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"So what are you into?"
3/16/2006 3:56 am Last Read: |
Yes, yes yes bloody yes, I'm going to actually get something done at home writing-wise and domestic-wise today, but it seems this blog is sparking a load of creativity for me.... I've been getting this question a lot: "So what are you into?" I believe I have been disappointing many a man as I don't automatically spiel off the list of BDSM practices, and I rather scare the vanilla types as it's obvious after inquiry that I am into some rather non-ordinary things. My decadence is of a rather dark nature - a nature I don't always have a chance to vent as it doesn't fit into an accepted ticky box. It is because my own particular kink cannot be unleashed very often, if at all, that I write about it instead. Thus has Netherwhere been born. My particular vice is to become someone completely utterly different for an evening. To immerse myself into being someone entirely opposite to who I am - it can't be done constantly, as even filet mignon can get dull if eaten daily. To create this ficticious "me" and to use it as a snare for the un-suspecting yet completely deserving. To dance the Dark, bait the trap, spring and devour, and be gone like mist in the morning. It's more than a one-night stand, as the sex for me isn't the main enjoyment. The chase is the spice, and the brilliance of it all. Only through the elaborate preparation is the rest worthwhile to me. I hint at it a bit in my "fantasy" answer to the Alt.com profiling. And it appears in a few passages of Netherwhere, most notably the ritual Celine performs when getting ready for her Dark Evenings. Will any of this ever happen for me in reality? I doubt it. But some fantasies are merely that...and part of their titilation is they will never actually happen. I'm aware posting my work up here is just crying for it to be ripped off by someone, but as I am under a copyright for this piece, I'd strongly suggest against it. ********************* The first necessity was getting her own private flat in the City; that was easy enough as most people in England had a home away from home in London, somewhere, either for convenience, for work, or for secret trysts. Therefore the estate agents didn't bat an eye when said she was seeking out a one bedroom flat on Camden street it was tradition. To completely transform herself into another person, she had to lay some basic groundwork; a shame as she didn't want to have such tracings of her Dark Life to exist her her Grey Life, but they were easily explained away or hidden. She plucked her eyebrows differently, giving them a new arch out of keeping with her more natural style. She loitered over hair products at the drug store, choosing wisely, spending the coins she managed to save here and there to buy cremes for enhancing curls, to hold shape, for hair dyes just different enough to be eye catching without making her an exhibit. She dedicated more time to her nails, and learned to shave all the hair off her body from the neck down until she possessed an alien smoothness on her limbs. Her appearance became a second job; preening, plucking, smoothing, toning. But it didn't stop with her physical being; she spent many an evening teaching herself phrases in French, the language of intrigue and mystery. She pored over the language of the fan, studied different cuts of suits and styles in magazines she'd never wear, memorised the construction and appearance jewelry and watches she would never own, all so she could recognise them at a glance. She collected books on etiquette and the manners of the rich and famous, analysed the line between the eccentrically charming and the untoward caprice. Celine had to weigh up her aversion to the more blatant trappings of wealth: pearls were running out; Thai rubies didn't exist anymore and Burmese militants seized mines for their own ends, sapphires were harvested with these rubies and thus came from the same corruption ridden areas; opals were ripped from the ground by underfed, underpaid Aborigines in Australia. Celine eased her conscience and her sense of style by buying antiques, as one or two old and interesting pieces often did the job a full diamond set could not. She could not bring herself to wear diamonds, for all their symbolism of money - they were harvested by slave labour, and her deception and Darkness would only go so far. She gave a nod to current styles and fashions but still stuck with her own, going for the exotic to stand out in a crowd of sameness; bold dark jeweltones in summer, stockings with backseams, corsets tightlaced to enhance her curves, hair out wild and free instead of pinned up smartly, curly instead of straight, antique jewelry and accesories rather than new-bought. Conversation at such events would be the most difficult - it mostly revolved around business. Even dressed for pleasure it seemed that people had no idea how to put modern finance and commerce aside. The subjects at least were very predictable; men talked about business, women about their hair or their new diets. Dull, stupid, nonsense conversation which was apparently