Red, White, and Black Make Off-Shades of Amber

The more a death-rock girl’s structural integrity crumbles, the heavier she applies her foundation. Always a white girl, always paler than the moon, even before she attacks her face with that angel food batter, her hand like chef’s kiss, slapping herself with focused hatred on the relief map rashes, ravaged by acne, from using too much foundation, a never-ending maintenance when a girl lives in a world of funhouse mirrors. 

I made private jokes to myself, that Amber put on so much white mask to defy the color of her name, to spite her face itself which would nearly disappear, translucent in the light, she was making herself transparent. Gone, beyond Geisha — I groped her every chance I had so her body wouldn’t fade away with her face, which I couldn’t stop kissing to anchor her back into being. 

She had sought me out for stability, even though neither of us could recall how we met — only that we were both blacked out on smuggled Club Mudslides and clandestine short dogs of vodka, that we had each shown up alone to dance at Perversion. There were no pleasantries — we just started making out during Cities in Dust with no word of introduction. But she fashioned me a buoy to grab onto, to turn her back on it all, her dungeon dominatrix life by day into her nocturnal amphetamine voids. She had traumatized herself through absolute off radar independence, living so free and open that too much had flown into her. I was her newest obsession, a band-aid — though I knew nothing of discipline. Only boundless curiosity that led me to her, a month prior to this moment where I begged she jog her memory, to shadowdance down memory lane as she applied her first of many layers of face whitening.

“Amber, do you remember your first words to me the night we met?”

She looked over her shoulder, a grinning red mouth.

“Are you asking me ‘cause you can’t remember, or you just want to hear me say it again?”

“Uh, I honestly can’t remember. At that moment I was already browning out. Like, you know, totally Ambering out,” I said, impressed by my nice sentimental save.

She turned to face me, setting her compact on the sink, her canine biting her bottom lip.

“So, after we made out on the dance floor, I said, in these exact words, ‘I wish everyone in this whole club would just disappear so I can rape you.”

I guess I did just need to hear it again, because the second after she said it, I was touched by the same brave words of someone who really wanted me, who really cared enough to engage in absolute tunnel-vision, blackout the world.

I smiled at her, blushing.

“Look who’s getting so red? Looks like you need some foundation!” she said, walking over to attack my face, her lips to mine, then her face eraser to my blooming cheeks.

Then, she began crying, soft then hysteric, punctuating each stab of the sponge with another sob as she shook her head no.

“Amber! What’s wrong?”

“I can’t fucking believe those were my first words to you!”

I tried to tell her it was okay, how touched I was, how special those words were to me, but it was too late. Like many girls her age, Amber had recently started taking Tetracycline, a popular wonder drug that cured acne, UTIs, smoking — yet its side-effects caused wild mood swings, fatigue, and at this moment with Amber, it was an unfiltered truth serum.

“I hope you don’t hate me but there’s a lot of things I never told you,” she said.

My stomach twisted. We were more vulnerable than usual, sliding into rudderless paranoia after being up for three days. We weren’t even doing drugs — just having a lot of sex, arguing when we got bored, then having more sex to make it all better; our union a serpent trying to deep throat its own tail, yet avoiding the hole. It was our mouths — we had both developed painful white ulcers on our tongue and inner cheeks, making it difficult to eat, sleep, or relax. We were determined to make kissing work — even if we frequently had to pull away, hissing inward. But now was not the time to lock lips.

“Go ahead, I’m all ears,” I said, tonguing a sore on my labial frenulum.

She unearthed a more detailed account of her time as a dominatrix, her past I was well aware of, not minding the slightest. Yet this yarn revealed more about the dungeon and her clientele; powerful men on the surface who craved incremental discipline, to find catharsis in humiliation — and hopefully, physical pain — to atone for the abuse they put others through in their daily tasks as cops, CEOs, and wealthy suburban breadwinners. It was rarely anything sexual, despite her scantily clad in skintight leather to play the part. 

“So, wait, are you worried your dungeon life eclipsed into our first romantic moment, that you might have humiliated me just because you casually mentioned you wanted to rape me…” 

Tears were dripping from her eyes, her head shaking no.

“… because I honestly thought it was sweet, passionate — brave, hell, even progressive for a woman to say that to a guy. I mean, is that all?”

“No, that’s not all,” she said, pursing her lips.

She was, in part, referring to our mouth sores — acknowledging she had been changing the subject every time I suggested we see a doctor; the fear she might have to explain something prompted by a medical professional rather than her own transparency. She glanced back into the mirror, one last look for a couple more violent stabs of foundation she didn’t need. She was stalling. “Okay, okay…” she took a deep breath. “Please don’t hate me, but I was part of the Los Angeles Vampire Underground.”

