Kasia headed to the second closest nightclub, avoiding the unresolved trauma of Eros & Rachel and settling for the pricier Sultan’s Swing. A crowd of a million dwindled into whichever club offered the fix desired.
She reached the byzantine complex - ‘Swing’ as it was locally known - and tucked into the back alley. Like all hetero clubs, the female entrance had once been in front - in Swing’s case up the impressive marble staircase. The idea had been to use the queueing women and girlsas an advert for passing men. Reason prevailed; digital billboards displayed prettier ladies than real life did, and discreet back alleys encouraged classier matchers. Even these billboards went away as clubs monopolised. If the majority only had one avenue for it, sex needed no advert. The grip of cutting costs and raising profits ever squeezed.
Kasia travelled up the alley alone, grateful to be free of any rivals sparking her insecurities. She tapped her phone on the entrance’s ID console. A hatch opened for a blood prick test and chatted away in the same voice as the council tax hotline, a jarring coincidence she found unsettling. She smoothed the minuscule plaster on her thumb and hovered awkwardly, waiting for a negative result. A celebration emoji confirmed a disease-free scan. The hatch wished her happy matching and spat out a condom and morning after pill - the mark of a posher venue.
The door buzzed open. She sloped into a chamber of sculpted archways and palm trees, and headed for the changing room.
Rows of women silently prepared themselves. Kasia struggled with the cosmetics vending machine. It only offered Huda Beauty, an unfamiliar brand to her. She ticked a combination of disposable products and gambled on the most Slavic looking foundation. The machine assorted everything into a slim acetate packet and slid it out.
This was Kasia’s favourite part of clubbing; the warm tingle from hearing women manage their image, mingled with the floaty anticipation she’d soon be having sex. She closed herself in a cubicle and enjoyed the routine - a soaked cleanser pad, a tiny tube of moisturiser, a mercifully accurate foundation loofah. The concealer tube didn’t contain enough for every blemish; she deftly triaged the important ones. Since she would remove it all on the way out, she skipped the powder, chucking it in the bin with the used packets.
Kasia went through this ritual for herself - her match for the night would likely not see her - but clubs were the only occasion she got to wear makeup. Doing so offline was judged harshly. People considered it needlessly expensive, pretentiously high class, and pandering to unfair beauty standards. It was fake. Here at least, Kasia could see someone feminine in the mirror, someone even she found beautiful, without feeling like a poser and with no one around to correct her.
She continued on.
In an era of ambivalence towards queer hookups, exclusively hetero clubs were less common. Kasia tended to overlook heteros, like Sultan’s Swing, which remained straight to respect the Caliphate money behind it. Such venues had two bars; one for each gender, and an expectation to match with someone from the one you weren’t in.
This bar was warmly lit by a pixelated fireplace. Ambient house music, interrupted by scratchy samples of oud, drifted through the archways. A drinks screen with a conveyor belt served customers, who browsed next door's romantic offerings from tablets dotted around high tables. To discourage customers from lingering, there were no seats. Once two people swiped right on each other, they messaged to establish wants, and slipped away to hookup.
Here Kasia differed from the norm. She found England’s binge culture rotten and shunned it, refusing to down several pre-hookup drinks as her peers did. Instead she made do with her one free drink, choosing this time a vodka lemonade and ticking the box to have it done Polish. The conveyor belt wheeled out a shot of Żubrówka and a paper cup of Schweppes.
She moved to snap up any match worth grabbing before another woman did. The list of men shifted constantly. The desirables added to the queue and got swiped away in seconds; the less obviously attractive sank down the pile. Each man had a number on his photo - the number of women checking his profile. Kasia was surrounded by competition. A few were in pairs and there was one group colluding together, she suspected colleagues on their way home. She recognised nervousness in the younger girls, who once they found the courage to upload themselves matched fastest.
Dissatisfied with her first pass, Kasia took a break and tried to look busy on her phone. Leah had re-accepted her friend request, thankfully without bringing it up, but she saw too few notifications to keep her occupied for long.
Someone took a place on her table, despite having free tables either side. Kasia spluttered on her drink and shifted to find an agreeable pose. They bowed their heads to acknowledge one another and looked away.
Then her table mate turned, looking in Kasia’s rough direction as if trying to start a conversation. Kasia tensed.
“’Ow’s the competition tonight?”
“Uh… a few younger girls,” Kasia cocked her head to the stray teenagers in the distance, “not enough for any panic-swiping I reckon.”
“What about you? What ye uptee the neet?”
