Author Topic: ICE AND GLASS/THE QUEEN IN THE NIGHTCLUB (LGBT Thriller)  (Read 414 times)

Offline JEC112

  • Sr. Member
  • ****
  • Posts: 164
  • Karma: 20
« on: June 02, 2022, 11:13:27 AM »
To whom it may concern,
My name is Corbin Michaels, and I have murdered three people.

Chapter 1 — Emmy Thingledue


Flashes. The hottest nightclub this side of the Hudson. Okay, more like "this corner of The Village." Greenwich Village, for non-New Yorkers. A block away from Christopher Street, home of the famous Stonewall Inn. The very same where a drag queen threw a rock and started a revolution. The Stonewall Riot.

Flashes contains all the amenities of a typical club. A bar. Dancefloor. Tunes poppin’ ‘til the break of dawn.

And the backroom. A place of lust and forbidden desire at the back of Flashes.

Here I sit in a soft leather chair covered in the amorous residue of God knows how many other people. Gay. Possibly straight. Doesn't matter, come one, come all, where no one knows your name and no one cares what you look like.

Because nobody can see you.

I am a solitary island surrounded by a sea of sex. The air reeks of salty sweat. Everyone around me engages in carnal relations, cloaked in blackness so God cannot watch.

“Oh yeah,” comes the dulcet tones of a baritone voice behind me. “Keep suckin’.”

You ain’t nothin’ but a liddle bitch, says the shrill Voice in my head, the complete opposite of the one behind me. I jump at the sound only I can hear. Time to shut it up.

While the man behind me engages in his pleasure, I too engage in mine. My "glass of rosé." I wince at the metal piercing skin, then plunge the liquid glee into my bloodstream. Euphoria caresses my brain with her supple fingers. My head falls back on the leather chair.

“She really thought it was gonna work this time,” I think. No, not think. Say. The guy behind me enjoying an anonymous mouth clicks his tongue but says nothing. “The fourth one!”

“Yo, dude,” says the melodic bass next to my ear. “I’m in the middle of something, so unless you wanna come swallow this anaconda too, shut your f**kin’ mouth.”

The idea of doing … that again almost makes me gag. Life is meant to be lived and I am gonna live it baby! Whoo! Not gonna let Anaconda ruin my high.

My lips purse while I pull the needle from my arm. No wincing this time. Taking out is always easier than sticking in.
That’s what she said.

The syringe falls to the floor thanks to my butter fingers. Do I care enough to search for it? Hell no. Instead, I push myself off the chair. Here, I discover something about myself — I can walk. Sweet, sweet freedom from this cage of carnal agony.

Once I return to the center of the nightclub, green lasers cut through the air. My legs move on their own toward the front doors until a voice calls out my drag name. It awakens me from my euphoric trance.

“Yo, Emmy! Emmy Thingledue!”

At the bar, a blurry version of my boss, Raùl, motions me forward with two fingers. I meander over to the bar, taking my time. I’m not scheduled and shouldn’t have been called upon. Not by name, not by drag name unless he wants to compliment me on this dress, the absolute zenith of my skills. In another life I could have been an Oscar-winning seamstress.
I stop. Somewhere along the path is a black step near-invisible in the rave-lit twilight. Black steps in a nightclub. Whose brilliant idea was that?

Several Club Kids, drag kings and queens who dress in extremely artistic and flamboyant styles, pass by. They stare in awe at my outfit just as much as I take in theirs. A thin bearded man is dressed as Sailor Moon, complete with original white hair and circular buns on his head. An overweight woman hands him a glowing blue drink. She wears a bra, panties, gloves, and boots. Instead of the latex or lycra costume of the show, she has painted herself like the pink Power Ranger from the original series a decade ago. In her hand is a bow, the string of which she pulls back as though shooting arrows at random people. Even her face is painted like the pterodactyl helmet. A golden symbol glistens from the gap in her breasts.

Another Flashes employee, a particularly muscular, crème-skinned server originally from California, wears nothing but boots and a tight golden speedo that leaves little to the imagination. That’s Alex. I guarantee one-hundred percent he stuffs with a sock. He carries a tray of brilliant neon blue shots, but gives me a coy smile as he passes. His ice-blue eyes twinkle in the laser light.

“Su-u-up?” I ask Raùl at the bar. My words come out distorted. Muffled. Am I even speaking English? He places two brown bottles of Bud Light in front of me. I regret opening my pie hole

“We’re swamped and need your help. Run those to the VIP section, will you?”

I purse my lips at the bottles,and release a whiny, high pitched groan, leaning toward his face dominated by a prominent Roman nose. “Do I have to? Look at the schedule, I’m not even on i-i-it.”

“Hermano.” Raùl often switches from English to Spanish, even though he was born in Brooklyn. “I told you I got good stuff. Have you seen yourself? You’re tweaking so hard I can feel your energy, n’ah mean? That's what we need tonight. Besides, you know why I don’t put you on the schedule? ‘Cause you’re the assistant manager. Doy. You come at my beck and call since I’m the owner.” I shake my head. No way, José. Raùl just grunts. “Fine. Take it to them, and I’ll only take half o’ your tip, comprende?”

“I don’t understand ‘comprende,’” I say. Then I tilt my head back and release another delighted cackle.

Someone who looks exactly like me stares back from the mirror on the ceiling. He wears a long flowing dress of silver nylon tulle, covered with half-spheres of varying size and colors. One is blue and brown to resemble the Earth. The solid band of a medical alert bracelet is glued to the side of a green tennis ball like the ring of a planet. Dozens of glow-in-the-dark plastic stars cover empty space and along the hemline. Two ping-pong balls painted black and fashioned with flaming tails of glass resemble meteorites over the breasts like astral pasties. Atop his head a yellow styrofoam ball holds a crown, both pinned into place. His face is painted with the three-dimensional effect of the man on the moon, complete with a solitary bright blue teardrop.

Give me back my Miss Bluniverse look, you bastard.

“Yeah, all right,” I say once my gaze returns to the bottles. “Be right back, Jeff.”

“For the millionth time, it’s pronounced he-fe.”

Once on the dance floor, the temperature reaches that of a volcano. Beer bottles in hand, my butt shakes its groove thing among the myriad patrons jumpin’ and jivin’ to the beat. Their bodies gyrate on a dance floor that changes between the colors of the rainbow. Hundreds wear Glo-Sticks around their necks or wrists. I hold the bottles high so as not to hit the uncoordinated dancers stepping side to side, rubbing their naughty bits together.  Cher asks me my opinion on life after love, but the question is irrelevant.

Offline gman

  • Full Member
  • ***
  • Posts: 76
  • Karma: 5
« Reply #1 on: June 28, 2022, 08:54:56 AM »
Hey LEC!

You've created a vivid world here. Writing is pretty top notch. Characters feel real. But I feel like with thrillers we need to get to the inciting incident a bit quicker. You mention at the beginning that Corbin Michaels has murdered three people. Why not start with that? I think it will make for a much more interesting opening. My two cents anyway.