Prurience (Guuro & Vermiciro)

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Vermiciro, Aug 15, 2015.

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    • Like a low-hanging, swollen fruit, the moon held court among its celestial brethren. Fat with portent, it presaged change among tides and men. Its gravity, though ephemeral, was inescapable. Predilections swayed in favor of spontaneity. Logic genuflected before myth. And nature triumphed reason. Because under the moon’s rule, nothing was quite itself.

      Mason Grant was no exception. As though repeatedly guided by the moon’s unseen magnetism, he found himself in Prurience.

      The club was in the city outskirts where commercial establishments were intermittently spaced with dense expanses of underbrush and overgrown lots whose manicured landscapes were long ago tempted to mutiny by summer heat and rain. Roadside swales periodically pooled with runoff, ideal breeding grounds for mosquitoes, rushes, and the occasional cattail. Both day and night, the air vibrated with insect frequency.

      Despite its less than idyllic location, Prurience spared no expense when it came to quality of service and accommodations. Entertainers were held to a standard. The liquor was top-shelf. And private rooms were fully furnished. Like professional pornography, the club was a filthy clean, washed, bleached, plucked, sculpted, concealed, and groomed to and art. But everyone knew what slicked down thighs and glittered along the edges of coy smiles. It was no secret.

      Though sanitary or sleazy, Mason hated the place all the same, hated it with a preoccupation bordering on monomania. That the bartender knew his order was vulgar, as though to suggest Mason was a regular, an inveterate voyeur with a penchant for fags. It pissed him off. He’d have drifted to another gay bar if it wasn’t for Tobias.

      Thought of the twink bastard set Mason’s skin alive with heat and tension. Like a coil winding tight, he could feel it in the set of his shoulders, an eagerness. Though for what exactly Mason didn’t know, refused to question why. He took a generous drink from his glass. Whether the alcohol was to allay that sensation or tempt it further, Mason couldn’t say either. He didn’t know much of anything anymore. Impulse, like a scream swelling in his chest for release, was his only compass.

      And it always led him back to Prurience, back to Tobias. It was pathological. The fag was hypodermic, beneath Mason’s skin and writhing for satisfaction. Like an addict's need for more, suffering the withdrawal, Mason had to see him. He couldn’t deny that desire. Like water, Mason physically needed it. And the week had left him parched.

      So there, in the blue-dark shadows of the booths, Mason waited. Some of the boys were keeping the place warm, gyrating and dancing fluidly to the drone of guitars on small, lesser stages. The air was cloying, thick as cake and just as sweet. It was killing him. Mason threw back the remainder of his drink and flagged the bartender for another. Alcohol was the best solution he had, constantly checking the time, as he waited for the lights and music to change, for his drug to come on stage.

    #1 Vermiciro, Aug 15, 2015
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 24, 2016
  1. The Prurience was terribly full, but it was no surprise. It was the cleanest and safest gaybar in the city and everyone knew it.

    Or at least those who cared.

    Friday nights are busy ones he reminded himself while taking a quick look at the brimming audience from behind the curtain where he had just stepped out of the dressing room after completing his earlier task of changing out of his mundane clothes and into his "uniform". A tight sheer cherry red corset, trimmed in black, was askew on his torso and there was a ruby ribbon around his neck, which had been tied and retied several times based on the wrinkles in the fabric along with lacy red panties and matching stockings that were being held up with a garter belt. The dressing room itself had been larger than Tobias had first expected when he was a newbie, fresh meat thrown into the "trade"; with couches, a mini fridge, curtained-off changing stalls, and showers — “To wash off the sweat and glitter at the end of the night,” Tess explained. The first week was so overwhelming that Tobias could barely tell up from down. Tess had been his savior, teaching him how to walk in the club-issued silver stilettos and helping him figure out his dance outfit. On one of the smaller poles, there was Tess sliding down with a shit eating grin in black leather shorts, pleased at pulling off a move he’d been practicing day by day for weeks on end. He stretched on the main stage, placing the heel of one foot up against the pole and leaning forward until his legs were almost completely parallel to the pole. Tobias knew Tess worked for years to get that kind of flexibility, but he was still a tad bit envious. That bitch made it look so easy—and that was probably why he was one of the most popular dancers at the club.

