Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 13. Chapter 13: Vamp Club

Chapter 13: Vamp Club

MY NEW GYPSY BODYGUARD and I stroll the leafy street near 'our' bed and breakfast. Not a soul is out except us, and there is no traffic either.

It is dark; in addition to it being another moonless night, the graceful streetlights of this high-class neighbourhood are tall and send their pools of illumination over the treetops. The dribble of light that manages to get down to us is animated by a light breeze, and makes the gloomy shadows around us rustle through the night like so many bat wings.

We walk side by side, not saying much. Our hands are thrust into our respective denim pockets. I glance over at him, and wonder 'Who wears a biker's jacket to a vamp club?' I on the other hand have on my black jeans, black button-down shirt and blazer.

My mind drifts back to the scene a few hours ago.

A knock at my door just after my shower produced a smiling and cocky Silviu. I barely had time to tighten the bath towel around my waist and step aside before he strode into the room like he owned the joint. He shouldered the type of overstuffed 'carry-on bag' that are the bane of flight attendants' existence – you know the type, the ones that barely squeeze into the regulation-sized box at the check-in gate, which is there to make sure the bags fit. The problem is that owners, like this Gypsy guy, invariably whine about it being a carry-on and pinch and shove and contort the damn thing to make it sort of seem workable in a square-peg-round-hole sort of way.

This is the type of bag Silviu thrust into my naked chest for me to "Put away" for him. And he then proceeded to kick off his boots and plop backwards onto my bed.

By the time I had closed the door and turned to dump his possessions in a corner, he was propping all the pillows under his gelled and slicked-back hair. Once he was semi-comfortable, he laced fingers behind his head and glanced at me with a self-satisfied smirk.

"You said I can have the bed, right?"

"Yeah. Take it, stud. You'll have just enough room for you and your ego."

He apparently liked that, for his laugh pinged the Art-Deco-style plaster ceiling.

The memory of that ping is enough to snap me out of the recollection now with my own little smile.

"What..?" Silviu asks as we start to cross the street.

"Nothing. I was just thinking you had a good idea."

"They'll all good. Which one?"

"The one, Mr. Modesty, where you said we should let the hotel clerk lock my father's letter in the safe while we're out."

"Oh, yes. That one. That was a good idea, and maybe you shouldn't carry it around so much if someone, or someones, are after it."

"Yep. Well done."

His knuckles suddenly come out to smack my sternum; when I look over to him in some pain, his eyes are sparking and staring straight ahead. "This place is supposed to be famous!"

I follow his sightline, and before I can say anything, he's dashing across the deserted street.

The block has opened up and on a corner property stands a two-story edifice surrounded on all sides by lawn and mature trees. The building's a business of some sort, but now it is dark and obviously closed. That seems a bit odd, but then again, it is past eleven.

Silviu calls back to me from the middle of the street, "Let's go check it out!"

I trail him, thinking the structure is strange. It lacks the kind of look of most of the Socialist-era monoliths I have seen in this city. Absent is the Totalitarian stonework of swirling, swooping doodads and gewgaws couching and celebrating overstuffed Commy stars.

The first thought I have in looking at it is, 'How old could it actually be?' It appears like an ancient mansion that's just as likely to have been built three hundred years ago, or recently hatched from the contemporary minds of Disneyland Imagineers – the ones who design all aspects of a park visitor's experience.

We walk up to a wrought iron gate, which is closed but boasts an organic overhead light shade like an Art Nouveau seedpod.

"What kind of restaurant is this?" I ask.

"Hick style," Silviu laughs. "The citified version of what bucolic Romanian peasants are supposed to enjoy."

He grins with handsome aplomb, and I think to myself, 'Wow. Did he just use "bucolic" in a sentence? Maybe he's smarter than he appears.' But what I actually say is, "This place is weird, like what I imagine a Mexican restaurant looks like in Transylvania."

Silviu does a jock-type chuckle, and then says, "That's a good one. What about the Moorish arches?"

"The Moorish arches..? They're just thrown in for some gratuitous fun."

