Chapter Two
Honky Tonk Badonkadonk
The Labyrinthine Den was like a patchwork quilt made by your quirky grandmama, who marched in protests and had a liberal love life before and after your granddaddy. It was wild and weird to some, but it gave everyone a story to tell no matter what you thought of it.
I drove to the employee lot in the back.
After cutting the engine, I sat on my bike for a moment, staring up at the building before me.
The Labyrinth stood among the polished modernity of the surrounding Shopping and Transport District.
Sleek glass storefronts and upscale restaurants with minimalist menus dazzled in their endless neat rows, feeling like copies of each other.
The Labyrinthine Den, however, was a relic of something older, wilder, and stubbornly, yet beautifully, other.
The tall, wide structure stood on a massive corner lot.
The outside of it looked every bit like a theater straight from vaudeville.
Ivy wrapped around the red brick exterior, creeping further toward the rooftop.
The steady, stubborn, colorful neon of the old marquee at its center burned brightly across the street and underneath the overhang.
The main attraction board had the Den’s slogan: “Come get lost in your desires.”
The Labyrinthine Den was the brainchild of Decha Suwannathat, an eccentric naga-shifter.
In building the Labyrinth, he wanted a place where any supernatural being could get lost in their desires safely and consensually, while each dancer was a performer and allowed to be who they were without being labelled a monster or freak.
Decha took heavy inspiration from the myth in multiple elements of its design and implementation.
He hired minotaur-shifters mainly for security.
When there were parties, the guest of honor was called a “sacrifice.” The entire inside of the Den was a maze.
Winding corridors led to the impressive main stage and bars at the heart of the club, and even more intricate ones led to the private rooms in the back.
Many believed all the theatrics were an obnoxious marketing gimmick or pretentious act, but they clearly hadn’t met Decha or visited the Den.
It was more than a theater offering one show or a titty bar where naked women danced.
A total experience, it was a maze as much as it was a stage, meant to disorient and mesmerize.
I sighed before I tugged my helmet off. “Kryptonite” by 3 Doors Down quieted to the nearby chatter from patrons lined up to the back of the building.
My afro cascaded back down my back and around my shoulders in a thick, heavy spill of mahogany curls that were as fresh and bouncy as before, without any unwanted frizz.
My pulse had steadied. My girl-dick no longer stood at attention.
The dream felt distant now, the details less tangible.
See? Everything’s fine. You’re going to be fine. It’s just work.
Yep, work. A place where my best friend and the woman I was catastrophically in love with performed half-naked in front of me and a crowd of strangers.
Sighing, I approached the back wall and waited for the security wards to sense me and reveal the back door.
Immediately, the scents of citrus incense, faint disinfectant, and layers of various perfumes greeted me at the check-in counter.
Behind it sat Auntie Sarpa, Decha’s aunt and playfully ours, too.
Being of an unidentifiable age, her dark olive skin was unwrinkled, but she had silver-streaked black hair that was perpetually pulled into a severe bun, showcasing her long, pointed ears.
Under the desk, I knew her brown-and-gray triangular-patterned snake tail was relaxed in its coils.
Possessing more judgment than a DMV employee, she always appeared unimpressed as if she had been born that way.
“You’re late,” she snapped without looking up from her paperwork.
“Evening to you, too, ma’am.” I smiled at her, giving her all the Southern charm I could muster. “How’s your night goin’?”
“I wasn’t late, so my night has been lovely.”
“I am not late.” I glanced at the clock projected above the rune scanner. “I’m actually on time.”
Auntie Sarpa clicked her tongue. “Early is on time. On time is late. Late is unacceptable. You are late.”
“Care to give me a break, Auntie? It’s been a day already.” I shook my head, waving my hand over the rune reader embedded into the counter. My palm warmed and started to glow red while the reader flared blue. Then, the red turned green. “See! Told ya I wasn’t late.”
Auntie Sarpa sniffed. “Go get your assignment, Thread.”
