The Goth scene is one typically frequented by thin, angst ridden young people with attitudes to match their black outfits and graveyard themed accessories. Most of them grow out of it by their mid twenties, or so I'm told. I'm obviously not typical, as I'm still sitting here in the Goth club in my mid-thirties, I don't wear all black, and I'm certainly not stick thin. Voluptuous would be the kind word for my generous proportions, though I've still got a good waistline.
Other women my age are home with their families or out man-hunting in the brightly lit bars armed with a cocktail, but I'm here, letting the inky shadows and the swirling, eclectic music of the club hide me from the swaying mass of dancers. The deep pulsing heartbeat of the music has an erotic quality to it, and the wine that I drink here helps keep my calculated melancholy at just the right level.
I watch people from my place in the shadows. I watch them come in alone and leave in pairs, or perhaps come in together, hand in hand, and by the end of the night some petty argument or a drink too many has sent them home alone. I've become a voyeur in the mildest sense, spying on the tensions between the dancers. I look at their young bodies, mostly thin girls clad in skin tight layers of lace and PVC, though these days a fair few larger girls who think that layers of floaty fabrics look alluring. The men are mostly sickly looking boys who clearly spend too much time in front of the computer, and who think that skintight jeans and long black dyed hair makes them look interesting.
Apart from their youth, they aren't.
I'm not the only older Goth here that sits in the shadows. Over in the other corner is a tall man, a little older than me, and also usually alone. He too is atypical, though I daresay he is what many of these pale young men aspire to be. Very tall, slightly built, but with the underlying musculature that ensures that he looks graceful, yet still masculine. His long hair is a natural dark-dark brown, and he has pale skin, plus long, clever fingers. He too drinks wine, and despite the shadows he usually has a book with him. We talk sometimes, meeting at the bar early in the evening as we buy our drinks, we exchange pleasantries and gently mock the younger people, who in turn tell us we are old, or creepy, or occasionally cool, depending upon their mood at the time.
We are part of the furniture here to these young people, briefly included in conversation then drifted away from as a favourite song is played, never quite in fashion, but we help set the scene for them.
He wears linen shirts, affecting a poetic style, and I love to watch for glimpses of his chest through the open front. I watch too, for the outline of his body through the closely fitted black trousers. For a slightly built man who appears to read a lot, he has a great ass and legs that seem endless. I wonder if he realises just how the cut of the trousers accentuates the bulge of his cock, or if it's calculated. I lust after him quietly from my corner, yet this unrequited anticipation is so much a part of me that I never get round to approaching him as the evening wears on.
Tonight, that's going to change one way or another. He told me a few days ago, as we stood at the bar, that he's leaving town for a while, maybe for good. That shook me. I realised just how badly I'd wanted this man. I look at the lovers on the dance floor kissing, and I imagine how he must taste.
I have to do something about this situation.
Time to take some advice from the younger Goths. They have a long-standing joke, centred on the reticence of youth to say what they feel. The joke goes, that if there is another Goth you fancy, you compliment them on their new boots. What the other person is supposed to hear is an implied invitation: "Nice boots--fancy a shag?"
It's such an old joke that I hear it all the time; yet I rarely see anyone taken up on it.
I dressed carefully for tonight, long bath, freshly shaved legs and pussy--hey, you never know! Black bra that does all the right things to my already ample cleavage, black pure silk panties, hold up stockings and an underbust. This was a wasp waisted corset, worn very tight to pull in my curves and give me an impossible silhouette. Over all of this would go a deep green velvet dress modelled on an Edwardian evening dress, sleeveless, with a short black jacket over the top. It has a slit in the side seam, I chose this carefully as I wanted him to see my latest purchase--new, beautiful boots.
Black leather that lace right up to my knees, with high, curved Louis heels that made my legs look long and shapely. Lots of black mascara and a new, deep red lipstick completed the effect. I daren't even think what I'm going to do if he didn't notice all my effort.
He's at the bar when I arrive. I've already had several of the 'regulars' comment on my new look. In fact, people who usually look through me through long familiarity were staring as I walked up to him.
I'd ordered my usual wine, and raised my glass to him, trying hard not to rush this part.
"My compliments on the new look," he said, looking from my face to my cleavage. "Green suits you." He hasn't looked much further than my breasts yet, and I'm already feeling myself getting wet.
"Well," I attempted to sound casual. "I thought we should show these youngsters how its really done before you disappear in a few days."
He laughed. I think it's the first time I've really heard him do so, and something tight inside me relaxed. Maybe even if nothing happens this will still be a good night.
"I think you should join me tonight then, and let's make sure you don't sit so much in the shadows."
With elaborate courtesy he took my coat and escorted me over to his table. Trying to sit comfortably in the corset made me adopt an upright--frankly, uptight--pose. I leaned slightly forward, and I realised that this both pushed my breasts forward at him, increasing the pressure of the corset busk on my pelvis. So now I'm constantly reminded of the throbbing deep in my abdomen that comes from just being near him.
He's not immune to the effect, in the past if we'd sat together he'd have continued to idly read his book, and I'd have continued to watch the dancers writhe to the latest Goth rock. But tonight he's having trouble keeping his eyes off my chest. There was definitely a tension there, and I wondered what to do next. Others have noticed and the regular club goers are watching us out of the corners of their eyes, sure that something out of the ordinary is going to happen. The guy in charge of the music--he's hardly a DJ in a club like this--puts on one of the lovely lyrical Goth tracks from the eighties, still played here, but usually very much in second place to the Techno Goth that the younger people like to dance to.
"Well" he said, looking amused. "I think that's our cue to show them how we used to dance."
He lead me onto the dance floor. Suddenly we've got a real audience, the PVC clad youngsters fall back, aware that a scene like this doesn't happen often. We faced each other as the music started to swirl and the melody echoed lyrics of desire and despair.
