The Gatekeeper

Part III Love Child Chapter 8

Part III

LOVE CHILD

8

"That will be a $3 cover."  

"No problem . . . worth every penny."  

ONE NIGHT LATE ON a Saturday night I wandered into a rock club. My relationship with Savannah, now only a distant disturbing memory, I was once again on the hunt for a new companion. As always, the band we all followed broke down the barriers that kept the crowd of those gathered there apart. 

Too much smoke for the fans to push aside, too much alcohol for the patrons to remain sane. We were all there to shove and cram, mingle and lean, all to get a better look at the performers on stage and off.

For many years I'd felt a compulsion drawing me to clubs like this. I was responding to a premonition that I would meet someone who would change my life and fulfill a longing, an emptiness that has always haunted me. 

The music was hot and heavy—nothing new so far. I had been in this club, or others just like it so many times over the years. Then, it happened. I saw a shocking sight that stopped me, frozen in the mesmerizing moment, as I pondered the final fulfillment of that lifelong dream.

Projecting an angel's ethereal aura, no, a presence even higher, a Seraph—she was a vision of something beyond human. I expected her to turn around revealing a glorious pair of wings attached to her back. In an instant everything and everyone else vanished from my field of view, lik the scene from West Side Story when Tony saw Maria for the first time at the dance.  

I had always been attracted to this kind of arena, where the area's most alluring females congregated to display their irresistible natural attributes on the dance floor. Dressed in exotic hard-rock fashions, their equally erotic rhythmical motions could always arouse a guy’s interior biological soul. Instinctive drives were shifted into high gear. 

Hair, long in length and full in texture . . . makeup too much, but useful in trashing a man’s defenses. Breasts, covered but in a way that suggested wouldn't you just love to see me take this off. Skintight leggings revealed the nubile forms of perfectly-proportioned, irresistibly fit young females. Their feet covered over with calf-length leather boots or stiletto heels.  

On a typical night, with the right band playing, this was a common scene. Certain groups drew certain followings. I knew which bands attracted the most attractive ladies. The femme fatale I’d been captivated by on this fateful night, however, put everyone else in the no-competition category.

She stood out, like a single long-stemmed red rose amid a patch of thistles. Simply calling her beautiful didn’t even begin to describe the vibe I was getting—it was as if she was the only desirable woman left on the planet, so much so that every man had to have her or die trying. 

I'd seen hundreds of women strut to the driving drums of the rock bands that play in these clubs, but like the mythological Siren, once under her spell your fate was sealed. 

Her every move, every fluid pose, was an artistic and captivating experience. She was spontaneously choreographing variations on dance styles, like kronking, a form that would not become popular for years into the future.  Her long, full, flowing chestnut hair framed her enigmatic Mona-Lisa looks while complimenting her sculpted form. Yes, she was gorgeous, but there was much more than appearance projecting from those enchanting eyes.

WE DIDN’T CONNECT THAT night, but a lasting impression was seared into my memory, like flash of slow events -motion during a violent car accident that you could never forget even if you wanted to. As I left the club I hoped, I expected to see her again.