“Dunno yet…” Kasia remained tense, but found something intriguing to latch onto, “are you from oop north!?”
“Newcastle! Ethnically Senegalese though. Ah coom down ‘ere for werk. What about you?”
“Just London. Clinging on to my Polish side though. ‘One day I’ll move’ and all that.”
“Ah thought you had a twang an’ all! Well yak se macz!”
“Dobzre! And you must be pretty happy about the news if you’re as Northern as you sound.”
“Oh god stop! That’s ‘alf the reason I moved down south all me bloody family’s Red.”
Before Kasia knew it she was chatting aimlessly with a stranger, her cold southern defences lowered by northern charm. She told her acquaintance she was a paralegal; her acquaintance called herself a beauty therapist. Kasia found herself wanting to skip the hookup and stay here with this exotic woman, so easily spoken to.
Their tablets flashed with incentives to remind them otherwise. They stopped talking; went back to flicking men away with their fingers. But where Kasia had felt tension she now noticed something else. The potential partners on her screen were less appealing than the one next to her. They were in the wrong club for it, which meant she’d have to chance rejection without technology removing the risk. She kept delaying until frustration pushed her to test it out.
“So… what you into then!?”
“You know, I wouldn’t admit this normally but…” the woman checked they were alone and held her palm over her mouth, “I’ve had a bit of a violation thing at the minute!”
“No way! You little slag!” Kasia giggled, “I’ve never been to one of them. Aren’t the guys in there gross?”
“You’d be surprised! Anyway when they got a balaclava on ‘oo cares?” the woman swatted her hand dismissively, “I’d never try anythin’ foony in a place lahk this though.”
Kasia read the response as a decline and chose to wait. Before anything could happen though the woman matched, leaving Kasia with a simple ‘good luck’. She found a man of her own and exchanged a few messages to discuss their wants. Both agreed to incognito.
The hookup was on.
Nightclubs existed for all tastes. The familiar default was a single room with a wipe-down bed, but everything from kitchens, dentist studios, cupboards, and classrooms could be found. Fetishes relied on word-of-mouth, depending on the fetish’s severity. Lighter tastes like BDSM and voyeurism lived in plain sight. Some - roleplay and poly - were accessible only to the wealthy. Violation clubs lived underground, where it was, as the strapline went, every victim for themselves. Intimacy spaces also had to hide. Their customers matched using coded signs which changed as often as they leaked. These daters, having struggled everywhere else, were considered the least attractive and lowest status. Being caught amongst them was social suicide.
The Sultan opened the palace for all purses. Steamed Jacuzzis were a favourite if money allowed it, as were the columned corners of the royal chamber, where matchers indulged to the sound of other hookups in the nooks around them. Kasia’s match didn’t want extravagance, so they went for a wipe-down in the servant’s quarters. Per custom neither spoke; with everything stated by message beforehand they didn’t need to. In hetero settings, women took care to negotiate on tablet clearly. Mid-hookup, consent was hard to withdraw.
The lanterns dimmed enough to reveal their forms, but not their faces. They gripped and kissed. Kasia found the man too forward, his kiss too firm and repetitive. His tongue slid in once, as if doubtful, and Kasia sealed her lips to stop him doing it again. She focussed on what she did like, sighing through her nose as she tasted cider and wondering which fruit it was. It was what mindfulness podcasters always said: hookups may be imperfect, but it’s on you to focus on the positives.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
The match pressed her shoulders down till she knelt, and she did what they had agreed upon. When it seemed like he wasn’t enjoying it she stood up again and turned around. He reached under her t-shirt - a signal for her to unclip her bra - and clenched her chest as he went from behind. Seconds later he staggered briefly. A warmth pulsed inside her and ran down her thigh. She handed him the condom so he could use it alone later, as they had agreed upon. He whispered his thanks, broke convention by stealing a quick hug, and hurried through the male entrance. Kasia left through hers, leaving the room to be cleaned by one of the last nightclub roles yet to be automated.
She ended her date as women in hetero matches often did: without orgasm, finding one on her own terms in the women’s bathroom. A heated but tired debate raged about this online. One camp bemoaned the widening orgasm gap, and wanted to bring women down to man's level. The other camp argued they were wrong to make sex about orgasms at all. Kasia didn’t know which side of Gasm Bowl to endorse, but right now she needed the release. In a nod to the fingers involved and where they needed to go, everyone dubbed this ceremony Match 2.0. She hurried to finish, blocked by intrusive thoughts on her first climax, eventually making it over the line thinking about the northern woman at the bar.
