“‘The House of Dreams, Doom and Desire’ John read in silvery grey letters stencilled in medieval style letters on the glass door. He doubted that. He doubted the famous ability of this room’s program to sense and show an individual’s deepest sexual psyche whether they were aware of it not. He’d laughed at and gently mocked his co-workers who urged him to try this amazing place. He had declared he definitely didn’t need it. He was gay. He loved other men, found them dizzyingly attractive. He was proud of the fact he had never hid this from anyone, not parents, employers or himself.
Just the same, his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and John found himself in front of these double doors, so spotless and clear he could see himself neatly reflected: a quietly dressed man of average height and weight, neatly cut hair, neither blonde nor brown. He was clearly forgettable, yet often propositioned simply for the wholesome boyish appearance he naturally retained at the age of thirty-two.
Greatly sought after, this tour was expensive but he had the money to spare. He had been assured of his privacy by the representative handling the business side of the adventure, and following his “cruise”, all records of his coming would be expunged.
When will it begin? John was anxious to get inside, out of the waiting area, although he knew no one else would have been allowed nearby during his time slot. He looked at his watch. It was already one minute after the hour. He was a punctual, conscientious person and expected it from others.
John stepped forward, squinting, trying to see through the glass. No one moved on the other side. Only grey walls bare of adornment could be seen. Consequently, he nearly leapt a foot in the air, and backwards two or three in wide eyed shock when a dainty doll of a woman suddenly appeared on the other side pulling the doors inward with a smile.
John blinked rapidly, trying to slow his heartbeat as the girl-woman dimpled sweetly, head tilted to one side a merry mischievous light in her large eyes. She could have been a dead ringer for Betty Boop except the hair was pale lavender styled into a perfect ear length page boy.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Jones. We’re sure you’ll enjoy your stay. Please, finish this drink quickly and we will begin your tour.” She held out a single offering on a clear platter, viscous pink liquid lurking in a faceted glass.
“Go on with you now,” she urged, glittered lashes fluttering coyly. Her accent had gone from standard American to a soft Irish lilt at odds with her French maid’s outfit still so popular at Halloween parties.
John laughed suddenly at her transparent flirtation. They had it wrong already.
“Why not?” he asked no one in particular. Reaching out, he tossed the liquid back quickly. Likely it was some hallucinogen, normally not his style, but he was in a controlled environment after all. It flooded his mouth with more volume than he expected. He gulped twice feeling the warmth of it spread down his throat and belly.
“That’s the spirit!” She beamed at him, giving an approving nod. “Follow me please!”
She turned pertly, flouncing her micro mini skirt, white lace barely covering the heart shaped cheeks of her derrieré. Ultra high heels, black like the dress, clicked sharply on the white marble floor, white stockings, a single black line arrow straight up the back of her legs. John found he could not lift his eyes from her buttocks, the rhythmic motion of them uncharacteristically intriguing.
And his hearing seemed to be going, for now, when she spoke, no doubt describing the things that would take place, John could no longer understand her words, they seemed to drift in and out of his ears, lower pitched at times and distorted, then higher and painfully drawn out. He could almost see them colourfully floating back to him. Yet the tick-tick-ticking of her heels went on as regular as clockwork along with the swishing of her ass.
Whatever she had given him had taken affect with a vengeance, but he wasn’t alarmed for somehow it felt right. John smiled dreamily, trailing behind in a warm haze. They came to another set of doors. Her soft brown eyes met his as with a flourish, she opened them, ushering him into yet another unadorned room.
“Enjoy yourself, dearie.” That, he heard clearly enough, issuing between full, pouty lips. Dearie, dearie, dearie, dearie, echoed in his brain.
She slipped back through, gave him a jaunty wave, and as soon as doors met jambs, they disappeared, colours changed. He found himself in a huge hall, wood-panelled and spacious. All the glass and chrome, silver, grey and white were replaced by what seemed to be an Old English home of enormous proportion: towering suits of armour, tapestries of family heraldry, floor to ceiling portraits of horse-faced women or glowering men.