He raps my still tender chest with his knuckles. He points. "Look, they've got a menu."

We head over to a lighted brass case with a glass door; it's hanging on one of the gateposts.

I glance at it. The name of the place is Hanu' Berarilor, that much I can read, but the food selection is all in Romanian. Around the sides of the text are old-timey linecuts in sepia tones. These decorations include a coffee mill, a corkscrew, and forks and spoons. Silviu starts translating, "Starters: cream of zucchini soup; chicken noodle soup; platoul conaşuli – which is like a salad topped with cheese and crispy pork skin."

"That sounds okay."

"Main course: chicken in sauerkraut…" He barely makes it to the next item without laughing. While he reads on, I notice there is an identical case on the other gatepost. I go over there and see this menu is in 'English.'

"Wait, Silviu – wait. It seems the owners disagree with your translation."

He comes over to stand by my side. As I start to read out loud, he leans on me in intimate ease with his elbow on my shoulder. His soft, musky-toned scent mixed with his body spray suddenly seems immediate and pleasant on my palate.

"You have a choice," I tell him. "The main courses are either cock in beer, or cock in fermented cabbage."

"Ummm," Silviu chuckles, roughly jostling my shoulder. "I do love me some cock, as long as it's tender and tasty!"

In a smooth movement, the pressure of his body next to and on top of mine, transitions into a tugging on my blazer. He guides me to join him as we restart our journey. I follow, quipping, "I bet you're never slacked when you get some good ones, but I bet you go for chicken too!"[1]

He spins around and walks backwards on the sidewalk. He hikes up the front flaps of his open leather jacket with his wrists just so I can watch him thrust hands into his tight jean pockets. He cups his goodies from either side, and tells me through his shit-eating grin, "I like my meat like I like my men – grown up, mellow and mature."

I chuckle to myself and try not to show this crazy guy how much he's entertaining me. He turns back around, and up ahead of us the trees open onto a river walk.

I jog to catch up, and bump his shoulders.

"Hey, I have a really serious question for you now." I let my growing smirk inform him that my pending query will not be very serious at all.

"What..? Shoot."

"Do your buddies call you Sil? Ever?"

His face goes blank; he tells me flatly, "No. Never. All of my friends and family call me by my name – Silviu."

"Oh. Okay. No 'Sil' for you – "

He cuts me off. "Anyone allowed to call you Em?"

I laugh in his face. "Nope, but then again, no one's ever tried." He attempts to look away and ignore me; I knock his shoulder again. "Since you mention it, does that mean you want to be the first?"

Silviu is plainspoken as he informs me, "Whatever, dude. You can't call me 'Sil.' Ok?"

"Okay," I concede with a hefty sigh. "Spoilsport."

Suddenly I seem to wake up and take notice how beautiful it is here. Across the River Dambovita is a Beaux-Arts building with the French-style roofs of a chateau. The streetlights cast pools of illumination onto the surface of the gently flowing water, and the reflection of the 19^th century Belle Époque structure glints on top of the waterway too.

It is so romantic and quiet, I become lost in a little pool of my own loneliness. A flash of Erich and me at Moss Park having a picnic introduces a warm and sunny day of Toronto into this far away night of Bucharest. He was a German-born university student at Ryerson, and his sandy hair, brown eyes and wicked smile instantly attracted me. We'd get away from campus, and on days like the one where we had our picnic, lie in the grass, side by side, with our hands linked, and our eyes gazing up to the clouds and blue sky. At such lazy moments we'd teach ourselves things for fun. He'd instruct me on German, and I'd clue him in on the proper intonation subtleties of such basics as 'beauty,' 'rad,' and 'eh!'

But sometimes I am overrun with sadness to think of him, and such thoughts only lead to one place: anger with my father. That and a stultifying moroseness with Erich himself, for a lack of bravery is pitiful in anybody, but like men-loving men in general as perceived in the minds of straights, it is weakness personified when encountered in a same-sex loving person of any description. And Erich turned out to be a fucking coward.

I catch Silviu looking at me intently.

"What." I startle myself at how curt I sound.