She shuffled over to the sink, scrubbed her hands clean, and removed her makeup. This was her least favourite part, the return to reality after a 15 minute escape she could not see, was not raised to recognise, as a half-measure of anything better. Swing at least had a final mark of high standards. Venues wanted customers leaving straight after their hookup. This one had an afterglow bar - though only for the women - and offered a second free drink. She posted a complaint on her phone about the anticlimactic match, getting sympathy from female friends and protests from male friends insisting they always did better. She downed her virgin lemonade and prepared to leave.
“Oi you!” The woman from before. Kasia fluttered.
“’Ow was your match then!?”
“Pretty dull,” said Kasia, “2.0 in the toilet.”
“God me too my lad was bloody ‘opeless, we moost ‘ave been in the bog at the same time fancy tha’!”
Kasia tittered with nerves, “they should cut the middle bit out. Two free drinks and a clean toilet is romantic enough for me.”
The woman laughed warmly and whipped her phone from her bag, the cue for a friends request. Kasia accepted the request and complimented the profile - an avatar of a young entrepreneur; an idealised digital copy of the woman in front of her. Her profile had Mandarin and German translations under the English; either a display of success, or a suggestion of the intent.
They promised to keep in touch, and separated.
* * *
Kasia left the club and found a message she could have never prepared for. Sermon was inviting her to one of his haunts. A real-life meetup. She took the tube to a surviving community base - a decrepit building hiring out space in lieu of England’s faded pub culture. She was unsure of what to expect, hesitant to enter the pub night of a group to which she didn’t belong.
She lingered outside in doubt. They hadn’t spoken since their argument, where Sermon had condemned her loveless life and shot down her revolutionary prospects. She wished she had used the journey here to rehearse what to say. What if there was more drama?
Sermon lowered himself out of a window and yelled above her head. Kasia jumped back in fright as he laughed. After bombarding him with Polish slurs, she headed in.
The event space was packed and intimidating. Corner speakers blasted cheery Mbaqanga, a genre out of place on a muggy English night. The punters had remade the worn down hall, pinning up maps, flags, and cut-out heroes of Africa's ongoing metamorphosis. Groups of descendants huddled over cramped tables, debating subjects beyond Kasia’s interests, though she empathised with them. Some were in black militant gear, appropriated from a forgotten era of American history. Others wore garish long gowns, and any in casual clothing had stitched badges over them as Sermon did.
Tonight he had swapped his panther beret for the zebra print kufi - a prized possession he wore for serious occasions. He stood proud by the bar, snickering at Kasia.
“Ain’t you an easy girl to scare sista - mate look at this girl!”
A tall barman in a charcoal silk suit prowled over with a welcoming grin.
“White as a sheet! ’Ow’s she gonna fit in?”
“Wait wait, lemme try summit,” Sermon took his kufi off and balanced it on Kasia's head. She gawped at the two men, causing them to howl with laughter.
“Głupi dupek…” Kasia tore it off, “you need it to hide that stupid haircut, looking like the Fresh Prince of Bel Air.”
“Fam I’m Fresh Prince of Val d’Isère! ‘Cause I’m well sophistica’ed, izzit,” he patted his hat and put it back on, “I’m gonna have a tinkle. Get yourself a drink and a magnum tonic for me.”
Kasia scowled as he floated away, chuckling to himself. She turned to the shelf of foreign drinks and strained her eyes.
“Alright, one of those magnum things and a… vodka lemonade?”
“White rum and lemonade for the girl?” the barman presented a bottle of clear liquid to her, “will this be on Sermon’s tab?”
“Uh, yea, sure… and make it a double.”
She took a bar stool and surveyed the room. She had never been to a real pub, but groups with strong enough causes to take them offline hired convention halls to meet and argue. It seemed this night was about proving ancestral origins and finding ways to emigrate to the rising continent. Kasia had tried Polish events, but failed to find belonging amongst the pretentious Anglo-Polaks and their constant boozing. At least they could handle booze with less mess than the English. It still reminded her too much of childhood, even if being her now she felt the buzz.
The barman served her. She bowed her head in thanks and sipped with a poorly hidden grimace. Trouble was heating up on the nearest table. Punters pulled themselves up with anger and shouted with increasing aggression. It shook Kasia. She worried she stuck out. Sermon returned and saw her angst, and propped himself against the bar between them and her. He swigged from the brown magnum bottle.
