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...Continued from 9/10/11 post
Despite the POS warning and the clamor I’d heard from the lobby, I still wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted me.
Margot, you aren’t in Kansas anymore.
The fairly innocuous conga line had disbanded, to be replaced by a pet show of the human variety. I understood then the cover of the POS brochure when an older gentleman with spiky purple hair passed by, wearing a studded collar and being led by a white-haired woman in a black vinyl Catwoman jumpsuit. He waved a greeting with bound hands, the ball gag in his mouth preventing him from saying “hello”.
Okay, this is way beyond what the sweet ladies from POS tried to warn me away from.
“Come meet my brother.” Jackson pulled me through the crowd.
His brother? I wasn’t sure what to expect.
A black man, big as a mountain, waved easily over the top of the crowd and called Jackson’s name.
“That’s your brother?” I asked.
“His partner,” Jackson laughed. “My brother is much bigger.” I stopped dead and he tugged on my arm. “Kidding. Come on.”
A moment later, mountain man stood towering over me, with a classically handsome Latino man by his side throwing an hors d’oeuvres up in the air and catching it in his mouth.
“Meet my brother, Jagger and his partner, Daniel. “ Jackson sighed. “Always the life of the party, aren’t you, bro?”
Jagger swallowed quickly and grinned, his smile enough to make a girl swoon. “A guy’s gotta get out off the island once in awhile and rejoin civilization.” He extended a hand. “Welcome to the Erotica Writer’s convention.”
The giant beside him swept me into a one-armed bear hug and greeted me with a quiet “hello.”
I looked from him to Jagger and asked, “Are you two writers?”
Jackson snorted. “No, they just like to crash parties.” He motioned for Jagger and Daniel to leave with him then he patted my arm. “I’ll let you get to work.”
Feeling set adrift in a sea of shredded denim, metal spikes and steel chain, I staggered backward as a man with so much back hair it could be braided, and in fact someone had, brushed against me. The pink ribbons at the tip of each braid matched the tutu.
I turned gratefully toward the voice beside me. A beautiful woman in a black mini-dress and sky-high stilettos greeted me. “Are you here alone?”
I nodded, my eyes still burning from the sight of tutu-man.
She said cheerfully, “I am, too. My friend missed her flight. Do you want to play?”
“Well, I’m supposed to be working but I’m new to this. Maybe you show me the ropes?” I added, "I'm a reporter for Vegas Today."
Her eyes sparkled. “Would you like to interview me?” At my nod, she clapped her hands and tugged me through the crowd. “Let’s go someplace more appropriate.”
I knew my boss would be impressed with my initiative with a one-on-one erotica interview. Any dream of a Pulitzer or even a small bonus fled when we paused in front of a door with a handmade sign.
My interviewee let go of my hand and opened the door. “I don’t usually use ropes, but I can make an exception.” She leaned close and with her breath brushing my ear, she nudged me over the threshold. “By the way, do you have safe word?”
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