"Drachma for your thoughts?"

I don’t know, but for a millisecond I want to cry – just burst the floodgates on Dad and Erich and this curse thing – and collapse into a crouching stoop where I can sob. But instead, I force out a little chuckle that comes through my nostrils.

"I was just thinking about...how romantic this place is."

We walk on for a few paces and Silviu says nothing. This uncharacteristic reserve makes me inspect him closely.

He is sad looking and perhaps there's more behind his little-boy frown and pouty attitude as well, but whatever 'it' is, it's well guarded. I suddenly realize I have no idea what Silviu is thinking at any given moment, but what this guy is feeling on the other hand, that I always seem to know without any thought at all.

I gently plead with him. "What, Silviu? What?"

He shrugs. "It's just funny. Romantic, that's what I was thinking too."

The Gypsy stud distracts himself by pulling out the Club Nosferatu card from his hip pocket. "I believe we have to cross the river."

"Okay," I say, and have to admit to myself that there is more to Silviu than meets the eye. There's a stitch-in-time type saying about too hasty judgments, but right now, I can't think exactly what it is.

"Do you drink? I mean, to excess?" Silviu suddenly asks.

His tone's grown a bit preachy, and brings me out of my generous thoughts for him.

"Well, Pops. I drink beer, but I'm no repressed closet case who drinks himself into a stupor just to be able to 'cope.'"

"Jesus Murphy," he snaps. "It was just a simple question, Em! My point is, keep it moderate tonight. Keep your wits about you, and your head clear, ok?"

He makes me feel bad for my snarkiness, so I jostle my knuckles into his sternum and grin in a way to let him know 'you win.'

Perhaps all of my less than kind thoughts about this guy have been wrong all along. I will have to try and work on my tendency to judge too quickly.

˚˚˚˚˚

The door's black, and normally at this stage – being literally outside a club and about to go in – I'd feel excited and happy. But now, as Silviu pauses with a palm splayed flat against the portal to Club Nosferatu, I half-reconsider my Gypsy protector's warning that 'I don’t know who I am.'

"Stick close to me," he advises with the bottom whites of his eyes showing. And then before I can hesitate, he pushes on the door and we go in.

First sense, even before I can see or smell anything, is the music. Many, many bars and discos slam you in the chest with a rollicking 'club beat.' I suppose that sound alone means party time to lots of followers of the dance scene, but this music is instantly off-putting.

As Silviu walks to and waits for me at the opening across this little reception area from the front door where I stand, I feel the gothic drone drag on my heartbeat. Letting the door close behind me, and wading across the room almost in a malaise, I am already drained. The 'dance beat' of a vamp club I suppose is naturally going to be one that matches a heartbeat. But, it's worse – it's a slow, migraine pounding that saps all of my workaday type A personality until it leaves me depressed and hopeless.

"What's wrong with you?" Silviu asks as I get next to him.

"Nothing. I'm okay."

We both stand still to get the lay of the land. Ahead of us and to the left is the dance floor. An area of about twenty metres square, it forms the entire back section. To the left of it is a standing-height bar where people loiter to watch the dancers.

To the right side of the dance floor runs a corridor that presumably leads to restrooms, and perhaps to a back door.

Just to the left of where Silviu and I stand, a large sit-down type bar makes up the entire front of the club.

Suddenly, 'Sil' puts both arms on my shoulders and brings his face in. He bows his head and flashes more whites of his eyes. "Look, just stick close to me."

The scent of his leather sleeves makes a pleasant but unwelcomed intrusion on my ire at being treated like a child. My hands slide up, forcing him to kick his head back, and I push his arms away.

I smirk, "Okay, Dad. Look, we don’t have to be glued at the hip – do we?" He looks hurt, and like he wants to say something, but I shoulder past him into the main part of the club.

I don’t get very far in when I stop thinking about my 'date' for the night and get caught up in the atmosphere around me. This place is weird, like a kiddy club on downers, or like a clearance-sale-day at Hot Topic – that stupid goth shop in the mall.