I laughed, insensitively. “What? Why would I hate you, maybe because you sound fucking ridiculous? I mean, is that all, some Gothic role-playing shit?”

“No, that’s not all,” she said.

It was common knowledge the LAVU was a vast network of wanna-be vampires — cheesy cosplaying dorks who went out to dance clubs in capes, fangs, and pasty faces, mostly vogueing for photo ops. And they’re all named fucking Raven or something. But with any fringe trend, there’s varying degrees of commitment — those who put the cult in subculture. 

Amber belonged to the Fang Club, a monthly night at Bar Sinister where the more elegant, decadent vampires met to carouse. But this was merely pre-gaming, a meeting place where a chosen few could glean where the after party was being held, to sever fantasy from reality, to engage in what they called blood play — the consensual yet unquenchable consumption of human blood.

“We would totally drink each other’s blood,” she said. “Some bring syringes, politely asking another vamp if they can tap a vein, then squirt it from the needle, into their mouths, on the spot. A lot of these vamps are phlebotomists by day, so they know what they’re doing. Others were just fucking gross junkies obsessed with needles. Then, others go for it raw and proper biting into necks with their fangs.”

“Fucking fangs? Give me a break…”

“Yes, fucking fangs. Here, look.” She trotted to her closet, reached to the top shelf, returning with a small red box. “My friend makes these, real porcelain!” She put them into her mouth, such a natural fit it only slightly impaired her speech. “Thaw so popola dat he mash a libing fom it.”

“Okay, fine — take that shit out, you’re freaking me out. But let me see ‘em,” I said, outstretching by hand.

“Ouch… here, they were hurting my sores anyway. So, look at the points of the canines — see the little holes there? That’s so blood gets captured in those little reservoirs so you can keep sucking after you pull away from their neck — an extra little treat.” I could see her savoring something in her mouth, like she was really thinking about it, salivating at the recall. 

“So, you really liked this shit, huh?” I was getting light-headed, my mind fleeced.

“Oh my God, I fucking looooove it!” she said. “I mean, I loved it, you know. It’s all in the past, baby.”

But the way she was acting, the way she was now dancing around the room, the way her mood had swung from morbid regret to absolute sentimental ecstasy led me to believe this craving was still very much thriving inside her. 

“So, okay… you were a fang girl, not one of those gross syringe ones, right?”

“Nope — I was both!” she said, perking with pride like it was extra credit. “Oh my God — you know what I’d love to do? I’d take my needle, draw someone’s blood, then squirt it into a glass of milk, stir that stuff up like Strawberry Quick!”

The more she ignited, the deeper I was slipping into my mind, obsessing how many people she had tapped, how many pints of blood she had consumed over the years. Rarely had I cared about the number of people my girlfriends had slept with before me — but this was completely different with Amber’s reveal: She was a blood slut, justified by the sick life support group of hundreds of other co-ed blood sluts who were now my accidental blood siblings since Amber and I were addicted to fucking each other’s brains out; our fluids one with each other, yet pre-transfused into large, immeasurable swaths of Los Angeles. I might have just felt that much more one with our city if it wasn’t for the stinging sores in my mouth.

“Amber, we have to go to the doctor — like, immediately!”

“Okay! But first I’ve GOT to take you to Antonio’s house!”

“Who the fuck is Antonio?”

“The guy who makes the fangs, who else?”

Night had fallen, so I humored her. We weren’t able to visit the free clinic until the next morning, and I hadn’t seen Amber this full of life since the first night we met. A weight lifted by a reconciled fetish. She was regressing, but there was now a spark in her eyes I didn’t realize was missing — all it took was coming clean about her past; and before I knew it, we were reliving it. 

We drove over the hill into North Hollywood. She pulled us into an industrial warehouse district on the outskirts of town. Instantly I knew which one was Antonio’s from the mime-faced crowd in dark fashions hanging in front.

“Are those your friends? What are they doing?”

“Oh, they’re waiting in line… Ugh, fucking posers. Does, like, everyone think they’re a fucking vampire now?”

“Waiting in line? Does Antonio sell drugs too?

“Fangs, baby. Just fangs.”

She grabbed me by the hand, leading me to the warehouse like my first day of school. We passed the queue in errant strides as every person turned their nose at us, wondering who gave us the right to just waltz right in, which unnerved me further.

“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m being a total bitch — I’ve known Antonio for five years, part of the inner circle, you know?”

I struggled with the math. Five years at twelve months each meant fifty-two weekly bloodthirsty after-parties a year equaling two-hundred and sixty chances for Amber to drink an immeasurable amount of blood which still left me at my original infinite total calculation of dread that our sores meant we both had AIDS.

