The lights go crazy, a trippy spectrum of neons splattered across the walls and faces. Some there for fun, some not. It’s a marvelous work of architecture: two floors, four dance-floors, four bars, the center VIP section, and other facets of absurdity. The jerk who developed this place must think he’s a fucking genius. Put beds in a nightclub and call the motherfucker Bed.
It’s the biggest innuendo on the damn street. There’s no question that you go to Bed to get laid. Or get laid down and served a thirteen dollar hamburger.
Édrien and Beatriz weren’t sure which they were opting for. They’re hoping a nice night of fun wasn’t too unheard of in this place. And if they couldn’t have fun in Bed, they’d just sleep.
Édrien enters, Beatriz alongside. Édrien flashes the guy overseeing the VIP section a look. Maybe he recognizes her or maybe, just maybe, her glance was fierce enough. Either way, they get into the VIP section. And it looks like VIP: Venereal Diseases In the Proximity.
A girl steps up to them, outfitted in pink pajamas, appropriately tight, appropriately trashy. Good trash, somewhat. The puffy pink slippers with a six-inch heel slapped on the bottom are a bit over-the-fucking-top. Édrien or Beatriz would probably flush them down a toilet if the bed they’re escorted to didn’t look so comfortable.
“A nice queen size for you ladies.” the girl speaks, her voice deep, almost drowning in the loud music. It’s a shock to the ears and mind. They were expecting something more Valley Girl-esque. But, whatever, as long as the chick can carry drinks in her heels, she’s all right with them.
“My name’s Nikki. What can I get you ladies?” Nikki pulls a feathery pen from her shorts and a small diary to write their requests in.
“The strongest thing that won’t make me a whore.” Édrien says. She didn’t mean anything—or much—by it.
The girl smiles and looks to Beatriz. “I would like a Vanilla Coke, please.”
The girl writes it down, nods, skips off. They watch, half-expecting her to trip in her heels, or at least a heel to break. She doesn’t.
They settle on the bed, fluffing the pillows and such.
“Do you like this place?” Édrien asks.
He’s a nice-looking guy. He’s no Clive Owen, but he probably does well. His eyes study Beatriz, propping up on two pillows. It’s hard to tell if he’s interested or just the routine marveled fan.
Beatriz doesn’t say anything in response or flirt her eyes in his direction, instead, she arches back against the headboard, stretching.
“Here you are, ladies.” Nikki returns, toting drinks. The girls in bed accept gratefully, sipping the beverages as they grab them. They’re pretty good, albeit watered down, but still good. Édrien foots the tab, to which the girl responds with a “thanks”, skipping off yet again. They don’t watch her this time.
After a bit of quiet appreciation, they notice the guy who had his eye on Beatriz is no longer there. They’re not worried, but they need something to do now and set off on a two-woman search party.
After exploring the illustrious dance floors, dimly lit corners, and even The Bubble Room, they find themselves in the likes of a men’s restroom. It’s kind of funny to them, in a second-grade kind of way, being in the forbidden zone and such. For a good few seconds, the urinals keep their attention. The more they look around and giggle, the more they realize it needs a makeover.
Beatriz retrieves lipstick, a sharp cherry, from her pocket, hops onto the sink, writing across the elongated mirror in large, fancy, lurid letters: Lick My Clit, It’s Delicious!
Édrien dots the I’s with hearts.
After a bit of playful vandalism, they realize that one of the stalls is occupied. Slowly, the not-Clive Owen guy steps out, a look of disbelief painted on his face.
He rushes out of the bathroom, not a run, definitely not a walk. Somewhere in between and enough for them to laugh at as they exit behind him.
They make their way to the entrance-slash-exit, accidentally knocking over drinks. They contain their laughter until they reach the outside.
Édrien sighs, tired from laughing. “I usually hate getting out of bed.”
They hop in the car. Beatriz sits her head against the window, closing her eyes to the dim world.
She thinks of her own warm, downy bed, with Minino playing in the sheets as she sleeps.
Beatriz shrugs. “It’s ok. This gimmick seems like it would get old pretty quickly.”
“Well, we won’t be here too long.”
“Good.”
“So how are you?” Édrien asks.
“Fine…I’m surviving. ¿Y tú?”
“Ehh, the fed is stressing me out. I know I’m a total bitch at the shows. Sorry.”
“It’s fine, sometimes it’s unavoidable.”
“He’s looking at you.” Édrien says, discretely motioning to the other side of the room.
