Page 79 of Cakes for the Grump
All that confidenceis well and great until I find myself lingering in front of the entrance of a 38-storey skyscraper shaped like a bullet vibrator. Then those friends who forced me out of my comfy clothes right before I was about to have tea, sink into a couch, and watchBig Boss?—
I curse them.
The building is occupied, flashing reds, blues, and greens, but there isn’t anyone walking inside via the front door on foot. I get a bit closer. There also isn’t a guard stationed by the entrance, but I spot a hefty security panel built into the wall. The main doors will surely be locked.
However, I do spot a stocky vehicle with tinted privacy windows turn in and go down a ramp into the underground parking. At this point, I debate going home, but I know I’m going to get harassed by questions if I do.
I need to try.At least a little, then I can tell them it wasn’t my fault. That I gave it an honest effort.
My honest effort has me inching down the underground ramp, where the parkade cage hasn’t gone back down yet.
This is silly. And where I get murdered!
I should turn around, but I don’t. Good thing it’s a short walk and not that dark. The stalls are well lit. Considering all the luxury vehicles parked down here, there are a lot of affluent people attending this party. A good sign?
Fairly quickly, I reach an elevator. With my heart racing more than a bit, I go inside and ride it up.
The main lobby of the building is decidedly normal. I never thought the sight of blandly patterned carpeting would give me such relief. Stepping further inside, I flit my eyes over the concierge table, the dangling chandelier, and then the grand staircase going up another floor. Is the party up there? Going to the concierge, I ask. The bald man wearing a navy uniform has no idea what I’m talking about: “What party?”
I pull the invitation out of my purse.
He still has no idea what I’m talking about. Says he’s completely in the dark about any goings on connected to the event in question and therefore is not liable for its existence.
How strange.
Wondering if I’ve really mucked this up and come completely to the wrong address, I step back and bump into a man I hadn’t noticed was behind me. He’s tall, bearded, and has the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen. His hair is gelled back minus the prominent curl on his forehead. Silver rings occupy each of his fingers.
He spots the party invitation.
“I’m headed the same way,” he says. “Come with me.”
Not waiting for my response, he takes my arm and leads me back to the elevator. At this point, I want to go home again, but I also remind myself that Sistine is inside this building somewhere.
A daring spectacle.It could still be fun…
The man in the elevator scans a badge and instead of going up, theelevator goes down. He sideways peers at me. “You don’t look like someone who would come to this kind of thing.”
Immediately, I’m struck with horror. What if—could it be—some kind of sex thing?
“What kind of party is it?” I ask him hastily.
His answer is a crooked smile, which is not an answer at all. No judgment at all for sex parties, but I prefer encounters to be one-on-one. Multiple dicks are too much stimulus outside of source material you pull out when alone, bored, and horny. Before I can interrogate him further, the elevator doors slide open.
The scene that unfolds before us is darkly fantastical—polished casino tables, animal masks, and bushels of realistic greenery hang everywhere as if the inspiration was Narnia in the summer during the night. Instead of string lights, there are strands of jewels attached to the roof so the lumbering venue is lit by dancing diamonds. Many costumed party goers are wearing tuxedos and ball gowns. In comparison, my sequined dress feels way more clubby than classy.
Walking by, a server offers us a tray laden with pills of various sizes which would cause me to gawk if I wasn’t already doing so because the woman pushing drugs is also topless. Her breasts are delightfully round and worthy of showing off, but once again, I’m faced with the possibility that this is asexparty.
“Take a pill,” says the man who took me down the elevator.
“No, thank you.”
“Don’t be boring,” he chides, rather forcefully.
Deciding a swift exit is needed, I step to the side. Unfortunately, a woman in a rabbit mask was walking that same way. Our shoulders bump. Before I can offer up an apology, I spot a silver object strapped to her thigh. Is that—a real knife?
Not wanting to find out, I squeak out something about needing a bathroom and being on my period. Both the rabbit and topless server point to a door nestled to our right, putting their bodies between me and Elevator Man. The solidarity of women allows me to flee to the toilets.
Inside is remarkably tame. Mirror, sinks, stalls. Looking at myself in the reflection, I see someone who is way over their head. Despite the liberal amounts of blush I’d applied earlier, my skin has gone pale and a bit clammy.