Many of the young men wear black trench coats and satin top hats. They apparently like long straight hair tied into ponytails too. Some guys have on Victorian-looking steampunk trousers, vests and sleeve guards with sharp metal studs. Some of them have blood-red goggles riding their foreheads or cap brims. All of these wear sexy boots that come far up on their shins.

The young women who are here seem to have a genuine penchant for dresses – black, satin dresses. Many of them are bodiced with thick cords that seem to bind them with the intent of lifting the bosom to the height of neck muffler, or wall shelf below the chin. Sleeves are long affairs and some of them are as nimbus as gauzy fringe as they drape in points far below the level of the hands and painted fingernails. The vamp girls love pale makeup, plus lipstick that gives the impression of glossy coal having been smeared on their mouths before coming out for night. Many have headgear in the form of miniature top hats, or tricorn caps, or even lace veils – all in black, naturally.

The clothes of both boys and girls seems to want to convey two things – one, they are vamp kids, and two that this attire is intimately suited to the way they want to move out on the dance floor.

The crowd bobs and sways collective heads to the droning heartbeat rhythm, and my attention gets drawn with its waving motion to a wall of booths. Here above the seats glows a mural of unusual design. It seems rather like a Marc Chagall painting: the overall colourway are blues – indigo, teal, cyan – but all together they blend into a sea of emerging and receding human forms. Some of these figures wear strange masks like wolves, others have goaty stares and feline eyes of yellow and green. The intent of the mural is lost on me, but the gloom and desperation of it is instantly discernible on an emotional level. 'Give up,' it says. 'It's easier if you just don't resist.'

A blond boy with a full martini glass runs into me. It splashes vigorously as he glances at the other young man he is with, presumably his boyfriend – judging by the loving eyes he keeps peeled on him. Some of his drink gets on my hand.

"Cer iertare!" he says, rotating a dull expression on me.

"Sorry?" I ask, shaking his spilt liquor off of my skin.

"English?" His partner leans in with a growing smile. This one's very pale and his white contact lenses are disconcerting as he blinks anticipation towards me. Wile his smile grows, I glance quickly at the other and confirm both of them are wearing some dental work. Permanently attached or not, I do not know, but pearly fangs crown their upper canines. All of this visual input temporarily confuses me.

"You're asking me if I'm English..?"

Truth be told, the music is also getting to my ability to think straight.

The couple begins to interlock arms and move away. "Sorry," the martini-spiller says, and then they slip back into the crowd.

I find myself glancing between the Chagall-esque mural, the people bobbing heads around me in the low light, and wondering if every mouth sports a pair of press-on blood suckers; it's not an amusing thought. While I am pondering this, another thought presses forward, one that is more nebulous – it’s a notion akin to the feel of the hair rising on the back of my neck – I sense that I am being watched. I cannot pinpoint from which direction I think it is coming at me.

I do see that in this brief intervening period Silviu has moved upfront to the edge of the main bar and is now staring at me with his back turned to it. He leans with his elbows propped on it and his knees slightly bent; his leather jacket is open and exposing his partially unbuttoned shirt and finely accenting his tight jeans and bulge. His attire makes him stand out him here, but now I can see it does so in a good and sane way.

I barely catch myself before I fully say the truth out loud, 'Damn, he is sexy.' Perhaps I had been too harsh with him earlier…but in another moment, the Gypsy's blue eyes sail smoothly off of me and over my right shoulder. I glance that way, and a stunning guy in a black suit with long, slicked back hair is returning Silviu's gaze.

That man goes to Silviu, who reacts by standing erect. They both nod a friendly greeting with half-seductively raised grins and quickly come together to stand only thirty or forty centimetres apart.

I hear the stranger ask, "Beer?"

"Only if you let me buy, handsome." Silviu appears fully focused on his 'hook up,' and both men turn their backs on me to order.

An internal flush of heat surprises me.

'Is this the way he treats…' Wait. What am I doing? We're not together, so why do I care? I don’t.

