Rita arrived at Gwen's apartment, greeted by the familiar scent of rusted pipes and moulded wall. It wasn't dirty, Gwen never let things rot, but it was cluttered in a way that only made sense to her. Piles of papers, notebooks, and half-open journals were scattered across the coffee table.
"Give me five minutes!" Gwen shouted from her bedroom.
Rita sighed, lowering herself onto the couch. She glanced at the sprawl of papers, most of them in a familiar hieroglyphic handwriting, which caught her eye: "The Sudden Death of Pan-Africanism Through the Collapse of West African Colonial Society."
She traced the title with her eyes, smiling faintly. Gwen often described herself as "the creative born too late." Her reasoning; every good idea she had, already published, established, and exhausted. Although she'd never admit it, Rita knew this creative block riddled Gwen deeply. Ever the curious and supportive friend, Rita skimmed past the title, over the first few lines; a mess of scribbles, crossed-out words, and vivid profanities.
"I told you not to read my stuff!" Gwen called out as she emerged from the hallway, still in her work clothes, button-down shirt tucked halfway into a glittered skirt.
"I'm sorry, I just got curious." Rita said, tucking the paper away, neatly into the nearby journal. "Anyway, where are we going?" Rita asked, eyeing the glittery piece. "To resurrect Prince?"
"Just because you've got an aversion to colour doesn't mean the rest of us have to live in greyscale," Gwen fired back, swiping at the rogue lipstick stains across her mouth, while wobbling as she kicked off her heels.
Rita chuckled. "You look confused."
"That's the vibe I'm going for," Gwen said, grabbing her high tops. "Ready?"
"I've been waiting for you the entire time?"
"Good for you, punctual one!"
They arrived at a narrow, dingy side street, tucked away from the main cityscape. The taxi driver hurriedly demanding payment. As he skirted off, they watched the yellow machine disappear into the dark. In the city's hidden compartment, the pavement was uneven, the streetlights weak, and the air smelled distinctly of wet cement, cheap weed and cigarette smoke.
At first, Rita thought Gwen had gotten the address wrong. There were no bright signs or bouncers, there wasn't even a queue. Only, a rusted, chained door guarding a shuttered adult toy shop that crassly displayed images of women faking orgasms.
Then she saw three men huddled near the entrance. They were dressed in fishnets, leather boots and neon. Cigarette smoke curling around their wrists as they leaned into one another, whispering and touching. One of them caught Gwen's eye and winked. Gwen waved, and nudged Rita to do the same.
"This is it," Gwen said, making a show out of shaking the chained lock. It rattled before giving in, revealing the reverberating echo of EDM rising and the chaotic assortment of rainbow-coloured lights spilling through the tiny gaps. Rita lingered in the glow, thinking about the anonymity of the place, but also what was beyond the rainbow.
"You coming?" Gwen asked, already dancing.
Rita exhaled, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and followed Gwen in.
Rita had always considered herself well-read, aware. Yet, what she stumbled upon was beyond any literary insight.
What was inside could only be described as a marvel; architecturally, sonically, spatially, even logically. The music sounded identical no matter where you stood, as though the room itself had no corners or edges. Somehow, a space that from the outside seemed no larger than a sex shop managed to hold hundreds, each body moving, spinning, colliding--simply living.
To Rita, the space felt like an amalgamation of freedom and expression, a world stitched together from mismatched aesthetics and unapologetic desire. The walls plastered with posters, some punk rock and frayed at the corners, others sharp and surreal, reminiscent of Andy Warhol's pop art or David Lynch's feverish dreams, one even looked straight out of a Tim Burton storyboard.
One poster drew her attention immediately, a man's lips crudely sewn shut with string beneath the caption: "I've suffered in silence for long enough." Another, beside it, featured a hand scrawled with the words "I'm out, therefore I am." Most of the others celebrated pride and intimacy, men kissing, women embracing.
Everywhere she turned, fabric and flesh meshed into one. Some wore gothic lace and black leather; others glowed in neon or bodysuits that shimmered in the light. A few had leaned fully into fantasy: corsets, latex, wings. Yet others looked ordinary, almost plain. But, what caught Rita's eye most, was a man in a crisp suit jacket. His shirt replaced by a black fishnet stretched across his chest, each nipple neatly covered with metallic stars.
"So...what do you think?" Gwen asked. "Fun, right?"
"It's... something" Rita muttered as she watched the spilling of drinks onto the concrete floor, the effortless flow of conversation, the rhythm to which they exchanged words and touch. Rita, welded to the concrete floor, observing.