I chuckled. Security at Labyrinthine Den were called Threads after the thread Ariadne gave Theseus to help him navigate the maze.
Being a Thread meant being as versatile as Black hair.
You could be anything from a bouncer at the front door to handling the cover fees to supporting the bartenders and servers.
Most nights, a select few and I were assigned to a dancer as their personal bodyguards for the night.
We were charged with watching the crowd and protecting the performer.
Threads ensured no one got lost in the maze in any way they didn’t want to, and that the high standards of consent were always maintained.
Rounding the counter, I was met with the bespelled board packed with assignments for the Threads. I searched through the list until I found my name in red and my assignment in gold:
Thread: T. Bove — Performer: Cinnamon Skye (W. Hawkins).
“Fuck,” I cursed under my breath.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had lost count of how many nights I had been assigned as Wrenley’s Thread. I couldn’t remember when I had last worked anything else. Shaking my head, I made my way to the locker room area to put my helmet and bookbag away.
From the moment I crossed the threshold, the air felt…
odd. The chatter from the performers in particular seemed to die down for far too long before picking back up with my entrance.
The bartenders, servers, and other Threads mingled about, but I felt their quick glances holding almost too long on my back.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and a chill prickled my spine.
Why was everyone staring at me?
Looking around, I didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, but I could feel them when I finished my scan.
I was on time for work and entered the same way I always did.
So, why did it feel like I was being perceived?
I looked down at myself, checking for anything out of the ordinary.
I didn’t see any stains or anything amiss in general.
I also wasn’t sporting a boner or anything. There was no way anyone could tell…
Right?
Gods, was I just being paranoid?
I closed my locker, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth a few times to settle my rising nerves. I was being paranoid. That’s it. I was fine.
Be normal, Tilly. Be professional. Be cool. Everyone will ignore you. This will blow away.
I exhaled one last time and went toward the front of the lockers facing the dancer’s dressing room. There, I crossed my arms and leaned as casually as I could muster against one of the columns of lockers.
A space resembling the backstage of a Broadway production spanned before me, and it was just as bustling as an opening night.
A large rectangular mirror, the length of the wall, was divided into individual vanities by frames of white light bulbs.
The countertop underneath was like an order of Waffle House hashbrown: smothered, covered, topped, and peppered with all sorts of products and tools.
Half-empty hairspray bottles, open containers of all kinds of makeup, hair and lash extensions, hot hairstyling tools, various articles of clothing, and so much more were strewn along the once-white counter.
The air was thick with so many scents that it felt like my nose was plugged with two whole Ulta stores.
The chairs and spaces in between were packed with girls, boys, and theys in varying stages of preparation.
A few were in nothing more than thongs and nipple tassels.
Some had on themed costumes. Others wore their robes as they put on their hair and face.
There were plenty who were walking around completely naked.
After ten years of working security here at the Labyrinth — and growing up around Ira Mae, who undressed her Barbie dolls as much as she did herself — being surrounded by tits, ass, pussies, and dicks was just a normal day.
It also helped that I didn’t see any of the workers that way.
They were people first. It was easier for me to see them as people with personalities and lives, using what the gods had given them to pay their bills rather than as sexual objects. So, none of this fazed me anymore—
Well, maybe not none of it.
Always able to find her, my eyes landed on Wrenley instantaneously.
She was bent over a vanity, leaning in as close as she could to apply her dramatic eyeliner over her glittery eyeshadow.
Looking like a radiant fire, her curls were styled into huge, defined ringlets.
They framed her face, neck, and shoulders perfectly as they tumbled down her arched back.
And, fuck me, she was wearing the outfit.
The strappy black bra barely contained her ample cleavage. The matching corset brought out every generous curve. But her thong was lost in the swell of her hips like a surprise waiting to be found. Per usual, the whole ensemble was bedazzled to high heaven in shimmering black rhinestones.
But then, there were the chaps.