I pivot on my heels and decide to check out the area for standing next to the dance floor. Slowly, that feeling of being watched dissipates as my eyes follow the free-flowing method in which the dancers interact. The music beats out its slow pulsations, and the crowd courses along with it in sighing undulations. The way they dance is slow and physical; it's sensual in the extreme. Couples of mixed and same-sex pairings are spread out and expend loving focus on the one they are with, but other groups of three and four are peppered throughout the swaying mass of humanity. One muscular young man, shirtless and down to just his leather pants and top hat, is being 'worshiped' by a pair of young women. The girls run their hands over his torso that is glistening with perspiration, and down to the tight line of his waistband. But oddly enough, the entire time they are careful not to actually touch him; it's as if they want to tap into his aura and not his body. Even from my vantage the radiant glow of the ladies' faces is nearly palpable as they dip lower and bend hands towards the sexy guy's crotch, thighs and knees. Once they have crouched down to basically be kneeling before his still-moving body, the girls interlace fingers together and rise up kissing one another. They carry their bussing up to the man's lips and the three of them dance with lips and bodies pressing tightly together.

These poly-partnered couples glide around the floor in a flowing exchange of members – boys with girls, girls with girls, and boys with boys. Whatever the composition of the newly formed groupings, sensuality rules the decisions. Sometimes spontaneous and languorous kissing erupts, and at such moments I doubt very much even they know or remember who they initially started dancing with.

"Hi. Are you here with anyone?"

I turn around. A pretty girl looks up into my eyes. Her chin-length hair is straight and black and turns inwards to swoop and cup her radiantly shy smile. I am relieved to see no fangs glinting in the grin she shines on me.

"Yeah," I stammer, with an embarrassed hand going to the back of my head. "I do have a date – but just to let you know, I'm here with a guy."

"Cool. Me too." She bobbles her head, and her smile shifts to be a completely disarming one. "I'm Dida."

"Emeric."

Her hand is ice-cold.

"So, Emeric. Where's this date of yours?" She doesn't bother to look around.

"Um, well – I guess you could say we're not officially dating yet..." Why the hell did I say that..? "He's over at the bar, flirting with that hot guy."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She offers full attention on me with softly scanning eyes. "Do you like him?"

Dida has one of those Romanian accents that sounds sweet and soft when spoken with mild intent.

"I don’t know," I tell her. "It's too early to tell."

"Oh. Well, I can tell."

Dida makes me smile and lean down some. "And what can you tell?"

"That you're angry, and maybe more hurt by him than you are admitting to yourself."

This young Romanian woman has just wiped the smile clean off of my face.

"I can tell more than that too."

I tease her, "What else can you tell, then?"

"Are you sure you want to hear..?"

"Why of course; you see, I believe in psychics." My attempt to laugh falls flat.

"Well, Emeric – I can tell that you are trying to hide something."

"What? I'm an open book to the world."

Her smile quivers while it lifts up on just the right corner of her mouth. "Who said you are trying to hide it from the world."

My grin slipped completely off. "Who – "

She interrupted. "No need to deny it, at least to me. After all, it's you you're trying to fool."

"You mean, him…Silviu?" Before I can say anymore, she lays cold fingers on the forearm of my jacket.

"Don’t worry," she intones mysteriously. "I won't tell anyone. You came here to enjoy yourself, so do it with me. Ok?"

Her newly bubbly ways and seductive mannerisms seem infectious. I ask her, "So, where's your…boyfriend?"

"Yes, he's my boyfriend, and he's getting drinks."

"Oh, that's nice," I say, thinking that Silviu never offered to buy me so much as a Coke…but then again, I guess I did tell him to get lost.

Dida tosses her hair to the side, saying, "My boyfriend is also, how do you say, flexible."

I feel my mouth puzzle into a bit of a question mark.

"I mean," she explains. "That he likes to play with boys too, but only under certain conditions."

"Like what?"

"Well, he's not into kissing men, unless he's in charge, you know what I mean. And when it comes to doing it, he wants me there, but he's jealous if the guy shows too much interest in me."

"Oh," I mutter. Okay, these two are more of the pansexual types that I've seen on the dance floor.

