Dangerous by Default

11. The circuit party

Sticky with sweat, a stranger's bare chest pressed against her for a moment. There was nothing worse than the touch of sweaty skin in Mina's opinion, she could barely stand it when Caine would give her a swampy post love making hug. But tonight she almost liked it. Here it felt foreign, just like the rest of the environment. On the outskirts of Fisherman's Warf was what looked to be an old abandoned factory space, cleverly converted with satanic red lights and an asphyxiating fog machine, it was now the trendy underground party dujour. It was like a museum exhibit of queer nightlife, and Mina relished scouring over every relic and display. Anything was possible in a place like this. Who knew what the night had in store? Mina assessed the crowd, unsure which of the grecian statues with drowsy eyes that danced around to the revolving music, had given her the sticky skin-to-skin rush of both ecstasy and discomfort a moment before. She wished it had been Caine, but knew he was probably still busy grabbing a drink.

Dancing together only a few minutes prior, they'd been intent on drawing attention. With an exuberance that could have made a porn star blush, Caine had pulled Mina in by the waist to firmly plant the front of his hips on her backside. They had resembled a racy pair of backup dancers in a Britney Spears music video. Until he showed up. A pair of Jefferey Dahmer glasses with a short, generically handsome man attached to them stumbled right into Caine, flinging an entire overpriced margarita from Caine's hand to the floor with a sad splash. A full cocktail sacrificed to an unseen party god. They found no time to respond, still looking at the aftermath with jolted eyes and fish like open mouths when the man began showering them with polite apologies, a crescent moon of a smile shining from his face. This stranger liked the attention. He seemed ageless, his babyface stuttering out the voice of someone well educated and kind, but who probably didn't get out much. Mina almost felt sorry for him, they were probably the first people to notice him all night, even with his blindingly exceptional dental work. A plain tee shirt and jeans was a bizarre choice of attire for the company that surrounded them. The Cocktail killer quickly made peace, and offered to buy Caine a new drink, an easy win when it came to her husband. Caine Blue loved a good drink.

"I'll wait here for ya'll and hold the spot. I love this song." Mina winked at Caine. The man with the glasses flashed his pearly white's again, as if to say, 'I'm a gentleman, he's in good hands'. With a quick kiss on her cheek, Mina had been left to wait in the middle of the crowded dance floor.

As the music's pulse got louder in her diaphragm, all sense of space and time melted to the floor in a gooey heap at her feet. How had she not realized it before? This club, these people. It was just like that show. The one she had stumbled upon as a closeted trans girl of about thirteen. Late one night, when her parents had left her home alone as they often did, she had gotten frustrated with one of her inventions and decided to channel surf with the speed of a seasoned algorithm. And then there it was, Babylon. At least that's what she thought the club in 'Queer as folk' was called. Sure, the nightlife scene depicted was fully centered around gay men. All glitter and tight lame booty shorts and cruising. This didn't matter, as long as the fantasy of a safe space filled with loud music and never ending good times existed, she was intrigued. Between the long obsession with biotech, and her ever entertaining marriage; Mina never got the chance to watch the show again, or go to a truly good circuit party. But the fantasy always stuck. Tonight's scene was but a modern day interpretation come to life, and her gut fluttered happily as she recognized the number of fellow Trans women she spotted throughout the sea of underwear models and Matthew Camp wannabes.

"I love your hair!" a lilting voice shouts to her from the left, making her swing her green and black Sailor Moon wig playfully in rhythm with the 'thank you' kiss she blew in the stranger's direction. She loved it too, along with the rest of the disguise Caine had personally picked out for her. A futuristic shiny bra and schoolgirl skirt clung snuggly to her curves, topped off with a fanny pack, thigh high socks and black platform sneakers. E-girl does the circuit party. Caine sure knew how to style for the part. Caine. The whimsy of the night's skimpy get up pointed Mina to the absence of her dearest dancing partner once more, reminding her why she was in this 'Alice has grown up and moved onto GHB wonderland' in the first place.

"What's taking them so long.." Mina muttered to herself as she slid her phone from her fannypack to check the time. Okay, that's weird. It had been twenty minutes since Hubby Dearest had trekked for a new cocktail with Shrimpy McGee. The man's pearly white's seared an image in her brain. Time moved a lot faster amongst a sea of groovers and shakers, but she didn't want to assume the worst. Not yet, anyways.

Mina began to push past the fleshy barricade that surrounded her, putting her arms against her chest to slide past a group of rippling muscle queens who had started an all-too-comfortable massage train. Stumbling out from the mass of moving bodies, Mina huffed and rearranged her bra as it had slowly inched into nipple slip territory during her escape from the crowd. Satisfied with her adjustments, she assessed the room once more. Reminding herself that Caine was in disguise, Mina hawk eyed the overflowing dance club in search of a bald Burt Reynolds type w nothing on but leather pants and cowboy boots. The BDSM-raver-cowboy yin to her Hentai-spacegirl yang. No dice. No overstretched smiles, not the one she needed to feel relief. Mina shifted impatiently, and within a few seconds she headed for the bar in hopes of better luck.

With the same squeezing and jimmying movements through pockets of the party, Mina found herself standing in front of the bar at what looked to be a slow moment, as there were more people dancing than buying drinks. This would have normally been a thing to smile about, but they looked to be fresh out of mustached Caine's as well. She was bordering on anxious when she waved down one of the bartenders who they'd started a tab with earlier that night.

"What can I get ya, doll?" A sweet eyed brunette girl of about twenty five asked her. The girl was barely tall enough to rest her hands on the bar with a casual air. Nightlife Barbie's younger sister, Mixologist Skipper.

"Uh, Just a question, actually," Mina said in a voice that was almost too polite. "Was wondering if you saw where that bald guy with the mustache went?

"The Cowboy Daddy you came in with?" The girl looked curious, as if she was hoping to get some juicy gossip from the conversation. It made her sound like a school girl.

"The very same. He was here just a second ago with a guy about this high," Mina put a hand up to the level of her chest, "Crest whitening stripes commercial smile. Wearing 70's style glasses. They were supposed to be grabbing a drink a while ago, and now I can't seem to find them. The mustache was my ride home." Mina shrugged her shoulders.

"I saw 'em alright, those two were on fire! Mad chemistry," The girl bartender's eyes lit up, "Glasses guy bought your friend a drink, then your guy insisted on buying them shots!" Figures, Mina thought to herself, Here we go. Again.

The girl continued, "Next thing I know, Mustache had to be carried out by the smiley shorty. It was kind of cute, actually." Mina imagined the two men leaving together. Caine's body limp, the damsel in distress, as their mysterious new friend's glasses fogged up with the humidity of anticipation, a shark's grin pulling across his smooth face like a cartoon villain.

Before the girl could say anything else, Mina was shoving her way off the slick lacquer of the bar, picking up momentum as she focused on the front exit, one thought blaring over the thump-thump-thump of the bass in her chest.

You better pray I find you, Bubba. Or You're fucked.