect me to do? Sit at home and feel sorry for myself? That’s not me.
The Fuck Factory is Anna’s favorite club. The only place where she says she really feels at home, at peace and among her own kind. She says she wants to take me there so that I’ll understand her a little better and why she does the things she does.
Tonight, it’s Black and Blue Night, which Anna had to assure me three or four times wasn’t the way our bodies would look by the time we walked out of there.
She told me, ‘It’s a dress code, silly.’
Leather and denim. And strictly nothing else. No cotton, no rayon, no polyester or spandex.
But I cheated.
I put on a bra and panties underneath the denim.
And Anna doesn’t know. Or if she does, she’s not letting on.
She came over to my apartment. We got ready together and she brought something for me too, because we’re about the same size. And Anna was adamant that I had to stick to the dress code. She said, ‘You’ve got to play by the rule. It’s the only rule there is.’
And I was adamant that, dress code be damned, my modesty would prevail. So I put them on when she wasn’t looking.
She made me look at myself in the mirror, while she stood behind with her hands on my hips and a satisfied smile on her face that said, job well done. All I could think was, I look kind of cheap and slutty, like the way young female movie stars have to dress if they want to make the cover of Maxim, but Anna looked at me and said, ‘I’d fuck you.’
Right after that, I made an excuse to go to the bathroom and that’s when I put my underwear back on – a thong and my demi-cup bra. I checked my ass in the bathroom mirror to make sure the panties couldn’t be seen and did up one extra button of the shirt, so the cleavage was still visible but its support was not.
Anna played by the rule. She picked out a black leather catsuit that fits her like a second skin. It has a zip that runs from the neck all the way down the front and disappears between her legs. She couldn’t wear underwear even if she wanted to, because it would show and ruin the effect. And anyway, she has it open almost all the way to the navel and her tits are half-exposed.
As she touched up her makeup, I asked her what I should expect.
‘It’s not a society ball,’ she said. ‘It’s a place where people go to fuck. You look around, you scope out what’s going on, what you like the look of, and you get into a scene. It’s no big deal.’
Anna tells me the Fuck Factory is legendary. It’s been around since before she was born. And busted more times than Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton combined for almost any health and safety statute you’d care to mention, even the most minor infractions, anything that could provide a pretext. And every time it’s busted, the club moves to a different location and starts afresh, further away from the rest of polite society, further away from civilization, where it can exist without fear of harassment or prosecution.
Now, it’s moved here.
If there was a place called Nowhere, this is probably what it would look like. A war zone. Like those photos you see of some battle-scarred city in some territory on the other side of the world that seems to be in a permanent state of conflict. Or the long-forgotten ruins of a lost civilization. A city that’s long been abandoned. Streets that are empty. Buildings bombed-out and barely standing. No inhabitants. No sign of life.
That’s what it feels like here. Spooky and eerie. We’re two girls standing on a deserted street at the edge of the city. There’s nothing to indicate that there’s a club here. No signage. No people. Nothing to suggest there’s anything here at all. Except something that looks like graffiti. As primitive as a paleolithic cave painting. Or something someone might have drawn on a bathroom wall.
A cartoon penis and balls, spurting four large teardrops of come.
White stains on a dirty black wall. Below that, a pair of legs raised in the air, in a v-shape, like devil’s horns. It reminds me of the way Anna’s legs were strung up when she was tied to the toilet in that video. And between the legs, a hole. A crudely drawn vagina. With teeth. Lots of small sharp pointed teeth. Below that there’s an arrow, pointing down, to a steep, stone staircase that leads below the street.
As we head down the stairs, into the gloom, I imagine what it must smell like in the Fuck Factory. Maybe like an old basement dive bar, wet and moldy and sweet from all the alcohol consumed in such a confined space. With every step, I can feel an air of mystery and deviance brewing around us.