LADY BONERS AND LAP DANCES IN LONDON
London.The city rich with an assortment of cultures and full of history. Leaving the Eiffel Tower behind me I felt the urge to become someone else. London being the perfect place to assimilate with the crowd. I smooth the straight jet-black silk hair of my wig. It was exhilarating creating a persona different from myself. My trademark all black still very much a part of me with ripped jeans and lace top covered with my ever-present leather jacket. The honk of a horn helps regain my attention to the crosswalk in front of me that I need to cross. I run across the crosswalk dodging cars driving in the square.
Trafalgar Square was directly in my line of sight. Behind it stood the National Gallery. An iconic London landmark, wedged between Charing Cross and Leicester Square. What a sight to take in. People everywhere going about their day. I wondered where they were walking to. Covent Garden. St. James Park. Buckingham Palace. Westminster Abbey. I neared the fountain in the center of the square and sat down on its edges. My cheeks sitting lightly on the concrete underneath me. The sounds of running fountain water were surprisingly soothing in the environment. As I look around I realize why it’s called introvert’s paradise for a reason. This was a prime crowd for people watching. Watching as people come and go, different and alike. Tourists and locals. Businessmen and school kids talking on their phones. Couples embracing and laughing. A child running after a flock of pigeons. It was as if time stood still. If only for a moment everything was still.
The walk from Trafalgar Square to the London Embankment was relatively short and uncrowded. The soft breeze through the trees as the gentle sunshine shined against the side of my cheek. The absence of cars on a busy street didn’t go unnoticed by me. The telltale horn of the ferry signaled that it’s next stop was coming soon to take me to my next destination. I joined the other commuters on the boat along with me and took in the view of this magnificent city with a deep gentle breath. My hands holding onto the steel pole barrier of the ferry with an unexpected grip. The view before me was grand. The familiar ache inside me creeping in once again. The desire for my Nonna to see this with me was almost too much to bear. My trip that originally started out as revenge was starting to take on an all-new meaning in its entirety.
As I walk across the Millennium Bridge the view across the Thames become clearer. St. Paul’s to the north and Tate Modern to the south. The bridge was crowded with people, all in a hurried pace to get to their next location. For some it was a historic bridge, but for me it was where death eaters attacked muggles on the bridge. Harry Potter will always be my guilty pleasure. My feet walked in the direction of the people in front of me and towards the domed building in front of me. My childhood obsession with Romeo and Juliet coming to fruition in the locale of the Shakespeare Globe Theater. My first glimpse as I walk inside is one of pure magic. The wooden beams in the circle structure have observed so much creativity that it must leak from its many formed cracks. It’s not the original Globe, but it feels as if you stood amongst the patrons from centuries ago. Watching the show take place before them on the planked wood stage under the thatched open roof as its stars give off the only light. My body can’t seem to stop itself from spinning around, taking in every piece of nostalgia I can. My Nonna would love this.
The empty row seating above me created the shadow surrounding me and the rest of the people who were next to the stage, standing in the pit just as the groundlings did in Shakespeare’s time. The modern lights for convenience dimmed around us as the colored bulbs gave off a crimson red hue to the stage. Before I knew it, actors in all shapes, sizes, races, and genders begin reciting their lines of “Romeo and Juliet.” My mouth tensed in concentration as the actors began to envelop their roles wholeheartedly before my very eyes. Their thunderous voices echoed against the wood beams of the theater.
“My lips, to blushing pilgrims, ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss,” Romeo bellowed loudly.
“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand to much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this,” Juliet said loudly.
“For saints have hands that pilgrim’s hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss,” I recited along with Juliet.
Romeo and Juliet is not a light love story.
Love isn’t light.
Love is dark.
* * *
I have seen the “Notting Hill”press conference scene in the Savoy over a hundred times. A true classic in its own right. However, seeing it’s luxurious atmosphere in person was something else entirely. My black stiletto heels echoed against the white marble floor as I walked into the lobby of the Savoy Grill. I release a nervous breath from deep within my chest. Inwardly I hope that the blind date I coordinated before coming to London will stand me up.
I’m going to puke.
I’m going to faint.
I’m going to puke and faint.
Any ounce of confidence I had is gone. A thin man, around the age of forty walks up to me holding onto a stack of menus in his hands.
“May I help you?” he asks quietly.
“Hello, my name is Laura. I’m here to meet,” I trail off, nervously swallowing spit in my mouth.
“Ah yes, your date is waiting for you,” the waiter says, his smile turning upwards enthusiastically.
I smooth out the merlot chenille fabric of my dress, careful of readjusting the large amounts of cleavage showing in the deep v-cut. The short black bob wig I purchased from home was making my scalp itch.
Was it the wig or was it the complete asinine idea of mine to have a blind date?
“Thanks.”
“Your date is quite dapper, madam,” a smirk gracing his thin lips.
“That’s wonderful,” I say unconvincingly.
Inwardly I curse fuck in every color of the rainbow. He’s hot.He’s hot and I’m me. Before I can turn tail and run my date comes into view. Jesus’ fucking Christ. This man could have been copied and pasted from a GQ magazine cover. Everyone around me talking amongst themselves disappear from view and all I can focus through tunnel vision is him. This Henry Cavill-esque man sat front and center before me, covered in a figurative ethereal glow. His all-black suit jacket, crisp shirt and silk tie starkly contrasted the white linen tablecloth in front of him. He stood up and adjusted the lapels of his jacket as we walked closer to the table. I am amazed my legs even remember how to walk. The confidence I once had appears to be fleeting. His clean-shaven face with slicked coffee-colored brown hair comes into full focus. His slightly grayed sides of his hair was more attractive than I thought I could be. He is gorgeous. He leans forward and kisses me on my already blushing cheek.
“Cal?” I ask.
“Laura?” he asks in return.
I inwardly wince at my alter-ego’s identification by him. This man smells of an earthy wood and fresh linen. It’s intoxicating. The waiter sets the menus down on the table and walks away, as Cal pulls out my black leather chair and pushes it in after I sit down.
“A gentleman, thank you,” I say, a smile gracing my lips.
The smile he returns to me is the, “I’ll make you cum with one look” smile. Oh fuck. That smile and peridot green eyes are trouble.
“I took the liberty of ordering us some champagne,” he says.
“That’s perfect, thank you.”
“You look beautiful. That dress is something else,” his eyes grazing up and down the front of my cleavage.
“Thank you. You look very handsome as well. Sorry I am late, the commuting times, I am still trying to get used to them,” I say, releasing a huff of air from my lips.
“How long have you been in London?” he asks.
“A week. I only have about two days left before I travel to Dublin,” I reply, taking the white linen napkin into my lap.
“Dublin is beautiful,” Cal says adoringly.