incredibly important. She knew she had to be very careful with talking; the illusion would be broken entirely too quickly if she allowed herself to be drawn into any subject and talk about the rights of others, of democracy, of having any regard for fellow men in anything but token terms, of her loathing of waste and flashy spending - all the food on the banquet table which no-one would eat to preserve their hard-earned, expensively toned figures, their ridiculously expensive cars in their induced traffic jams when a cab could get them here just as quickly. Therefore she would need to stick to musical functions where talk was kept to intervals, or mealtimes. Art exhibits wouldn't do, nor would cocktail parties - and most of these latter functions required an invite and consisted of a small sect and clique (she didn't have connections, she could only pretend she did). The art in the deception was blending in and looking as if all of this was commonplace, to seem as bored as the others were - for none present were deriving any pleasure in these functions - but to stand apart, regal, with the Mona Lisa smile, for men to be intrigued, and for women to be envious. She transformed her flat into a sumptuous den of silks and velvet, bold rich colours which would rival a palace of a Raj in India. Most of it wasn't expensive; bargains from stalls in Camden, tidbits found in charity shoppes. Most of the trappings weren't expensive, but they looked it, and that was the important part. There wasn't a chair to be seen, the floor of the living room covered with pillows of every size imaginable, a futon half-swathed in a mosquito net made of diaphanous chiffon, the ceiling draped like a tent in organdy and taffeta. Candles everywhere which would gleam at night upon various silver samovars and perfume bottles, her wardrobe full of expensive evening clothing and an army of shoes lined up in a row. Celine had a ritual for the Dark Evenings, as she called them. It was no good just putting on a fancy dress. She had to completely immerse herself in the moment, assume a whole new identity, place herself in a finer setting until it came as easily as breathing. It was a challenge, but then, that was all part of the dark rush. She had plenty of money from her exhibits and shows, and also managed to steal a bit from her family's accounts, or told them she was short when she actually wasn't. Naturally, she could always skim a bit off Richard, but she did that rarely she didn't like encouraging him, though he was often her partner in darkness and could have helped her easily enter into the sort of lifestyle she wanted to immerse herself into; but then it wouldn't have truly been her experience, and hers alone. Celine didn't want to share. The first day was a practice run - she would just get herself in the proper mood with pampering and getting out into the well-off public eye. She saw it as a refresher, revising for the next evening when everything really counted, for the tiniest thing would give her away if she wasn't careful. She'd learned the nouveau riche were fanatical with their rituals and attention to minute details - old money never bothered, but old money never bothered with jostling for center stage in life's theatre. Thus, she needed to make sure everything was perfect, nothing gave her away. All piercings were removed - she only had three, in order to allow her to slip from one life to the next. She had one tattoo but these days, so did everyone else. She bought several day outfits of a cut and style which was unique enough to seem designer made even if the label didn't show. Her evening attire was another matter entirely, and she often spent months scouring various antique shops for unique touches; fans, jewelry, hair combs. She ordered circlet chains from a crafter in the States, and mousquetaire opera gloves from Italy. Celine booked a hotel in Covent Garden - it wasn't the Mandarin Oriental, but it was clean and suitably posh enough to impress and put herself in the proper mood. She never booked the same hotel twice, and sometimes she didn't even end up sleeping in her room at all. But it always set the proper mood of opulence taken for granted. The hotel staff was inclined to give her a mere modicum of politeness due to her ragged, young, punky appearance until she paid with her Gold Card; indifference immediately turned into efficient respect within a few seconds. Then, after dropping off her luggage, she would shoulder her carry-all bag and have a taxi hailed to deliver her to a day spa nearby. At first, the older clientèle of vitriolic, fading, high-maintenance flowers glared death at this new rival with her piercings and youthful face, her dyed hair which would always leave streaks and traces of pastel blue or purple or red upon the collar of her robe. But she'd come here often enough, spending just enough - not too much, as it raised a banner to jealousy within moments - on facial treatments and mimosas, for them to welcome her silently into their own fold of half-bored housewives. A steam in the sauna, then the facial - it never ceased to amaze her that people would pay such extortionate