    The lights had dimmed down to signal the end of the other entertainer's minor performances and Tess, who had taken a deep bow even though he stood there next to a stripper pole in tiny knickers, and not the stage of the Royal Ballet.

    Tobias took a careful look around in the half illuminated audience, recognizes some people but not many. His eyes landed on a familiar, yet mysterious, face in the back row. There wasn't much to know about him other than he was always watching when Tobias himself performed looking awfully grumpy and that he was one hell of a tipper. Possibly Tobi's highest. Despite the numerous men, there didn’t seem to be anybody worthy of his charms. And, apart from the occasional sideways glance, nobody really seemed interested in him either. If he hadn’t been sort of relieved, he probably would have been offended. Their eyes were only now on him because no one else was permitted to dance until his show was done, they were presented with no other option and could do nothing else but surrender their attention to him. The moment this had ended, he would be just another stripper.

    The audience went eerily quiet as he slowly walked towards the front of the main stage. The entire club smelled of smoke with the haze hovering over inebriated and sweat-slicked bodies.

    “Good evening gentleman, do we have a sweet little treat in store for you. Making his way to the center stage is Prurience's token candy boy, Tobi!” A sultry voice from behind the scenes announces and there’s another round of cheers.The music and lights came on once again as a signal for him to start. It was a loud bass, the speakers that surrounded the stage booming and threatening to burst as the floor quivered with each vibrating beat. The entire club went dark, except for the colorful lights that illuminated the stage and flashed from below.

    Tobias gave a little twirl towards the crowd, letting fly a puff of glitter. Hands down at his sides, he took a few seductive steps forward, maintaining a mocking sort of eye contact with the crowd. With a couple of slow, slick, movements he slinked over to one of the poles, back up against it, hand sliding down to his crotch. A few desperate hands grabbed at his legs, tossing him money and stuffing it into a strap on his leg. Then, with one arm Tobias reached up towards and grasped the pole with the other leisurely following as he span around to press his entire body against the metal, somehow managing to to smudge his almost drag-like make up. The cheers and whistles of the crowd egged him on as perverted optics glued themselves to his frame. Almost lazily, as if doing the audience a favor, he gave a little spin around, earning himself an uneven chorus of whoops. A clever sort of jig. He gave his most sultry stride, knowing how his hamstrings would tense and his ass would jiggle. A pause, a finger jabbed at someone in the audience. A wink. Another couple of steps. Another wink. Hands dropped down, supporting the dancer as he moved his hips up in a couple of fluid motions.

    Almost magically, Tobias' eyes found the mysterious man's in the crowd once more, and a slow grin spread over his face. He tried batting his lashes in the hope of some extra pay. The enigmatical patron made it his objective to catch every show of his and Tobi would take that intel and run with it, milking the poor thing for all he's got. Eyes hooded, he dug his fingers into the flowing curly pink locks of the wig that adorned his head. His spine curved in an exaggerated lordosis position as he slid down the pole and onto his knees, lips parted and wet.
  2. Despite the bitter astringency of his beverage, Mason was drinking generously from it to kill time. No matter how frequently he drank straight liquor, it was always revolting. He wanted some citrus to kill the flavor, but wasn't going to risk his masculinity on an orange. Likewise, mixing it with a beer or coke wasn't an option either. Something about it said weakness to Mason and anything was easier to stomach than that. It was as he considered gesturing for a third drink that the lights dimmed.

    What he had been waiting for, his reason for even setting foot in the club, had finally taken stage.

    Mason couldn't tell if it was the music's reverberation punching him in the chest or the quickening of his own heart, but he hated it. It was hard to swallow. Maybe it was the sleek taper of the stilettos, the way the lace framed Tobi's gentle curves, the coy flounce of his wig, or the garter temping Mason's hands, but something about Tobi always came over him like a wave, undertow threatening to pull Mason from safe shores.

    Mason suddenly wished he had ordered that third drink, anything to fill the wanting in his mouth. He decided against more liquor and crushed his ice. Even with alcohol in his system, Mason was tense. He couldn't relax. Nor could he look away. If Michelle ever found out that he was dropping a little over one hundred every week on a stripper she would kill him. He wasn't even paying for the stripper, he was just throwing money away. But that didn't stop him from slipping bills from his wallet and sliding them under his glass.
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