Page 1 of For Real

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Laurie

“Look, I’ve come straight from work, and I’ve had a really long day, and I simply haven’t had time to slip into a spiky collar or a mesh shirt or whatever else you deem necessary to get into your haven of safe, sane, and consensual depravity.”

That was me, making an arse of myself on the door of Pervocracy, the club that was supposed to be different, and inevitably wouldn’t be.

But everything I’d said was true. It had been a really long day. And I’d always hated the requirement to dress up. It was almost as if the Scene ran on fairy-tale logic: A pauper in a ball gown was a princess. A wolf in a nightcap, a grandma. A wanker in a pair of leather trousers, a dom.

The alternative-lifestyle pixie (otherwise known as community volunteer) didn’t look very impressed with me. I couldn’t really blame her. Even putting aside my lack of interest in communicating my sexual inclinations by wearing a silly hat, I’d been unnecessarily rude.

I tried for a more conciliatory tone. “I’m on the list. Dalziel.”

She fingered her iPad. “D-e-e-l—what?”

“D-a-l-z—”

She gave me an Are you fucking kidding? look.

I could have said “Like Dalziel and Pascoe,” but there was such a frighteningly high possibility she was barely alive in 1996 that I decided to give up instead. The universe clearly didn’t want me to go to a BDSM club. Which was absolutely fine with me because I agreed.

“Forget it.”

I turned to make my escape, when the door to the gender-neutral toilets behind her burst open, and the two—for want of a better term—friends who had insisted I come out tonight tumbled into the corridor. Sam seemed to be dressed as a steampunk pirate. Grace was wearing a rainbow-patterned corset and extremely frilly knickers. They had no problem at all communicating their sexual inclinations by wearing silly hats.1

“He’s with us, he’s with us! Laurie, come back.”

I came back.

The pixie hesitated. “He’s with you?”

“Yeah, I vouched for him. Look.” Grace leaned over in a squish of breasts and lace and tapped the screen.

“But”—the pixie pouted—“costume is mandatory. It’s important to the culture of the club.”

“I am in costume,” I snapped. “I’m in costume as a really tired and pissed off trauma doctor trying to get into a BDSM club in the vain hope of meeting a not-too-cack-handed stranger who’ll whip him into some semblance of satisfaction before he goes home again.”

“It’s a good effort,” said Sam, deadpan. “Very convincing.”

“Fine. Fine.” The ALP gave a despairing wave, green-painted fingernails gleaming. “Go on in.”

We went on in. And as I squeezed by, I heard her mutter, “Can’t believe he’s a sub.”

That made two of us.

It had been the best part of a year since I’d bothered with the Scene. About six months ago, Sam had asked me why, but I had no answer for him. No story to tell. No abuse, no drama, no great epiphany. Just glancing round at a party, and realising it could have been any other night. The same people looking for the same things. So I went home and looked up a half-remembered paragraph of Anthony Powell that Robert had once quoted at me: “The image of Time brought thoughts of mortality: of human beings…moving hand in hand in intricate measure…while partners disappear only to reappear again, once more giving pattern to the spectacle: unable to control the melody, unable, perhaps, to control the steps of the dance.”2

And thought: Yes, that. Nothing but a dance to the music of time. As meaningless as it was ultimately unchanging.

Besides, with the internet being what it was, you could get degrading sex with people you didn’t like delivered right to your doorstep. Unfortunately, Grace and Sam didn’t agree. They insisted I needed to get out more. Actually meet people. As if that was ever going to happen at a BDSM club.

But there I was. Not so much out of hope for myself, but in the hope it would make my friends shut up.

Pervocracy fostered a self-consciously carnival atmosphere. And cupcakes. It was like they were saying, See what multidimensional humans we are. We’re not just kinky, we’re hipsters too. But it was the same faces. Just like always.

Grace went to try and get us drinks, so I stayed with Sam as per the rules. They had a cutesy little acronym for it on the charter, but essentially we were meant to be policing each other. Ensuring nobody got hurt. Or rather, that nobody got hurt in a way that they hadn’t explicitly consented to be hurt. All very sensible. All very nice.

So terribly nice.

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