"C'mon, give me more than that."
"I don't know what to say...it's...different from where I thought we were going"
"Don't tell me you're homophobic" Gwen joked, sharing a smile with the nearby patron, who caught a whiff of their conversation.
"Of course not." Rita declared, alarmed and defensive. Tugging at Gwen shirt, wrinkling it further.
"Good. Then just have fun!" Gwen playfully brushed her hand away. "BRB, going to the bathroom. Coming?"
"No, I'm good"
"Aight! Be back in a sec!" With that, she disappeared into the crowd of people.
Alone, Rita stood awkwardly in the pathway. Unsure, she wandered to the darkest part of the room, almost like a reverse moth. Habit? Instinct? What was the difference? They all led her to quiet corners.
Eventually, she found herself at the bar. Only one person working it, surrounding by half-empty glasses and melted ice. The bartender raised an eyebrow when he noticed her sitting by the bar, but did not say anything. Instead, choosing to continue fiddling around with their apparatus.
"One club soda, please" Rita said inaudibly.
With a scowl and scoff, one appeared in front of her. In a plain glass, filled to the brim, its fizz had gone cloudy, leaving a murky white glop. Amid the overwhelming light, noise and chatter, it tasted sour. As she forced it down her, a voice called out.
"Whatcha drinking?" it asked. The voice came rough around the edges, softened at its start, but too worn to hide the gravel beneath.
"I'm not." Rita replied, turning to see who it belonged to. It was a woman, she thought. Dressed in a yellow Levi's sweater, blue jeans and busted white converses. Long hair, carefully done make-up with a little emphasis on the blush.
"What's in the cup, then?" the woman smiled, leaning closer to Rita, her eyes flickering briefly to the glass before returning her gaze to Rita.
"Club soda." Rita lifting it away from the woman, towards her side of the table.
"BOO! Boring!" The woman cupped her hands around her mouth.
"Oh yeah, what are you drinking" Rita asked, examining the space near the woman hands. It was just bench. But when the light flashed, she caught a glimpse of the woman's hands. Skin slightly peeled and wrist stacked with a mess of wristbands.
"Strawberry daiquiri!" She called out, answering both Rita and ordering a drink. Instantaneously, one appeared in a fancy curved glass, with white powder on top, a lime and strawberry garnish.
"How daring! That's like the most default of default drinks" Rita mocked, inspecting the pretty drink and shamefully pushing her club soda further to the side.
"Yeah, but it looks pretty and tastes great." The woman grinned, picking up the drink and flashing it in Rita's face. "Yours looks like toilet water and taste like dish soap."
Rita, out of spite, swiftly grabbed her drink, chugged it down, ferociously glaring at the woman as she did. Who, amused, simply watched the show. When the rush faded and the clay after-taste set in, she realised, begrudgingly, that the woman was right. It did taste like dish soap.
"First time?" the woman asked as Rita wiped her mouth clean.
"Huh?"
"First time?" she repeated.
"Yeah… I'm here with a friend though" Still reeling from the club soda fiasco, Rita found herself blurting it out before she could stop.
"Where they at?" The woman shaded her eyes with her hand, playfully scanning the sea of people.
"I don't know—she'll pop up, she usually does that"
"So she's the fun one, and you're the designated driver" the woman leaned closer towards Rita, they were practically cheek-to-cheek. Rita caught the sugary scent of strawberry's off her.
"No, we Ubered." Rita said, turning her head slightly away.
"Ah! You're just a masochist then" the woman traced a finger across Rita's veins
"Excuse me!" Rita jolted, tucking her hands to her lap.
"Why else would you drink club soda?" The woman leaned back, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips, eyes flicking to Rita's glass and back.
"Because I don't drink alcohol"
Her fingers traced the rim of the glass. Rita's first instinct was to slap them away, or at least tell her that was unsanitary, but the moment's fever held her still. "There's water and cranberry juice, maybe even orange. There's probably even lemonade." the woman teased.
"Oh… I didn't know that. Can I get a cranberry juice then"
"What am I? A bartender?"
"Possibly."
She paused, and gave Rita a look of amusement, before turning to the bartender and yelling "Cranberry juice!"
"We're out!" The bartender snappily and sharply replied.
"Damn…maybe you're just destined to drink club soda." She readjusted her seat on the chair away, to the dance floor direction. "Any way... bye, weird lady!" The woman ran off before Rita could answer. For a moment, she just sat there, the taste of soap stayed, to which she faintly smiled.