“They’re bickerin’ about the Black American issue. A lotta them in the US wanna get out, but they insult Africa. We’re all black to them and they think it gives them the right to move anywhere, conveniently to one of the better nations...” he held a palm out as if trying to karate chop, “I’m like, who do you think you are to say you’re entitled to Nigeria, when your ancestors were from Eritrea!? How dare you assume we are one and the same!”
“You still don’t fancy settling in Tanzania eventually?”
“Nah… beautiful country. Second home to me! But I can’t get with the language, and they won’t let me stay without that and a career to match. Funny how a random American with the right CV gets in…”
“Yeah I know that one. One day right? I can send you a postcard from Warsaw and you can send me one from Dodoma.”
“Bah!” Sermon pointed at the floor, “I’m stayin’ right ‘ere. England can be a home too! We can make it one.”
“Is that why you brought me here? I thought I wasn’t 'revolution material'…”
“Yeah...” Sermon tapped his bottle against the bar and sighed, “I shoulda remembered you ‘ave to worry about Eva yea? Easy for me to go on about fightin’ back... I just get so caught up with it! I can’t keep my head down any longer! That’s why I invited you ‘ere… forget about what I said! You don’t ‘ave to join but if you did, you'd 'ave bare soldier vibes.”
“Really!?” Kasia beamed, “can you imagine me in that uniform!?”
“Yes sis!” he slapped her knee, then noticed her thumb, “I see a little plaster! Where ya been, Eros?”
“Swing.”
He reared his head back and widened his eyes.
“Yalla yalla habibi! What did the Sultan leave ya?”
“Not enough to work with,” she formed a pistol with her hand in a way Sermon understood. He nodded sympathetically.
“What about you?” she said, “Gonna go for a final pole vault before signing up?”
“Shit. Haven’t decided yet but someone’s gonna get the full sewin’ machine experience.”
He raised his bottle to Kasia. She attempted another sip of her drink, and something in her faded.
“You were right about what you said the other day. You asked me when someone last said they love me. I never had anyone say that. I’ve been waiting for it ever since I was a kid,” Kasia forced a third sip down, “and I haven’t got a clue how to find it, or what I’d even do if I did. What if... what if I die before it happens!?”
Sermon frowned and tutted.
“I never had anyone say it either. Whenever I see it online the couples get the shit ripped outta them. You know how those new partners parade about, the bastards… Everyone wants the same though right? Deep down… But no one taught us how to do it! Another thing we can fight for when we invent this new future! I reckon one day you and I have husbands and we both get the shit ripped outta us online too. It’ll be glorious.”
“Oh yea? The Reds gonna make Britain love again too?”
“Ha! I reckon that’s out of their hands. The people need to work for that themselves.”
He grinned and turned to listen to the argument behind them. Kasia gave her drink a final look and gave up on it. Her head ached. Too much had happened with too little time to understand it. In two weeks she’s been interrogated by detectives and shaken hands with a revolution captain. She’d not only gone viral, but more significantly, been too caught up to appreciate it. Now Sermon had added longing to the list, longing for something that invited compliments pregnant with bitterness and envy. And then the clock ticked, as the couple's audience waited for the validation that, before long, all couples clubbed alone again.
She wanted to go home. And with that realisation, reality pricked her night of distraction. She had no more excuses to ignore it. Hours ago a fellow mother and child had been killed, so close to her. Her imagination constructed what must have happened in Misha’s home - the screaming, the terror, the pitiful woman shielding her child as if it would help. Who would be next? She saw her daughter in Joey’s place, men’s libido forced upon her, knives claiming her if she dared to say no.
Kasia’s head sank. The bar around her became faint and distant. She closed her eyes. Two paths lay before her. One guaranteed hardship for her and Eva, and for Eva's hardship she alone would take the blame. That little human, who she had made and tried so hard to steer from harm, who left all other ideas of love irrelevant to the point of being a joke. But how long could they carry on as normal? Things just weren't working - they never had been - and chaos was closing in around them whether they chose it or not.
The other choice risked everything too, perhaps moreso. But if it worked, Kasia would mean something, and belong somewhere. Needs denied to her from day one, things she glimpsed when she carried Joey out of that tunnel. And even if she fell, she might make the world better for another Kasia, somewhere and someplace else, though they would never meet. They didn't need to. It still mattered to Kasia. No one like her deserved the life she had been given. And Misha...
Kasia accepted the choice to be made. She pulled her head back up.
“Well?”
Sermon turned and flicked his head at her, “well what?”
“We’re gonna go and join that revolution then?”
Sermon breathed in, raised a casual eyebrow and glanced around the room, as if mildly intrigued.
“Aw… go on then.”