“He really wants to meet you!” Mary repeated. Even in my persistent state of burning up brain cells, I knew Mary’s statement had to be false. Not that she meant any harm. Sharing a constant love affair with ‘blow,’ and living with unrepentant drug addicts during the late ‘70s, there was talk that ‘coke’ was a non-addictive drug. That was proven absolutely untrue.
We had journeyed together in the after-hours club circuit like ‘lounge lizards’ to The Nursery, Zombies, Page Six, Brownies, et cetera. Now both of us were hanging out at the notorious Hellfire Club located on 8th avenue in the Meat Packing District - a BDSM establishment where patrons worked out their kinks while partaking in heavy amount of chemicals.
“Tony’s here! He’s waiting to meet us. He’s in the back in one of the compartments where they have private scenes.”
I looked Mary squarely in the face. Irish charm exuded from her countenance. A natural beauty with bright red hair. No makeup or high heels. Instead, always baggy clothes over her athletic frame, with white tennis shoes. You would think she went out of her way to be undesirable. Thus, our relationship was platonic – we were ‘Narcotic Buddies.’ I once asked her what she did for a living. She winked at me and said, “I’m a call girl!”
“But honey, you don’t dress sexy!” I observed.
“That’s right. My clients want me to look like the girl next door’s younger sister!”
A vivacious woman without adornments, she was no Dominatrix. Out of her element if you ask me. But who’s asking? And I really hate to say this, but Mary was a coke whore. Tony Curtis (yes, that Tony Curtis) was her client. He must have found her at one of those agencies that rich guys always went to when they were lonely or horny.
“Come on, Dave. Let’s go find Tony.” Mary pushed me on.
Entering the Hellfire hotspot was like descending into an infernal, dark, cavern. The lights were dimmed. There was a huge bar upfront near the entrance with bondage equipment on either side of it. It was Saturday night. Almost midnight. And the revelers were many - dressed in differing S&M outfits. Some could be made out as Masters or Mistresses, or as slaves / submissives. Others? Just bizarros.
As you entered, you could feel the thick, large, black mats on the floor. They were rubber – like the type commercial buildings put down when rain or snow is anticipated. And they were lumpy. Not the lumps from defective rubber but actual people underneath living out fantasies of having other people walk all over them. You had to watch where you stepped, or did you? One dude especially loved when women walked over him with sharp pointed black boots or edgy, spiked heels.
We were heading into the back now and heard many voices muttering all types of expletives. The whole deal was a farce. Mary was copping for her rich, famous client. Hellfire, with its infamous reputation was just another Speakeasy for these two. You could actually smell the sweat of decadent sex in the air. People were moaning loudly in pain and pleasure as riding crops shot across their bodies.
As we neared the back, we passed a bathtub planted on the floor. In it an elderly man with a long scraggly beard yelled out, “Yellow showers! Please give me your yellow showers!” And sure enough, there was a throng of men in various black leather outfits pissing on him. He was screaming in ecstasy! We kept on moving.
Finally, we made it to the back where private booths lay beyond heavy yellow curtains, appropriately. The cubicles always seemed even darker than the rest of the joint. Some stalls had little red lights in them. Tony Curtis was in the second booth from the front. I could make out the faded movie star’s silhouette from behind the torn lemon curtains.
Almost immediately, Mary marched in. I stayed where I was, not entering. There was a flurry of activity, then Mary stormed out. She returned to me looking agitated. Her beautiful face look flustered as she stammered, “He doesn’t want to see you!” Her voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Dave..”
On hearing that, I sort of laughed. “I expected that. Why would he want to meet me - a garbage head.”
She just nodded, swinging her red curls at me and said, “I wasted your time…but I have to return to him like now. But here.” She took my hand and put hers in mine. “I’ll see you around, sweet stuff.” She ran back into the enclosure. I couldn’t care less about the ‘missed’ opportunity.
In my hot little hand, was a small glassine envelope containing a small rock that looked blue-ish – white Hollywood cocaine – almost pure. It pays to hang around – I had gotten my payoff!
I almost waived to Tony’s shadow…a salute would’ve been more appropriate, as I walked away.