She led me through a labyrinth of hallways like a little black moth searching for the light. But it just got darker the farther we went; I could no longer see her. When she released my hand, I no longer knew where she was until I heard her knock on a door. 

The door creaked open, flooding the hallway with light. Antonio gasped, flinging his long-black hair to the side.

“Oh my God, Amber! Hi, hi, hi! You and your friend, please come in — I’m just finishing a mold!” he said, pointing to his patient — a grown man, his black clothes fitting far too tight for his weight, like an obese ninja — but oh, wearing a cape? —  in Antonio’s reclining dental chair, overexposed in fluorescent lighting. 

“This is my boyfriend,” she said, kissing me on the cheek, pushing it into a sore on the other side.

“Ow! Fuck!” I hissed under my breath.

Convinced I had exclaimed “wow, fuck,” Antonio beamed with pride, “Right? Pretty cool, huh?” He gave us a tour of his warehouse studio while Obese Ninja glared at us, neglected, left hanging with his mouth pried open. It was spacious, uncluttered — besides the dentist chair the only furnishing was a couch with a black British-style coffin in front of it.

“Ha, that’s a great idea for a coffee table!” I said.

“Oh! Ha, ha… that’s not for coffee — that’s actually where I sleep!”

“He’s not kidding you know,” she whispered.

“Yeah, I know, I just don’t give a shit,” I said.

Out of place as I felt in my Levis and sleeveless flannel, I walked over with them, being polite so Antonio could show it off.

“Go ahead, get in!” he offered.

“Nah, that’s okay, I’m not tired,” I said.

“Pleeeease? I insist. You’re my guest.”

“Go ahead, baby,” she said, red lips revealing her fangs.

“You brought your teeth?”

“What do you mean? I always wear my fangs!”

“No, you don’t? You know you don’t!”

“Shhhh. Just get in, would you?”

I rolled my eyes, put one foot in, then the other, assuming the horizon. The sooner I did this, the sooner it would be over. I crossed my arms over my chest on my own volition in case they would tell me to do that too.

“Okay, ready?”

“Sure, fine.”

“Okaaay…” they said, closing the lid, now pitch black, their laughter perfectly audible. 

The next morning, I was the one behind the wheel. I drove us straight to the Hollywood Free Clinic where we waited in simmering panic for five hours, only impending dread to occupy our minds under morbid medical propaganda on the walls of the waiting room. By the time they called our names, we had lived a lifetime, making near-peace with dying young, regardless of the forthcoming diagnosis. Certainty was materializing —Amber’s moods had stopped swinging, now stuck in sinking regret of what she and all her blood chugging had done to us.

The doctor checked hers first, my mouth second, “You been getting enough sleep? Under stress?”

“Yeah, but you would be too if you knew you were going to die.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I mean, you know — I ain’t getting any younger!” I said, switching to chipper.

He scrunched his eyes. “Okay, but part of your time tethered to Earth should be making sure you get at least eight hours of sleep a night. But since you’re pre-occupied with your mortality, I’ll send you to the blood lab, get some tests done, STDs, HPV, HIV, all that good stuff!”

Amber grinned. For her, the blood work would be blood play. She unclasped her hands, secretly clapping three times like clicking heels.

Thus began an immortal summer of suspicion, of persistence and my death-obsessed demands for second opinions. Each time our blood work came clean from the labs, I scoffed — I didn’t go through all that worry just so another hack doctor could tell us we were going to live, that we just needed to sleep, that our blood was pure as the white mask Amber hid behind, a shield for her grin every time their needles went into her arm.

Every time, everything — negative, negative, negative.

While Amber was ecstatic, getting reacquainted with her old flame in the veins, I was searching for a catharsis I would never have to return from.

Instead, I crashed from death’s seduction, its adrenaline expended, leaving me empty — without purpose — with no further goal than to sleep, the next best thing to dying. But I still hated the doctors for being right when the sores went away forever. It was supposed to be me.

Months later, as I entered our building, I heard screaming down the hallway, coming from what sounded like our apartment. I ran down the hall, panicking, recognizing Amber’s voice intermingling with foreign shrieks of pain. When I flung open the door, there stood my girlfriend, donned in full dominatrix uniform with only her ass exposed, bullwhipping a girl with a buzzcut who wore a ball-gag, leather-strap bondage, and bloody welts on her behind. 

“Oh my God, hi baby — I didn’t know you were coming home so quick! Hope you don’t mind a guest?”

I was surprised, only because it hadn’t appeared Amber was confident enough to return to her previous lifestyle, even after all my urging. I felt I had been holding her back from her true cravings — you can’t love somebody if they’re not in their absolute element. 

“Hi, nice to meet you down there! Did you grab milk today, Amber?”

“Yes, in the fridge. Oh, but don’t drink the pink one… I mean, not unless you want to?”