"My boyfriend has complicated feelings about guys. Like, as long as he's in control, he feels safe and turned on. He's, how do you call it, a top – only. Otherwise, he fears that anyone will think that he 'likes' guys because they are guys." She tosses her head. "You know what I mean."

In point of fact, I do not. It sounds like this mysterious boyfriend of hers is a closet case who is truly afraid of being called out for the actual emotions being with guys arise in him.

"He gets really turned on when he's seducing a boy who maybe doesn’t want to submit to him."

"You mean, he likes seducing straight guys?"

"Oh, yes. That's his favourite."

"How does he feel about Gay guys?"

She pauses and looks overly serious for a second. "As long as you don’t tell him, he'll never know about you." She winks, and then goes on to change the subject. "So, Emeric, you American?"

"Canadian."

"Oh. That's funny. A Canadian with a Hungarian name." She withdraws her hand, and I note a bit of an edge has crept into her tone to puzzle me.

"You know about my Hungarian name..?" I ask with newfound reserve.

"The first king of Hungary was Emeric. You knew that, right?"

In fact, I hadn't known that.

She continues, "There was a time, long ago, when Hungarians colonized parts of Romania, and treated us worse than dogs."

Before I can digest the seriousness of her telling me that, an incredibly cute guy shows up and bumps elbows with Dida. I guess he's about twenty-one years old, and thus a couple years younger than I am.

His arms are on full display because he has on a sleeveless black tee-shirt. The exposed limbs are the naturally sculpted ones of a non-gym boy. They have the remarkably even tone of alabaster, the same tone that rides from his smiling cheeks all the way down to the tip of his fingers.

Speaking of which, it is only now that I notice he's clutching three full highball glasses.

"Have one," he tells me, nearly laughing.

Dida takes one and forces it into my hand. I think maybe I should look around for my strong Gypsy protector, but shut the impulse down by reminding myself that 'I'm a big boy.'

"Thank you," I sing out to the vamp guy. "Thanks to both of you!" I add with a big grin for Dida.

"Cheers!" she offers, and the three of us clink glasses.

Ah, it feels good to slake my thirst and forget about Sil for a moment.

The new boy smiles with his eyes at me over the rim of his drink. After he lowers it and licks his lips, he tells me, "Your hair's cool. It reminds me of Eddie Munster."

I like that; it's both a snooty and cool thing to say. I use my free hand to slick my hair back for him with a grin.

"His name's Emeric," Dida informs her boyfriend.

He extends his hand. "I'm Cezar. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." I shift the glass between grips to shake the one he holds out.

His grasp is firm, and my attention slips down to see he's wearing black leather pants. The creases and folds in the tanned hide accentuate every notable muscle-curve and 'asset' Cezar has to offer; more than 'offer,' as the display he puts on shows just how endowed he is, and how presumably content Dida is. I know I should not be attracted to this guy whose bisexuality is probably a latent step for him, but I can't help it. Maybe the thrill of danger is what wreaths his aura in an intoxication mixture of sweet sexual potential and acrid physical threat. I guess that's the essence of the modern attraction to vampires in a nutshell: the dangerous allure of the one who is sensual and foreboding, and the magnetic draw to one we know we shouldn't submit to, but are compelled to do so anyway.

I take another sip and feel the warming liquor slide down my throat with a slightly rough but loosening effect. I'm relaxing a bit with these charming and good-looking vamp kids. While I sip again, I admire Cesar's hair. It's long – down to the bottom of his ears – and even in this low light comes off as a sandy-bronze colour with some lighter highlights. It is slick and fuzz free.

"So, you guys don’t wear false teeth?"

Cezar and Dida pass a mildly confused look between them.

"I mean," I explain, opening my mouth and lisping as I touch fingertips to my upper canines. "Fangs."

"Oh…" Cezar pauses, then leers and rolls his eyes in a charming way. "We don’t need them," he says languorously.

"Yes," Dida adds, as she allows her fingers to walk up my chest in a strolling pace. When she gets to my collar, she pulls my ear down to her moist lips. She croons in a soft whisper, "We have real ones. And you'll see them later."