amounts of money to have mud put on their faces, but it was all part of the plan. Her skin was plumped, stripped, scrubbed, wrapped, and polished. Her nails were painted in colours which would compliment her outfits and also add a few years to her appearance; the technicians knew better than to offer her pastels. After a light meal and a doze in the subtropical heat of the relaxation rooms, she'd dress in her new-bought wardrobe, taking off the artist and putting on the debutante, right down to the strappy sandals. It would be time to get her hair dyed next - she always disliked this part as removing the permanent blue-black dye was a bitch. At first, the stylists had fainted in coils at the "mess" she had made of her hair with punky, bright colours and bleaches. They soon learned to keep it to themselves, and merely sniffed archly as they washed away bilous greens, bloody reds, and bruised purples into the shampoo sink. She was now sufficiently Not-Celine to almost fit into the sea of showoffs clogging Covent Gardens. All she needed was a bag of shopping from Harrods' and a cellphone pressed to her ear. She would return to the hotel and spend her time in the restaurant, remembering how to pick at her food as if even the best wasn't good enough, sip at champagne and read a few dark, sensual novels, the "chick book" of the new millennium. She'd drug herself with a fine meal, a glass of wine, a book, always sitting alone, waiting, waiting for someone to come along, intrigued by the lone woman of 20 - or 22? - to come, sit, try to impress her with talk of their business, their cars, flashing their watches they'd glance at every few minutes, their same slightly polite, mostly predatory smiles. The men always looked alike to her, same haircuts, same suits or casual clothes, same impression in their eyes that all women must find them absolutely irresistible, from young spoiled private university boys off to Ibiza without their girlfriends to the businessmen on their way from point A to point B, from point B to point C, all equally pointless in the end. I'm male, I'm rich, and I'm perfect. You're no match for me, for all your primping and preening. I wouldn't be seen with anything less than you, I'll pick your appearance apart and gracefully overlook what I feel to be flaws, but trust me, I'll find someone else tomorrow. Celine always gave these few her full attention...they were the practice run, the revision before the true test, the guinea pigs. As a result, she was never very gentle with them. But as far as she was concerned, they were well overdue for Karma to give them a slap across the face, a dose of reality, humility, and a taste of their own bitter poison. In the morning, she'd disappear from the hotel leaving these men snoring and in some cases, unconscious in their rooms. Sometimes, the Dark was brutal. The Not-Celine would sign out and hail a cab to her flat in Camden, entering and lighting candles, ordering in a takeaway and sitting in halflight, all the blinds closed, hanging up her new purchases in an already overflowing wardrobe. She never wore the same thing twice, and would bag up outfits she'd had for longer than a few months to give to a charity shoppe. She'd spend most of the evening with her new purchases laid out on the futon, taking up jewelry she had stored in a small case, or perhaps jewelry she had recently purchased, laying it here and there, ignoring it for an hour, coming back to see what she thought of it, selecting another piece, leaving it there...it was a meticulous process, but she knew that those who saw her that evening would be just as meticulous about her appearance. Not a hair could be out of place, not a button could be undone, or a single stone on a ring be missing. Someone would notice, they always did. She'd select her clutch bag, put her tickets to the opera within, make sure that the cab was called, and after a sumptuous bath in carefully selected perfumes and oils, she'd begin to style her hair, assemble her makeup to compliment her outfit. If she didn't look sufficiently like a stranger to her own eyes, she'd remove it all and start over again. This often took a good hour. When all was prepared, she would step into the cab, arriving a good half hour before the performance. Enough to get a glass of wine, or a cup of tea, sitting by herself as she made her entrance. Corsets and mermaid skirts were all the rage, thanks to alternative innovation; what the freaks were sneered at for wearing today, the mundanes always wore tomorrow. She always took her outfits a step further; her corsets were made for tightlacing, with proper boning. Her stockings were backseamed, and she often wore some sort of circlet or exotic piece of jewelry, something no-one ever thought of wearing before. Sometimes, she came in a particular theme; wearing an Egyptian flapper outfit for Aida, or dressing in ruffled skirts for Carmen. But most of the time, she was elegance as soon as she walked in the door, and the Dark followed behind like a spell. ************************ And now I better get back to writing again. |
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