A Fist Full of Velvet

1. For Somebody's Sins

Bliss and I were not supposed to meet. I wasn't supposed to be there, not then. From the very start there was something so deliciously unnatural about our relationship, as if fate didn't bring us together, but rather our resistance against it. Never faith, with us, only sin.

I wasn't supposed to be there, I had other places to be. Important places, where surely champagne fizzed and someone wanted to share a glass with me. Share a kiss, a line. I was just so. Fucking. Bored. And I needed to visit new places, but no places felt new anymore. No clubs, no restaurants, no beds. Stockholm was simply gray and cold. All year. Stockholm never had what I needed. The town had betrayed me.

I hadn't been to Spite since the summer of its grand opening, during which I had DJ:d, being the club's owner and all. And designated celesbian, I guess. A little something for Instagram or Tiktok or whatever.

I didn't want to play tonight, I felt way too distant from the music. My slow, blasé resting pulse didn't even beat close to in time with the pounding electronic music played here. Layers upon layers of mindless noise.

I wanted to tend the bar, like I used to, humming Patti Smith to myself. /Jesus died for somebody's sins / but not mine. I wanted to work up a sweat, an appetite, providing the guests with everything they craved, as they craved and craved and craved, like hungry birds. Their eyes shining brighter and brighter, thirsting for something strong, something sweet, something that could make their night worthwhile. Me.

And I wanted to watch the money pour in, the card readers blink, the receipts get printed, longer and longer, curling over the edge of the bar. Money was always something. But I never broke a sweat. I don't think I can get stressed anymore.

So, with my nose filled with the scent of sweet liquor, stinging lime and sticky sugar, I saw Bliss for the first time. A vision in pink. And I watched her, silently, as she intruded upon my chronic boredom. My world. Her hair was still glowing then, a vital pink – it hadn't faded to the peachy nuance that came later. That matched the shade of her perfect nipples.

Spite was a small club, at least compared to the places I had opened since (meaning I own several clubs, even though I only turned twenty nine this year ... I mean, last year.)

Anyway. The bar at Spite hade three sides, shaping it into a booth against the wall opposite the entrance. From behind it I could keep an eye on the queue lining up outside the door, stretching all the way along the glass wall, twisting around the corner and disappearing into the night. Maybe it was because of that that I reacted so strongly to Bliss, and her cat eyed little queer mob, suddenly showing up on the other side of the bar. I hadn't seen them stand in line. And I would have noticed her. Not that it was particularly unusual to have pink hair at Spite, I just ... Would have noticed her. Something was just so deliciously wrong with her.

My conclusion was that Bliss hadn't had to stand in line. The guards must have let her pass. And I didn't know her. Who the fuck got let into my club, without standing in line, that I didn't know? This needed to me corrected, I noted. And then I waited. There wasn't a single doubt in my mind that she would come to me, but I do admit: it took longer than I thought. I was, after all, tending the bar.

Bliss wore a short, pleated shirt, with braces stretched over her shoulders, and the tiniest little top, swelling with breast. Beneath the skirt she wore only fishnet stockings, pressing their pattern into her thick thighs. Platform shoes. She was basically only wearing a skirt, and nothing else. She was smart. The club would get very hot.

And, I realized from my place behind the bar, on the naked skin exposed on Bliss' solar plexus, was a tattoo of a short, black cross. For a moment I thought I was mistaken. Found, to my great delight, that I wasn't. Also, there was this pose that she made when her picture was taken. And it was taken – club kid after club kid approached her to take selfies with her. Bliss then lifted her hands to her forehead, sticking her fingers out and curving them into horns. The cross. The horns. The flash of the cameras that turned her eyes red. What a strange, ironic creature.